I go out now and genuinely enjoy the company of the people around me rather than simply tolerate them for someone else’s sake. I laugh with them, not at them. I find them stimulating and engaging instead of simple and dull. I don’t hesitate to call these people MY friends. Going out and drinking no longer entails being bored in a crowd of people until disaster strikes and I have to clean up the mess. I no longer have to decide between the tedium of do nothing at home, and the impending doom of going out with people I don’t like.

The tension I’ve been carrying within me is dissipating with the fact that I no longer have to constantly explain my motives or intentions to anyone; that I can decide to do whatever I want without having to care or consider anyone else’s feelings; That I can decide to not go out and not be made to feel like a piece of shit about it; that I can decide to go out without having to check in or else be bombarded with infuriating questions and accusations. I can play starcraft for hours on end without boring anyone who has no obligation to be bored by me, and seemingly does so only to irritate me. I’m free to do whatever whenever without having to make room for a clinging shackle weighing me down.

My life has broken out of the tedious routine. I find the absurdity in being humorous again, instead of constraining. I’ve seldom been so exhausted, but I feel alive again. I’m catching back up on my youth.

With the succubus gone, my soul is returning.

relief

Back to the matter at hand. I wrote this at work today, why? Because a good part of my workday is filled with doing absolutely nothing, sitting in front of a computer with no internet access, waiting for a call that could never come. And today I was informed we’re not to read books, and so I decided to free write. Here’s what I wrote.

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We can no longer read books at work. I find it frighteningly idiotic. The reasoning behind the prohibition is that yesterday (a day I was fortunate enough to be absent), the client whom we work for stopped by the call center to inspect us. Having sat with a number of agents they quickly were made aware of the embarrassingly small amount and pathetically low quality of training we received, having bore witness to the fact that a lot of us don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. I’m sure that realizing that the majority of the agents are obnoxious morons didn’t help.

I always get shit from my coworkers for being too quiet. I never talked during “training”, even though it consisted of nothing more than sixty people being locked into one room for eight hours a day, five days a week. Everyone else conversed and carried on discussions as crude and unintelligent as any that you’d expect to hear amongst people of substandard mental capacity; I read instead. Not that all my co-trainees were intolerable, but the lot that were, were extremely so. One girl, I’m still unsure of her name, Jennifer or Jessica ( I’ve overheard her say it, but only long after I learned to take no note of anything she says) was probably the one I held the most contempt towards.

She isn’t entirely hideous-looking, but she’s far from attractive. If she lost fifty pounds and gain one IQ point for every pound she lost, and did something about her acne, she would be much more pleasant and I’d be inclined to like her more, even if only due to biological reasons.

However, at the present, such is not the case. The main cause of my dislike towards her was her constant auditory presence inside the training room. Not only did she insist on adding her own opinion and commentary on each, every and any issue brought up, even interrupting the trainer if necessary (albeit she was a trainer in job title only), but she did so without adding one iota of insight of useful information whatsoever. Now I’ve no qualms about having my attention boldly and brusquely demanded if you have something of import or of quality, but I resent someone who demands my attention merely to fulfill their need to be the center of attention. I feel that such behavior is nothing more than an external expression of the person’s own delusions and robs all those whose attention is drawn of one of their most precious resource for success; focus.
As an example of the utter lack of substance that Jennica? considers invaluable for all to hear, I recall a particular conversation she held with another trainer who was brought into introduce herself as she may become direct supervisor to some of us once training is over.

The trainer’s name was Cheryl and she blathered, ” I once ran a doughnut shop when I lived in Rhode Island. That’s why I’m always on the go! gogogo! Why, when I moved down here I was surprised to see how much slower (ie; lazy) people are in the South. You can’t be easy-going to run a successful doughnut shop! No sir, not in Rhode Island, you can’t! You gotta be up and at ‘em, and not let anything slow you down! that goes for this job too! Why just the other day on a call I got called ‘the most incompetent person the pharmacist ever had the displeasure of talking to’, but did I let that slow me down? No! I took like a true Rhode Islander and kept going! Also the only Oreo’s I eat are double-stuffed and I have this very particular way of eating them. Here, let me tell you about how I eat Oreos while I mime the procedure…”*

After her spiel I made a mental note to myself to never visit Rhode Island. However, the speech seemed to deeply impress Jessifer? as she immediately blurted, “If you like Oreos, you must like me! See?” and proceeded to hold up her tubberware container with a few Oreos, the doomed survivors of the lunchtime carnage, inside.  After my inital digust that she would somehow think anyone gave a fraction of a fuck, I found a bit of comfort in that Cheryl quickly dismissed Jesnicer? once finding out they were not, in fact, double stuffed. Then I felt a bit ashamed for having mentally picked sides in this retard battle.

Now some of my detractors may say I’m being too harsh on the girl for an admittedly stupid but generally harmless exclamation. I say that they didn’t have to be in my position and be forced to listen to this incessant stream of time-consuming, mind-degrading idiocies, ranging from her love of Justin Beiber to how unfortunate the individual who played leapfrog with a unicorn must be. Even then, her overall stupidity only lays the foundation of my disinterest towards her. The principal reason for my personal dislike of her lies in her all too regular greeting towards me.

There I am walking into work in the morning, not very pleased with the terms of my wages slavery, having been forced to stir before noon. My general unpleasantness having been subdued a tad due to the bowl of dank smoked during my morning commute. As I swipe my card key and pry the door open, my excitement for my daily lunchtime bowl begins to build. I walk towards my cubicle, planning on immersing myself in whichever book I’ve chosen that day (currently The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, if anyone cared) when I see the unmistakable, absent-minded grin of our antagonist waddling towards me. I quickly focus my gaze on some light fixtures on the other side of the room, when I hear

“HOLA!”

in a thick southern American accent, and see that absentminded grin turn into a full-fledged half-witted smile. I purse my lips into my ‘I’m-acknowledging-your-greeting-only-out-of-my-innate-manners’ half-smile, mutter “hello..” and walk briskly to my work desk, attempting to refrain from deriding her on the office floor. The matter wouldn’t bother me as much if it didn’t happen EVERY FUCKING TIME. And on the few times where I just ignored her and carried on, I’m pretty sure she had to gall to say to the person next to her something about my lack of friendliness, as if her entirely too obtuse salutation had nothing to do with it.

Now it’s not that I’m ashamed of my heritage, but I’m not particularly proud of it either. I find pride to be a very corrupting thing, and while I feel it does have it’s beneficial uses, it is only a good thing when one does something and earns that pride. No one earns their ethnicity, race or nationality, so I consider all of those things very stupid to be proud of. On the other hand if you earn a doctorate or do something noble, then I think you should be proud. But black pride and “Viva La Raza!” is just as stupid as White Pride, in my book. My problem with this bitch though is that she, like an unfortunate amount of people I’ve come across in my years, takes my skin color as an open invitation to practice their Spanish with me. Now doing it ironically or just the first time we meet, I can kinda understand, I don’t like it anymore than usual, but obvious racial jokes are the moron’s last resort for wit (with this I mean witless racial jokes like greeting every hispanic person with “Hola!”, people who do racial jokes well, ala Dave Chapelle, are not morons in the slightest), and I can testify to the uncontrollable urge to at least seem witty as much as possible. But doing it regularly, even after my initial attempts of making you seem stupid by replying with only my What-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-you-face; well that takes a certain type of density in a person.

I presume that she’s unaware of how stupid she sounds (or even worse, is a member of a certain ideology that takes pride in their ignorance, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt). In fact, this situation may be similar to the Oreo one. In the same way that she felt Cheryl must like her due the their shared interest in Oreos, she may have thought we share a similar kindred spirit because she can say basic phrases in my native language. She may even feel proud of herself and her observational skills, because she managed to piece together my skin color with that of being hispanic and concluded that since hispanic people speak spanish, that I must speak spanish. If that were the logic behind it, I should probably call some fancy university or something, because I may have discovered the first use of inductive reasoning in chimps. Either way, despite her good intentions, the first impression she left me with was so dense, I feel a second one might kill me.

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*paraphrasing, but that was the basic gist I got out of it.

Ok, so today at work I pretty much spent all day reading this guy’s journal that he wrote while he was in jail. It was pretty sick and made the day pass very quickly. One thing I noticed, and had kind of already figured out in my daydreams of what life in jail would be like, is that when you’re stuck inside a cell all day, you don’t have much else to do but wait and work to better yourself.

While in jail, this guy took to writing everyday for hours on end, read a bunch of books of varying topics from philosophy, to economics, finance, war and was even trying to teach himself Mandarin Chinese. On top of that he regularly sharpened his chess skills by playing all the time against fellow inmates. It made me realize how I’m just wasting my life.

Right now I’m working fulltime. 40 hours a week, from 10am to 9pm (1 hour for lunch) Tuesday through Friday, I’m stuck in my cubicle selling health insurance over the phone. I hate doing it. Whenever I get back home from work all I want to do is smoke weed, play video games and have sex/masturbate (depending on the availability of sex). I don’t feel like I’m improving myself very much at all these days.

I made this blog, in part to better my writing skills (which I have been complimented on since high school), to vent (which I hesistate to do too often in fear of this becoming too whiny and too angsty of a blog), and to humor the possibility that maybe one day someone important will discover this, and I’ll become a huge sensation and get rich and famous and get all the blogosphere bitches (ala Waiterrant). Other than the venting thing, I don’t feel I’ve really met my goals.

I don’t necessarily think my writing’s regressed, but reading my old posts I feel like I was just funnier back then. Then again I always think my past self was more confident, funnier and smoother than my present self. I’m pretty sure I’ve always been this neurotic, self-conscious, and awkward and simply just forget about it later, which leads me to only remember the non-awkward past hence making me look like prince charming. But whatever, I don’t know.

What I do know is that now I’m motivated. I’m motivated to harness my intellect and live up to my potential. I’m going to force myself to making at least one post on here everyday. I’m also going to do my best to find my writing voice. I don’t want to be a good writer or even a casual writer. I want to be a fucking great writer. I want to leave my readers in stitches as well as make them realize something about their lives they’ve never thought about before. The difficult part about that is to do it in an original way.

We, as humans, learn by mimicking. It’s the natural way to educate ourselves. I remember when I was younger and watched Forrest Gump for the first couple of times, afterwards I was always speak with a bit of a southern drawl. I didn’t notice it. I didn’t even know until my sister told me to stop talking like that. It happens subconsciously. The same principle applies to a lot of things. After reading Chuck Palahniuk or Chuck Klostermann, you start seeing things as if it were through their lenses. Reading is amazing because it lets you see the world through the perception of someone else, and sometimes that perception is so much more appealing and interesting than your own that it sticks with you even after you’re done reading. I think that this simple process of perceiving, liking what you see and mimicking is how we all come to invent our personalities in the first place.

The thing is, no matter how many amazing authors you read, or how many amazing rappers you listen to, if you don’t practice yourself and find your own voice everything you do is just going to sound like a watered-down version of whoever inspired you. To truly find your own voice, regardless of the medium, whether ‘your voice’ is your writing voice, your sense of humor, your art style, you have to work your way up from nothing.

Listening to Eminem was what first inspired me to rap. I didn’t even listen to much music before hearing Eminem’s Without Me on the radio when I was 11 years old. When I first started rapping everyone told me I sounded like Eminem, and I was proud to be compared to whom I considered (and still do) to be the greatest rapper to ever live. Surely enough however, I grew tired of the comparisons. I still welcomed them and truly felt flattered whenever they were given, but I wanted to invent a completely new type of rap. Intelligent, nerd-humor, clever rap that doesn’t focus so much on how tough you are as opposed to how clever your punchlines are and your actual technique and lyricism. I feel that after a while I eventually did find my own voice (albeit, I’m still not completely satisfied with it, but I doubt any artist is ever completely satisfied with their work) that sounds separate from Eminem’s flow.

I need to do the same with everything else I want to excel at. And so, I am going to dedicate myself to becoming a better writer, chessplayer, starcraft 2 player and rapper. I’m going to be writing everyday, and playing only sc2 or chessmaster. I already can’t help but rap whenever I’m in the car by myself so I’m fairly certain my routine on that isn’t too bad.

In a year’s time, I want to be a much more impressive person than I currently am. I’m going to do it, too. Just wait. I’m going to be so goddamn eloquent and clever, I’m going to charm your fucking eyeballs out.

Hopefully, if I do so, I won’t be stuck in a fucking cubicle hating 4 out of the 7 days of the week for much longer.

On the other hand, there have been countless times where (had I easy access to a gun) I would’ve given myself an extra earhole where my temple currently resides.

I don’t see how any intelligent person could own a firearm without at least being tempted to off themselves.

There has to come a time when life just gets too overwhelming. When there’s so much to keep track off. Where everywhere you turn is just some person or corporation leeching off of you, bleeding you dry for every ounce of value, creativity, optimism and decency you have. When the peacefulness of a  careless silence becomes preferable to the chaotic static that is life. Everyone has to feel like that at some point. I don’t see how one can not.

Then again, if I were right, no one would own guns. Not out of a strict sense of pacifism or extreme high regard for human life (or life in general), but because of the fear that during one neurotic, delusional, anxiety-filled episode; one might make the mistake that you’ll never get a chance to regret.

Not to toot my own horn, as I now have plenty of girls to do it for me, but I’m pretty sure my sex appeal somehow skyrocketed recently. I am now fucking the three hottest girls I’ve ever gotten the chance to fuck, all at once. Not simultaneously, like a foursome or anything (yet anyways), but y’know fucking one one day, another a different day and so on and so forth.

Here’s the funny part though. Everything else in my life is pretty shit right now. I’m broke, unemployed, lost my license again for 3 months, and am not doing so hot in school. I haven’t even filled out my fafsa or registered for next year. I’m still a full blown stoner, slacker and loser for the most part except that bitches want my dick now. Like I’ve never been that unfortunate in that department, but it’s just this sudden boom that’s got me confused.

I mean, like yeah I’ve had more than 3 chicks interested me at once before, that in itself is no big deal. I’m latin (white chicks love me), funny, not obese and generally just don’t give a fuck. But the most shocking part about it is how hot these chicks are, and that I’m not any one of them’s boyfriend. We’re just fucking to fuck, which is awesome. In all honesty, as my motivation behind grades and life overall has slowly degraded and I’ve gradually gotten more of a “Fuck it” attitude, more so than ever before, I feel that this appeals highly to hotter chicks (like 8s, 9s and 10s).

I mean most guys they talk to are either completely in love with them for no reason (refer to whatever post I did about my ex-gf where I held her up to unreasonable standards) and annoy the fuck out of them with incessant texts and shit or are trying so hard to impress them and get into their pants that it’s just ridiculously transparent and kinda pitiful.

Girl 1: Number one because she’s the only one of the three I’d date. Smart, cool to hang out with, and has the nicest ass of the three. We knew each other from a while back and just on a bored day asked to her to smoke a bowl with me on facebook and she did. Not gonna lie, at first yeah I was just trying to get in her pants, but she wasn’t ‘easy’. We were just friends for a good bit of time. A longer amount of time than I would grant most girls I was just trying to fool around with, but I actually enjoyed hanging out with her and her friends and shit so hung around them …

TO BE CONTINUED

and there I go again getting distracted and not finishing a post. Later guys.

Anyways, I was feeling a bit down and decided to check this site out again. I started reading some  of the shit I wrote a while back and, weirdly enough, I managed to cheer myself up. Man, I was pretty fucking funny. Like that entry a couple posts down with the quotes and shit. I was reading that and since it’s been a while since I wrote it, and haven’t really paid any mind to any of this in a long time, it seemed fresh. And from an outsider’s point of view, I was pretty impressed. I actually feel I was funnier then than I am now, but then again, I’m pretty sure I thought I was funnier even further back when than I was then, and so on and so forth.

According to that rationale, I guess I must’ve been like a wrinkly brown George Carlin when I first popped out my mom’s pussy and have slowly become less funny the older I’ve gotten.

Maybe not that far, but for some reason I do have this notion that I was at my funniest in middle school. I don’t know if it was because I was truly that funny in middle school or because typical middle schoolers will laugh at any fucking thing, and I just used their easily manipulated funny bones to stroke my ego, but I remember being the fucking shit in middle school.

now I remember why I don’t post on here more often, I get started, write a couple paragraphs, get distracted and then don’t feel like finishing it. I’ll come back and finish this later maybe. God I need to stop being lazy. This shit is killing me.

When I realized I didn’t know much, I became more withdrawn and just paid attention to the cocky and arrogant people around me, because they seemed to know shit.

Then I realized that noone really knows shit, or at least not as much as they think they do, so then I became cocky and arrogant once more.

As I see it, the only difference between a priest and a crack dealer now is a white collar and the likelihood of going to prison. One is responsible for the crusades, the other for inner city gang violence. At least drug related violence usually only affects the peddlers themselves, the same can’t be said for religion.

Life shits on everybody eventually regardless of age, sex, race, intellect, wit, creed or cup size. Fighting with each other over whether it’s better to seek solace in a pew, mosque, synagogue, flask or pipe does nothing more than add a couple more turds to the mix. Whatever gives us what we need to keep moving until we can’t move any longer is enough, really.

Not to be too cynical, but as most people realize when the novelty of bright colors and loud sounds fades away, one really does need to find one’s own happiness. All I’m saying is that that happiness comes in a variety of ideologies, narcotics and hallucinogens. Arguing over which one we pick is as futile and vapid as arguing over our preference of candy bars.

I realize this now and sincerely apologize if I offended any pious people by pissing all over your beliefs before. I hope now to only offend you by comparing you to drug addicts, your venerated leaders to dealers, and your beliefs and values to some stanky dank chronic. Welcome, be glad that at least your drug is cheaper and more legal than mine.

Peace

My friend, Kyle, described college life perfectly, “Tense as fuck”.

This semester, I had planned to be a complete recluse. Focusing only on my grades and artwork. That plan was demolished about the first week back. I met some people, started going out, started doing the college thing and whatnot.

Now I’m in the game, and already I’m getting tired of it. I remember why I was such a loner in high school, I hated playing the game. I still do, but am a bit addicted to it. Now I’m dealing drugs and mingling with all these fucks. As fun as it sometimes is, it’s exhausting as fuck, and now that I’m out of weed, I feel ridiculously anxious.

One thing that strikes me is how incredibly fake and untrustworthy everyone seems. It’s not that they aren’t friendly or sociable, but their defenses are always on high alert, and that I can pick that up in a second. While we all joke around, smoke, drink and make asses of ourselves, you can never shake the vibe that noone trusts anyone, and that everyone is scheming. I think it’s just because everyone is fairly new here, so being inundated by new “friends” automatically puts one a bit on the defensive as to who to trust, but I really don’t like it.

Even when I go back home, I can’t relax. My mind is fucking overloaded with shit. It’s really all my fault, because I am so overly conscious of everything I do and everything everyone else does, that I try to figure everyone out and it just tires me out.

Everything just seems so fucking stressful. Drugs, Girls, Friends, Grades, Money, Traffic Tickets, Apartments, so much shit that’s in the air right now.

I still don’t know where I’m going next year. I still might have a suspended license. I need to pass Calculus. I need to come through on my side of the drug scheme we’re planning. I need to reapply for my fafsa. I need to get a job, one that doesn’t drug test. I don’t know whether I should pursue random chicks, or go after this particular one.

I don’t know. I’m so stressed, and I have to go to class now. whatever.

This semester was planned to be a boring, diligent, 6 months or so when I was to simply work my ass off writing, drawing, and doing schoolwork. What I didn’t plan for, in this equation, is my newfound love of the plant that some call “marijuana”.

I have seriously been smoking almost everyday since mid-December. Which I guess explains the prolonged absences and time between posts.

Initially I thought that doing so would expand my mind and give me new perspectives on shit, and it does sometimes, except that I can never really remember them afterwards. Even by carrying my little notebook around, I’m often too lazy to record my thoughts.

At times I get worried. I start to feel my mental acuity begin to dull, but then I realize so many other smart people have smoked so much more weed than I have and they’re as sharp as ever, and that I’m just high at that point in time.

Then I smoke some more.

I still feel it’s getting in the way of me getting work done, so I think I’m going to have to discipline myself if I plan to actually work on any short stories or comics I plan to author. We’ll see.

This post was pretty boring, I admit. But I just felt I had to post something because it’s been so long. I’ll update more often.