There is a direct correlation between the phase of the moon, specifically a full moon, and the level of crazy inherent in all women. As the giant, sunlit orb waxes towards obesity, women get crazier. It's a scientifically proven fact that this phenomenon is real, and very dangerous. By "scientific fact", of course I mean that it's a myth perpetuated in my own messed-up brain, the conclusion derived from 2 months of direct experience. 2 months is all the research I require. Fucking scientists and their over-elaborate ways.
Silly me, I was under the assumption that the full moon only affected werewolves and alcoholics, but wouldn't that mean that all the women of the world are hard-drinking, sex starved animals? That's not true, otherwise it wouldn't be so difficult for me to find a woman that gives great head.
Yeah, yeah, I know that the only person causing a problem in that regards is me.
Saturday night, as I walked along the path to Anthony's place, weaving and skipping my way around the lake, destined for drunkeness, I looked off to the north only to see that the moon was abnormally large, white and bright enough to burn a hole through the retina in my right eye. Great, I hope this is isn't an omen for the course my night is bound to take, I thought.
As I arrived at Anthony's, I shrugged off the overwhelming feeling of impending and unavoidable doom, chugged a red, plastic glass of keg beer and tinkered with my nose ring a little, never fully realizing the direct implications of the lunar schedule on the outcome of my night. That realization would come later.
Also, having Jon dressed up as Magnum P.I, completely with cheesy, Just For Men soaked mustache and Detroit Tigers hat is as a good a way as any to forget one's troubles.
Let's take a moment to look at last month's bone chilling, day-long episode of the dramedy that is my life, shall we? I can't believe that I just wrote the word "dramedy".
I was neck-deep in dealing with a crazy, stalker ex-girlfriend that thought it appropriate to leave false-voiced messages on a friends phone, not fully understanding that, hey, even though you can costume your voice, it's not going to change the stomach turning reaction I get from hearing it. To borrow a phrase from a friend: "what a fucking whack-a-doo!" I was also trying to figure out what, if anything, to do about a girl that wanted to give me a hernia check with her mouth, just a few minutes after meeting me at William's. There was only one option, and that was to Brillo pad my brain in hopes that I'd forget she ever existed. It didn't work, in case you're wondering.
So, the last full moon was a Snickers bar--chock full o' nuts.
I don't have the energy to recount the various instances of drama during my one hour stint at the Independent on Saturday night. Believe me, it was coming from more than one source, all in varying degrees of fucked-in-the-head. And it could've been worse. I'm pretty sure that Emily was there that night, too, because I saw her friend Jenny, and those two rarely go galavanting around town without eachother. I didn't try to seek her out, though. Long story. Not getting into it right now.
Now knowing that a full moon equals estrogen overload, at least I'll be fully aware of the possibility of behavior abnormalities oozing from female types in and around May 23rd. Consider my calender marked.
One thing still baffles me, though. I use this here blog as an outlet for frustration, not in an attempt to be a digitally penned Bassanova. A friend told me that I should be getting laid more due to my writing, but that's not my intention. Come on, what sane man would ever expect women to fawn all over him when his subject matter includes, but is not limited to, poop, unintentionally politically incorrect humor, and last, but certainly not least, Emily? Not I, that's for damn sure.
I've been writing about her for 4 years now, and it boggles my mind that any other girl would still be interested in me after reading of our sordid, drawn-out, 10 year lust affair. Why any self-respecting woman would put themselves through such an unhealthy torture, well, that's beyond me. It's not wise.
I am bruised fruit, man. I am a dented can of generic, black and white label peas.
It's one thing if they don't read my blog, because at least in that respect they're being lied to. But, when someone religiously reads the shit that pukes out of my brain--and face it, we're all devout members in the Church of Chad--they know too much about me. Knowing too much about me is a bad, bad thing.
That's why it's impossible for me to date another online "friend". I've done it before, and it causes me to shutter up my writing windows, closing myself off completely. I feel like I should censor myself, and I hate, hate, hate worrying if the shit I spew will offend or hurt someone. And, if I ever had to choose between writing and a girl, there's not a girl alive that stands a chance, not even Emily.
Writing is the only mistress I need.
Beer being my main bitch, of course. I just wish she'd learn to fellate me without all the teeth-scraping.