Rants About Me

Sometimes I hate all you people.


I hate how you fall on my every other word, often missing the point of what I was trying to say.

Every year, there are an estimated 18,000 homicides in the U.S. Not a huge number when you apply it to the fact that we just crossed the 300 million mark in our population.

By now, most of you have read at least part of my profile. There seem to be a few key things that people pick up on out of all of that jargon I've spewed. The biggest one, strangely to me, is the one I thought would be the least offensive statement I could make about myself.

I found myself in a rather odd position yesterday. I was standing around, overcome with emotion. For some reason, it took me more than a minute to properly identify that emotion. I chewed on the knuckle of my thumb and knitted my brows together. Suddenly, it dawned on me.

In case you haven't heard me bitch about it enough, let me tell you again. I get a lot of e-mail. While I get a majority of positive feedback from sincere people, I also get a sizeable amount of hate mail. I inevitably end up pondering the hate mail much longer than I do the positive stuff. Maybe it's because I've never quite known how to properly handle praise. In any case, the insults always stick with me longer.

I don't know what it is about me that makes people want to confess their inmost secrets. Do I really have the look of someone who gives a shit? OK, OK, so this whole BADASS thing is just a fucking front. But I still think it's odd that I only know people a short amount of time before they are telling me how they cornholed their cat when they were 12.

Whenever someone asks me what the kinkiest thing I've ever done is, I have to scratch my head and think for awhile. "Come on," they'll taunt me."You of all people have got to have done some kinky things."

The following is going to be somewhat difficult for me to share. I've been toying with the idea of writing about this for some time now, but have continually stopped myself from breaching the area that even Zara deems as "too much information." After explaining some of the issues with orgasms though, I now feel ready to explain myself a little more.

I am not a fan of the memorial services that I have been to over the course of my lifespan. I do not care to sit (or in yesterday's case, stand) for 2 hours while the deceased's minister, preacher or voodoo shaman proselytizes to the room.

I officially adore Howie.

Here he is, getting set up.




Not only was I able to get my new ink done by one of the best looking and most talented bassist/tattoo artists in Ventura County, I also had one of the best looking and most talented guitarists/tattoo artists from the VC serenading me as I had my work done.

Jon... the one who isn't supposed to make me laugh while I'm getting tatted.





Random people floated in and out of the house as I got reacquainted with that loving sting that you get from a tattoo gun. The first to get done was my devil banana (behind my right ear), and after that initial reminder, getting my "bad" side done actually felt pretty damn good.




Then came my angel banana (behind my left ear). I was warmed up from the right side, and we'd taken a 10 minute break between the two, so I was eager to get that started. Everything was flowing just fine until that fucking halo. That was a bitch, right up in the tender part of the section of skin behind my ear. But it was small and over quickly, so all is coolio.




The above pictures were taken right after the work had been finished. This is a what they looked like (yeah, I know the shots didn't come out great. Deal with it. It's fucking LATE.) 2 hours later...






The whole concept of getting bananas behind my ears was sparked by My Shannon's banana tat. I love her so, I needed to follow in those lovely footsteps of hers.

Big thanks again to Howie. Remember that if you live in the local area or you're planning on visiting, he can customize work to suit your ideas. Plus he's absolutely one of the best guys I know. If you're going to pay someone to hurt you, might as well like the guy, ya know?


Have a great Friday!

I am always explaining myself to everyone. I'm explaining why I did something, why I said something, why I'm constantly talking about hookers.

Back in high school, sometime during my junior year, I was sitting and letting a friend sketch me for a class assignment. It was sunny, we were sitting outside on the stoner's grassy knoll and I had my head tilted to the sky, beams of light cast down on my face. I was blissed out in the warmth of the afternoon, letting my mind detatch from my body when it was yanked down within me at the sound of one screeching catcall.

When I think about you... I imagine you touching me.

The only thing that I currently miss about having a significant other is that exhilaration I get from being touched by them. I miss standing in line to buy tickets to a movie and having someone's hand on the small of my back, their face sniffing at the top of my head.

So, the following is an older blog of mine, but for the sake of the newer readers that might not have seen it and are contemplating friendship with me, I thought I'd repost it. You can't say that I didn't warn ya.

The following was written about 5 months ago after yet another fight with yet another person who was speaking words that I'd heard so many people before them say to me. I actually enjoy having that depressed emo-esque emotion hang over my head. It's fantastic for helping one to achieve just a little more insight into who they are. Whoopee. More self-awareness! Just what I need!!

Journals, blogs, etc are essential for helping us get through moments that feel unbearable... or even just the moments where we think we've fallen too far into complacency. I look back on something I wrote during a darker time in my life and laugh uncomfortably at the raw emotion. As Screwy might say... "It's funny because it's true."