Friday, June 30, 2006
or
East SahhhIEEED
I know that I am not politically correct by any means. The very creation of this post perpetuates detrimental racial steriotypes. I think it's fucking hilarious. However, if you have a concern with the content of my blog, or would like to engage me in a discussion of ethics, just shoot me an email at childofmists@hotmail.com. Make sure it contains both a personal insult and vulgarity in the subject heading, or it won't make it through my security filter. While you wait for a reply, go fuck yourself.
For the rest of you, here's Ghetto Delta. Too bad their target demographic can't afford processed cheese, much less airfare. (Although, as a jobless student, I'm not much better off. Somewhat like the cook calling the butler black, don't you think? Ahah hah hah. *sniff*)
Also, for you enjoyment, I will disclose the two fortunes that Zack and I received when we had finished ravaging the Chinese Buffet:
"You are the evening star in someone's romantic eyes"
and
"Being an able man. There are always."
Poignant.
or
Long Walk Off A Short Pier
I'll kick this off by saying that I am OK now. I'm alive. Alright. And plan on being so for quite some time. No intention of harming myself in the near future. I'M COOL. Leave me alone.
Anyhow, believe it or not, gentle readers, I didn't fail to post over the last few days because I was lazy, or even because I was having a good time. No. I failed to post, gentle readers, because I was detained.
It will not come as a surprise, to some I'm sure, that as of 4:00AM on Monday, June 26th, I belonged to a "Mental Health Treatment Facility" in central Texas. No, I won't say which. No pictures, please. Nobody here knows I'm a rock star.
I met a lot of nice gals in there - people with problems far more intricate than mine, though you wouldn't know it by the gaping stigmata on my wrists. (EDITOR'S NOTE: I'm not a religious nut. In this case, the use of "stigmata" reflects a stylistic word choice, not to be taken literally.)
No self-agrandizing third-person accounts of my untimely near-demise. I'll leave it to say that the first thing the paramedics said upon entering my sepulcher (the upstairs bathroom) was: "OH SHIT!" I spent 8 hours in the ER, only some of which I recall at all. I do remember a woman announcing that she was going to give me a catheter, to which I replied:
"Does that mean I can pee whenever I want?"
"Yes."
"WOW. That's the best thing since . . . since sliced bread!"
I was soused. Five times the legal limit. I was trying to thin my blood.
Once they'd glued my forearms back together, the docs took me to the Nut Haus as fast as they could. I signed myself in. What can I say? It wasn't half bad, though. They let you have all the cake you want.
I'm now diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. Whoo. Like we hadn't guessed at that already. Somehow I don't find this distressing. If history is any use, I'm following in the tradition of all the greatest writers ever known. Now if I can just avoid absinthe . . .
Monday, June 19, 2006
or
Smell My Finger
Here's an experiment that you can do at home, gentle readers! Curl up your first finger take a good look at the folds created by your top two knuckles. What's it look like? Huh? Huh? Go ahead. Put your mind in the gutter.
Now, get a digital camera, take an extreme close-up, and post it on the internet for all the world to see!
Not bad, eh? If you're daring, leave a link in the comments feature.
or
I Am Not Dead Yet
No, gentle readers, I am not dead yet, no matter how many of you pour the blood of a black cockrel in my front yard. I'm still here, making a massive idiot of myself for the greater good.
I'm sure I'll eventually muster the will to write about something relevent and fascinating; until I do, choke on this. Apparently, Swanson has come out with a breakfast containing 231% of your daily cholesterol. Cheers.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
or
Excuse Me, Have You Seen My Small Intestine?
You know, I've seen more of Houston since I moved to Killeen than I did in the four years I spent living in Houston itself. Go figure.
Recent Attractions:
MAI'S - Vietnamese restraunt. Pretty damned good vegetarian spring rolls. I'd never eaten Vietnamese before, but it's a new favorite. Apparently the place is open until 3am, which makes it a plus for my fellow crazy club kids. There's a feng-shui friendly mirror all the way around the dining area, perfect for catching dorky hipsters staring at my luscious ass. Zack and his rebel buddies used to slum around this joint until the wee-hours, wreaking mayhem on unsuspecting patrons. Tip generously.
BODY WORLDS III - Two words, gentle readers: motherfucking cadavers. Someone (anatamist Gunther von Hagen) loved the silent poetry of the human carcass so much, that he invented a way to preserve it forever in a thin, yet durable, plastic coating. And thus "plastinization," as the process is called, elevated man to medium, autopsy to high art. Body Worlds features an onslaught of plastinized human sculptures just dying (hah. HAHAHA. HEEEE!) to teach you the private beauty of their abdominal cavity. NNnngg. Yeeeahhah. My favorite displays included a flayed figure contemplatively clutching his own hide, a brain with alzheimer's disease, and a horseman riding a plasticized steed straight from the floppy bowels of hell.
XXX MEGAPLAZA - Believe it or not, my first adult video store. Zack and I perused the shelves for some time, but couldn't agree on a single DVD. My picks: Lord of the Strings, Mistress C.M. Hurt (too much CBT for the Zackinator), Tranny Trouble 7 (need I say more?). His picks: Harry Twatter (I prefer bald), Ultimate Squirt 4 (featuring Thai amateur Seemi Pi), and I Cream of Jeanie. Finally, we comprimised on the Anal Adventure 3000, and called it a night. It's for a friend. Really.
NUMBERS NIGHTCLUB - Everything you hear about it is true. It's rather beat up. The sound system is so-so. The crowd couldn't get more mixed if it were a government sponsored random sample. And you know what? I really liked it. I'm going back. Last night was 80's night; Zack and I swung mad glowsticks to the songs we like to pretend we grew up to. There's nothing better for gleaning mass attention than rhythmically spinning Army-issued Chem Lights around your head on the stage of a pitch-black club. Hot damn, I never want to grow old.
TTFN. I love this city more than you. I'm off to a strip club, tonight!
