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I'm Upset But Not Emo.
Monday, September 29

So, they're gone. The wisdom teeth are outta here and never coming back. Actually, I convinced the anesthesiologist to let me keep them. Somewhere she got a ketchup cup to put them in (the place is located right next to McDonald's, but...she couldn't have...right?!) and they're sitting on my dresser to remind me of all the awful things that exist in the world. They're like the heads that the victors would post outside the castle gates, a warning to all other wisdom teeth that wish to fuck with us. Me. They stuck me with vicodin and I'm really not seeing the hooplah that everyone is making it out to be. A drug high was part of the fucking plan. If you told me the day before the surgery that afterwards I was going to be completely lucid and not loopier than a housewife with ophidiophobia, then I probably would've called the whole damn thing off. I kinda feel betrayed.

Right now, I'm looking for zombie shit to buy for Halloween. DRUNK Halloween. The zombie thing reminds me of when I was younger and how much I loved doing the whole costume shits, so I've gone as one ever since. Something a little different every time. Last year I had this huge transfix on "Morning Husband Zombie". For a secure reference, see Dawn of the Dead (2004). Polly Pocket, or whatever her name was, is married to this guy who gets bit by some little girl and turns into a "Morning Husband Zombie". Boxers, white undershirt, BLOOD AND HOLY FUCK everywhere. This year, I'm not sure yet. Possibly "Deskjob Zombie", not to be confused with "Exec-Type Zombie", this fellow is wearing a white long-sleeved button up number with maybe a coffee stain under the front pocket. He also has a black tie, possibly wrung around his neck and black slacks with loafers. If I don't go with "Deskjob", comfort reasons, I might go with "Orderly Zombie" or "Surgical Assitant Zombie". Both wear green scrubs and bites everywhere, the only thing that separates Assistant from Orderly is that the Assistant has a mask and surgical gloves. I'll figure it out.

I would also like to address this "Man Face" accusation that's been slung at me. Someone at work recently claimed that I have a "Man Face" attraction, this of course would be women with masculine features. This is completely absurd. My reason is that the hollywood types who share these features are deemed attractive by their peers and most of the audience. Here are a few:

Do you think any of these specimens have the "Man Face"? I think these accusatory simpletons are still whitewashed with visions of pointed chins and cat-eyes. I SAY WHATEVER! Not all women are alien-faced and pursed. Strong jawlines are nothing to be afraid of, they are to be embraced! WITH OUR COCKS!

UPDATE:I recently decided that I no longer find Olivia Wilde's face attractive.

Start Healing Fugitives.
Saturday, September 26

I'm still mad about the teeth, just in case you're wondering. You see, I have never been optimistic about situations that require me to:

Be sedated.
Have a man wandering about in my face with a pair of pliars.
Require an hour of recovery just to bring me from complete unconsciousness to loosely sedated.
3 DAYS OF VICODIN.
Disposable towels wrapped around my belongings because I will surely be uncontrollably sieving blood.
The possibility of rendering myself with one of the most painful conditions known to mankind by not maintaining extreme caution while drinking from a straw.

And no one should be.

About The Woosah-Baby?
Thursday, September 24

My girlfriend, as we speak, is diligently pecking away at the keyboard trying to do as much research as possible about this whole wisdom teeth thing. You see, my time is far too valuable and I really have no desire to do such a thing. REGARDLESS, she's quite a go-getter and I'm sure she'll learn a lot from her hard work I'll be well prepared for this complete and utter bullshit that is about to invade my face. Fuck-the-what. This asshole, and when I say asshole (I say it with a fork in my mouth, my eyes crossed, and one hand viciously clenching my nutsack) wants to give me general anesthesia for a simple remove-the-fucking-tooth-you-dickhead procedure. What or who does he and his eleven, SHIT KID ELEVEN, degrees think he is? My mother? For once, my mother is huddled in the backroom of a dimly lit trailer with a noxious fog of cigarette smoke billowing around her like that damn-thing in Ferngully that was played by the hotel concierge in Home Alone 2, you know what I'm talkin' about son. Wait, what was happening? THE DOCTOR. That's right, I ain't lettin' know homo roboto docto about jackhammer down in my jawline wit'out concernin' himself with me, aight? First I need to know his intensions. Does he look like he's gonna play with my dick? If the answer is even in the yellow, in the maybe, no deal sir. Second, does he look like he's gonna make me play with his dick? I can't be out and not about with one hand limply jerking away on some old dude's centerpiece. That's not a deal I find myself interested in being a part of. This is quite the opposite. I find myself morbidly repulsed by the idea actually. THIRD, does he look like he's gonna get a rogue dick involved? I only met the guy once but I definitely got a pervy vibe from his forehead. Something about it just said, "LOOK AT MY BIG PERVY FACE". This has got me thinking that I'm going to be unconscious and Dr. Buck is going to be renting out jars of vaseline to wayward truckers so they can spill their will up in my o-ring. You're not supposed to eat before the surgery supposedly due to a side effect of the anesthesia making you ill. How certain are we that this unwanted quease isn't from a hillbilly trucker butt fuck party that went on while I was in the outfield? Not certain at all, not certain at all.

So, I've come to two conclusions. A: Rig a pressure sensitive personnel mine set to break a chunk of my ass off and most of the room were the doc and his idle hands tempted to tuck the muck. B: Copperheads. Bag a nest of vicious baby copperheads and let them loose in the clinic.

I'm fully aware of the effectiveness and pointlessness of both plans.

I've just got nothing left...fuuuuuuuuuuccckkkk meeeeeeee.

Introduce Me To The Way You Move.
Monday, September 21

The tungsten and nighttime high-rise game of tag is all gone and completely replaced with the souring needlepoint sting of this MOTHERFUCKING toothache. Appointment tomorrow morning and I've got no insurance, but I need not worry, hopefully I can goad the dentist into allowing me to do a payment plan. I wonder if I can keep the tooth. Who doesn't want the bane of their existence kept prisoner in a medicine bottle? I read that they have to dig into the gum, BREAK APART THE TOOTH, then remove it piece by piece. That's great. No, really. It's almost every day that I'm wishing to have a piece of bone broken into pieces and forcefully removed from a place covered in flesh and filled with delicate nerves that it has to be dug out of.

Oh yes, my brother bought me a dream pet that I can not keep, because my mom is having a total nervous breakdown about it. A red-tailed tree boa. And apparently IT'S LAYIN' BABIES ALL OVER THE HOUSE AND NOW IT'S INFESTED WITH DEATH AND DISEASE!

Other moms do this, I'm sure.

Stupid Boat Tour.
Saturday, September 19

What a goofy mood this is. Every time I'm in a hotel room I end being inexplicably drawn back to indietronica. I wasn't even thinking this time, just opened up my laptop and started downloading everything I could get my hands on. If you want to know what I'm feeling like right now, well it's a little something like this. Just picture a lonely white hotel amidst a lovely tungsten blue-green landscape. Neon, polaroids, metro stations, cold kids running at the sunset and someone trying to make it on time. All this to the throbbing bass of a toothache. I'm devastated that our little room is going to go away and I'm even more devastated that this part of my life isn't the end of a beautiful movie about youth and love in the fall.

Look at her, well, I wish you could look at her. She's so perfect there, asleep in her big king bed that I bought her. There's no amount I wouldn't pay to make her happy and there's nothing I wouldn't do to make sure that she is the delicate little girl at my side, too small to do this on her own.

I should turn out the lights now, she needs to sleep.

I need to watch this city.

I Don't Care If It Doesn't Work Here.
Monday, September 14

I'm assuming that if you check up regularly that you've noticed my "Twidget" to the right. Since I've not yet figured out how to update on the go, and I'm always on the go, I've resorted to quick blurbs that are 140 characters in length until I find a suitable amount of time to sit down and actually flesh something out. Also, when sitting down to write I tend to open up one of the many scripts I've committed myself to finishing.

A new one that I'm working on, while Death Face works itself out in my head, is about a West Virginia mountain town named "Sub Rosa". The name itself implying secret or even stealth. One day a traveling salesman, obviously an ex or current marine, wanders into town with a mover's truck full of brand new CRT televisions. Slowly but surely he convinces the meek folk of Sub Rosa that there collected and relaxing lives would be perfectly suited for such a substantial upgrade. After all "a big damn T.V." would make pretty much anyone happy. After he's gotten a T.V. into almost every home he just disappears out of sight and has "forgotten" to collect his money for the sets. Soon after, the towsfolk figure that he'll come back if he really wants to and in the meantime they'll enjoy their brand new toys. The folk spend as much time as they can in front of the tubes watching gameshows and soap operas, the news and cartoons. One day however, in the middle of one of the most popular blocks of broadcast, the signal cuts out and is replaced with weaving static. This sets in motion a psychological horror piece centered around a government directed at eliminating entire villages/cities/towns without firing a single bullet. I love what I've got so far a lot.

Other than that, there really isn't much else I've been doing, the lack of updating due entirely to my lack of material for an update, mostly just messing with my DVDs and still ordering Criterion like it's medicine for my dying child. It's really hard to write about things that I don't even talk to people about because they're so incredibly boring. Would you really want me to rant endlessly about how much I hated the movie "9" or why the packaging for "The Human Condition" is probably my favorite next to a fantasy release of "Moon" or "One Hour Photo" on Criterion? No you wouldn't. You came here for nutty jokes about other humans and further evidence regarding whether or not I actually eat children. In between long awaited updates, please consult my Twitter account. I'm on that fucking thing from morning to night and many say my updates are pretty funny. Until next t- ALL GLORY TO THE HYPNOTOAD.