This Is Exactly What You Need, Stupid

**It's either this or a punch in the face, right?

I think he's better off there than here, and that's for all the sound reasons. Primary of which will be this - It will put all your delusions to a fucking screeching halt, stop it dead in its tracks, and that will allow the rest of your life and all its lower expectations to crawl along like nothing hopeful happened to it in 2004. Think of it as the long overdue euthanasia that you so unknowingly deserved for even letting things happen in the first place. And what makes it better, delicious even, is that I know he'll make it. He's far too good for this messy third world hole and its Goddamn Plumbing, and he Deserves to go out there and get himself a skip in his step. I'm all in. I see no real advantage; this make believe love story that's going on in your head will never come to fruition anyway. I'd much rather he get all the chips because he deserves it, all of it, and I pray him an ounce of greed so that he becomes mindless of The Unnecessary Distraction that's he's entertaining because he's just too much of a gentleman in the first place.

You, on the other hand, get yourself out there. You'll be thirty soon.

Here's To You, Wonald

**I want you to know this, and I hope you understand the unpreparedness. You can't really proofread an epiphany, right?

I was halfway through deleting all correspondence that took place between us two, once upon a time in the Bronze Age that is Friendster, and you know what I did? I took them out of the trash, and moved them all back in the inbox. Turns out there's no point in clearing out the history because I will always be reminded of you, in one way or another, and the whole exercise of clearing out the closet of its skeletons was just pointless to begin with. So if you're reading this latest installment to all this "wordplay," then bear in mind that I will not let go of you or of what we had before. Because, for what its worth, it was fun, and it was charmed, and it was simultaneous with some of the best years of my life. Not because of you, mind you, but because it happened at the same time.

Cheers, W, and understand that you will always find a sympathetic asshole in my person. Things will never be the same again, on account of you can't reproduce a fantastic dream, but it was fun while it lasted and it was all worth it.

I Wonder How This Will Look In Your Resume

**I really have no more active plans of furthering this blog. An excuse post is just tiring, and redundant, and just pointless when one hasn't got no drive in him no more. But I was checking my inbox this one time, when I noticed this familiar folder that contained my blog comments from 2005 onwards. And then I suddenly wanted to update. So I'm giving you this, for now.


Fluffer

A fluffer is a hired member of the crew of a pornographic movie whose role on the set is to sexually arouse the male participants prior to the filming of scenes requiring erections.

A fluffer also has the duty of keeping adult film stars "cleaned up" in between takes or during photo shoot set-ups, so that the actors or models do not have to move from their positions. These duties are considered part of the makeup department. After setting up the desired angle, the director asks the actors to hold position and calls for the fluffer to "fluff" the actors for the shot.

Larry Cohen's "It's Alive" Sucks

And now for a brief warning. No matter what happens, do not, and I say this with finality of a heart attack, DO NOT watch Larry Cohen's "It's Alive." You will faint of boredom if you do. And you will not take the precaution of having somebody administer strong ammonia. Because you'd rather be unconscious than suffer this lame-ass piece of hell-raising dullness.

I haven't posted anything for a month now, and I give you drool. Hey, how's the new template like? Nice, huh?

My Condolences to Your Semi-Irreplaceable

**Writing Practice. Have had a heavy dose of S.L.C. And all those wonderful phrases! I'm not trying to be him, or sound like him; I just wanted to employ as much S.L.C as I can. And there isn't an ounce of plagiarism in these paragraphs. That's for stupid cunts.

Last night was one of the loudest nights of my life. It was not the kind of noise that decorates a drunken feast. It was not the kind of heated meaows that cat's issue when debating over property, although I must admit that the object of my misery, and my unprofitable sleep, in consequence, was just as driven by instinct: it was the fearful, ominous even, howling employed by the neighbor's labrador.

It answers to the name "Eclipse," and it was easily the largest, blackest, meanest bully of a dog in the neighborhood. It was usually soft spoken, or at least it had its reservations as far as its howlings go. It rarely barked, although judging by its physical dimensions, it can bark to its heart's pleasure and remain uninterrupted. But, to my comfort, it was decidedly silent on most occasions, bless its flea bitten heart. Until, of course, yesterday evening, when it barked with all the ammunitions in its howling artillery.

It was one of the loudest nights of my life, and it was the sort of loudness that's associated with a complaint. And by the severity of that dog's howlings, you could swear it was demanding an electoral recount! It started with a few soft yelps that received faint comments from its kindred audience. I didn't mind that; my tolerance for noise has been so modified that I can easily sleep at my own birthday celebration. But then this irritating correspondence began to punctuate with the introduction of another distinct condiment, that of the sound of one pain, and it became decidedly bothersome. This awful report was thoroughly intensified to such deafening severities that the only reasonable way to get rested, at the time, was to strangle the poor suffering thing and get it all over with. The hell of it all wasn't in the loudness of its howling. It was in hearing its pain amplified to such a helpless misery, and what amazes me the most was how I managed to sleep through all its lamentations.

I woke up the next morning, all sore and uncomfortable in the wrong places, to find this green wheelbarrow parked in front of the neighbor's gate. Eclipse died at dawn; his front legs were rotting wood in their stiffness as he was carried off to that waiting wheelbarrow and its dreadful purpose. There was a puddle of blood a few inches away from his water bowl.

NOTE: My actual reaction to this sudden obituary was anything but picturesque. Jaw dropping, as it turns out, happens in real life, and I was its solemn picture. My mouth was never that big, my lips were several time zones apart, and several pounds of iron were harnessed to my chin. I was the very image of surprise, and ridicule, at the same time. All for a dog that died loud.