Irritable Male Syndrome

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Summer is officially over. Excuse me, I think I have a piece of dust in my eye.

Ok, now that I've stopped crying, where were we? Oh yeah, the end of summer. To celebrate this once a year occasion, I'm going on a drunken hiatus. Not a drinking hiatus, because we both know that, even though I could probably do without the boozing, I'm not really sure why anyone would want to. Not that I am going to stop drinking, but I need like a two week break from waking up the next day feeling like a pile of ass. I was in extreme self-inflicted pain on Monday morning, and that's a pain that I just don't feel the need to relive in the short term.

So yeah, two weeks, no drunk text-messages from me. Deal? Deal.

The rest of this post is going to be a rambling mess, so I apologize in advance.

I am so fucking sick of people popping back into my life on a cloud, and then leaving just as quickly. It's getting old, really it is. It's happened on more than one occasion in the past few months, with more than one person, and each time it always ends with me left asking "why did you even come back in the first place, damn it?"

People, honestly. I know I'm not perfect and fuck up more than seems normal. That's just part of being human. But, I don't understand how an apology can help when the only reason you're apologizing is to make yourself feel better. Because the apology certainly wasn't for my sake, that's for sure. Or maybe it was that you just wanted to be able sleep easier at night. Who knows.

I also don't understand how sleeping with me is going to make you forget that you're still in love with your ex-boyfriend. Ok, maybe I understand the urge to feel wanted and needed by someone, anyone other than friends. Even though they're always great, it just doesn't fill that void. Yes, I understand that I am a sex God, and my dick is so big that it has it's own zip code and gravitational pull, so it's almost impossible to avoid my bed. I get that part.

But, I cannot fathom the choices that people make without thinking of the direct implications, even though these are the same people that are above and beyond what would normally pass as being super-skilled in the art of overthinking. Masters, they are. I think about the future, but I just don't care about that part of the future. Why put so much stock in the what-does-it-all-means, and the where-is-this-all-goings when we all could be gone tomorrow? None of that matters, and I definitely don't enjoy missing people that don't deserve my misspent emotions, even behind the guise of a empty apology or a well-timed I'm lonely fuck.

If I hadn't lost all my pubes in 'Nam, I'd be ripping them out in clumps right now. Is there anything bigger than a clump?

What else?

Oh yeah, psssst. Hey. Dude in the pink shirt with the popped collar; you look like a walking Miami vagina, circa 1984. You need to douche, you vag, you. Or maybe it's that you're a douche in serious need of a vagina. Whatever it is, you don't look cool.

I was at the State Fair this weekend and saw a kid wearing a bright pink t-shirt that said "Tough guys wear pink". All 5'6", 125lbs of him. It took all my strength to hold back that punch to his balls because I wanted to see him cry. I figured he wasn't worth going to jail for.

So, let's recap, shall we?

The color pink=not cool


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