Criticism

**Click on the image to enlarge.

What About Gifts?

Do you finish reading a book because somebody gave it to you as a gift? What if it was around five hundred pages thick? What if it's all words and ideas and deep stuff with no pictures on it? What if it had size 8 fonts, single space, with very lengthy paragraphs set at two to three a page? What if the chapters were spaced so far apart you think you'd get tired just by the mere thought of it? What if it was something that never interested you to begin with?

What if it was given to you by, say, a family member? Or perhaps another beloved who only had your best interests during that wildly congested Annual Book Sale at the mall? Maybe a dear aunt that gave you the same pair of hot pink pants because she knew you were a fag, and you were into this kind of shit? What if the gift wrap was something straight out of Martha Stewart's workshop, all decked out like a window display because it's trying to send a message across?

It's a good thing my sister knows my reading material like the back of her hand. I wouldn't know, for the life of me, how to answer any of those questions.

How's the Embarrassment Like?

The funniest thing happened last Sunday. Ricky Hatton, after months of serving the juiciest trash talking over his fight with The People's Champ Manny Pacquiao, dropped dead, cold as a knocked out turkey only after two rounds of the most, shall we say, unprepared boxing to grace Pay Per View. He's knocked out on round two. And that's basically the long and short of this very short lived "put your money where your mouth is match," however much awaited.

I wonder how the embarrassment is like. I mean, what happened here is like training for Rhythmic Gymnastics for four years only to trip on the first few seconds of your routine. And what makes it less embarrassing is that gymnasts don't trash talk. Or they don't do it as loud as Hatton's entourage.

Hopefully, A Cure for Peaking

**You know how it goes: You were once the coolest Queen of your Hill bar none. And then you peaked for some reason that's totally unknown to your person. I'm having none of that, so I'm writing this now before I totally lose my shine.

I don't want to forget what made me Queen of my Shit Hill in the first place.

1. I play pool because I love it. Not only because I'm good at it, or at least I used to, but because it brings me close, closer to that group of inbreeds I love hanging out with.
- Last time I played was three months ago as of the writing of this post.

2. I have this funny network of fags that has always been dear to me all throughout.
-Last time I saw them was three weeks ago.

3. I have this retard sounding laugh, guttural and unfailingly characteristic.
-Last time I did was a week ago, and I really need a good laugh just about now.

4. I love having sex. And sometimes when I'm mighty drunk, I don't mind if its random.
-Last time I got laid real good, underscore real, was November 2008.

5. I enjoy watching horror movies. The messier the better.
-Last time I did was a week ago, and it bored me to the core.

6. I write as an outlet. And I have this blog for personal, therapeutic reasons.
-I'm littering it now with the usual dull drivel just to appear updated. The last post that meant something to me was this post.

7. I like the people I work with.
-And I'm developing some untoward reservations for no valid reason or what have you.

8. I foulmouth with a PhD.
-And I'm becoming habitually untalkative offline. That doesn't help the cursing none.

9. I used to do random acts of daring stupid just for kicks.
-And I'm beginning to bore myself most often these days.

I'll stop here before I realize I don't like what I am now. Something has changed along the way, and I have a lot of catching up to do. Like that Angela Basset film, I need to get my groove back.

Resets Please

I'm now looking for THE ONE HTML code for putting a panic button on my blog's sidebar. With a push, that golden button wil go ahead and hide all of my unbecoming posts with their horny details. Of course, hide IS the operative term, because a fault finding fool like myself needs to go over the things I wrote for a number of foolish, fault finding reasons.

I can be too wordy to a fault; the terms I choose to string together often paint a messy sketch. And there are ideas that do nothing to redeem the collapse that is my person. It's bad enough that I'm gay by default, but to be a wordy attention-whore with an unprecedented sense of self-promotion is something different. That leads to very unlikely ideas. But the problem is I kind of posted some of those ideas. Some of them had comments, too. And I have to do something about that because my mom is reading my blog now.

Ergo the panic button.