Ah, Fall…some people like to romanticize it as the beautiful end of another year in life’s epic tale of endless skullduggery. As for me? Fall means that I won’t get that annoying summer heat rash between my balls and inner thigh that smells like sweaty gym shorts, olive juice and moist panda assholes pulled from a tar pit for at least another nine months. Yeah, I’ve done the finger swipe sniff test…don’t act like you never have.
Man, do I fucking love the cool weather though. I’m fat, so heat and I? Not good buddies. When it’s cold out, you can keep covering yourself up until you’re warm, but when it’s fucking hot outside? Let’s just say that a thong should never be wrapped around the crotch of anything that’s over 200 pounds. ANY-fucking-thing.
But, aside from the cooler temps, I have to admit, I enjoy the leaves changing colors. I’m a big fan of the desolate, dreary, windswept autumn landscapes. And nothing gives me more of a refreshing chill than going up to my living room window 15 minutes before I leave for work in the morning and using the remote start on my car. It’s the little things, isn’t it? But my favorite part of fall, year after year, has got to be Halloween.
Growing up in military school, I spent a lot of holidays alone on campus. It was just me and the creepy campus janitor who had a head so pointy you could throw him at a dart board. Most of the other kids were taken home on the weekends by their parents and ALL of the other kids went home for holidays; Labor Day, Fourth of July, Easter, Memorial Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year. They were afforded long weekends in the arms of parents who missed them. Me? My mother would drunkenly call the campus dean and tell him that she had gotten ‘food poisoning’ and wouldn’t be able to come get me. ‘Food Poisoning’ is code for ‘I drank too much Ripple and Boons farm Strawberry and now I have to clean vomit off of all the balconies below mine’. Yes, my mother had the same alcohol preferences as Fred Sanford.
Halloween was the ONLY celebration that didn’t afford the others a holiday home coming. Every year we had a costume contest in the gym, there was candy galore, and the whole day in school was spent learning about the origins of ‘All Hallows Eve’, doing various crafts, and making caramel for candy apples. Call me gay, but I fucking liked that shit.
After military school, things didn’t change much. Because my mother worked midnights as a guard at Cook County Jail, I continued to spend most holidays alone. I have some fantastic friends, and once they found out that I was up to fuck all for almost every holiday, they would invite me over for their family gatherings. I went to a few and even though I was always welcomed with open arms, I felt like an intruder. Eventually I started to make up excuses to not go. My life is my own responsibility, and I didn’t think it was fair to them OR their families to have to babysit me just because I had a shitty mom.
But Halloween? Fugetaboutit. There were parties to go to, haunted houses to visit, and as I learned more about movies I became fascinated with the haunted escapades of Abbot and Costello, The Three Stooges, and old horror movies like Dracula with Bella Lugosi, Frankenstein with Boris Karloff, and The Wolfman with Lon Chaney Jr. I loved everything about Halloween, but mostly it was that feeling of comradary that I got from it all because I knew I’d be sharing it with my friends.
Although the different seasons of the year bring about different emotions from us, to me fall is the best.
Winter sucks balls, ESPECIALLY in Chicago. One day it’ll snow and the city will look like someone just threw a fresh clean white blanket over it, the next day everything looks like god ate a bean burrito and dumped ass piss from the clouds because of the filth that took just ONE day to cover it all up. That evening you go in for a blissful night sleep in the arms of your sweetheart as the snow once again falls outside of your bedroom window, muffling the sound of the whole world and giving you that feeling of closeness that brought you both together in the first place. The next day you wake up and have to leave your house from the second floor window because the snow has blocked your front door in an eleven foot accumulation. It makes Hoth look like fucking Endor. Finally, when the snow plow drivers realize that this week’s episode of ‘Maury’ is a rerun and decide to get off their asses, they plow all the snow in the entire fucking city RIGHT into YOUR parking space. That night when you FINALLY get home from 13 hours of stop and go traffic, you have to park your car at a 45 degree angle on top of Mt. Asshole. Because the temperature rose throughout the day, you’re confident that most of the snow will be gone by the time you leave in the morning, but when you go out the next day your balls jump up into your abdomen because it’s gotten colder than a witches tit outside. You find Polar Bears and Penguins on your front door step asking to be let in from the cold. Everything including the mailman is covered in a thick sheet of ice that’s so treacherous, your car slides three feet to the right every time you try to put your key in the door. Then you have to wrap your car in bubble packaging to drive to work because your brakes are about as useless as a third fucking hip. Next year I’m just gonna buy a Taun Taun. So fuck winter.
Spring? Oh, it’s all about beautiful renewal and fresh fields of dandelions, isn’t it? Fuck that. Spring is about unplanned pregnancies, allergies, animals fucking, and America’s most boring sport. That’s right, I’m gonna say it. Baseball is nothing but a bunch of Mexicans standing around in the grass for nine fucking hours. Then, if I DO find myself getting into a conversation with some drunken bog Irish hick about the sport, I have to hear them tell me that I only like the Yankee’s because they win. Are you kidding me? Isn’t that the point of ANY fucking sport? In Chicago, when you say that you’re a Cubs fan, you get called a faggot. And when I say I’m a Yankee’s fan, I get called a sellout. Well I’m fucking sorry, but only THREE types of people are White Sox fans; Mexicans, meth addicted white guys with go-tee’s, and a combination of the two, so CALL me a sellout homo. Fuck the White Sox, and fuck spring.
And then there’s summer. Oofa. Once again, Chicago weather plays ping pong with my scrotum. We’ll get about 3 days of good sunny 73 degree weather…and then the sun decides to come in for a closer fucking look. The temperature sky rockets to a balmy 118 and my balls drop like Mel Gibson’s film roles. The news is filled with tales of old people who burst into flames like kindling while walking their dogs, middle aged divorced housewives who have NO sense of self restraint line the sidewalks on lawn chairs tanning themselves to a color that only smoked bar-b-q ribs should be, and the smell of piss wafts from the alley’s of downtown neighborhoods brought on by drunken yuppies who couldn’t wait anymore because the lines to get into air conditioned bars are so long you have to measure them from outer fucking space. Let’s not forget that EVERY pour of my body starts leaking moisture in an effort for it to cool itself down causing mud butt, fumunda ball cheese, and the back of my neck to get grittier than Clint Eastwood clenching his teeth for a powerful Rib eye Steak and Martini shit. Fuck summer.
But fall? The weather is perfect for beer gardens, taking my dog for a walk in the crisp morning air, and watching the sun rise with a cup of coffee on my back porch. As my undercarriage dries up for the season, I begin to feel fresh and clean for the first time in months, allowing me to feel good enough about myself to start dating again. I can finally take the air conditioner out of my bedroom window and sleep in the fresh air with the sound of trees outside my room rustling in the breeze as the dead leaves fall from them. The new TV shows come out and movies start to get JUST a little better in the theatre. The romantic in me comes out, and the cloudy sunsets beyond a field of leafless trees make me remember just how beautiful life can be.
However, much like the changing seasons of a year, life has always seemed cyclical to me. A good day is usually followed by a better day, then a GREAT day, and then back to a shitty day. It’s like I’m CONSTANTLY playing a game of Uno with life. I’ll throw down that blue 2, life comes back with a blue 4, I throw down the green 4 and switch things up a bit, then life throws down a wild card and puts everything in red, then I come back with a red 5, life throws out that reverse card and gets another turn, then I’ll think I’m slick and throw down the draw four leaving me with JUST two cards in my hand…both yellow. I put in the yellow 7 and BOOM! Life fucks me with the mega hit. Yellow Draw 2, green Draw two, green reverse, blue reverse, draw four, draw four, draw four, red draw two. Now I’m sitting here with more fucking cards than an 8 deck blackjack table at a shitty Western themed hotel casino while life flips me off and screams “UNO!” at the top of its lungs. Fuck you life.
As much fun as it is to blame my issues on the abstract character of life, it really sucks when there’s no REAL person to blame your shit on. It’s like when you’re stuck in traffic for hours on end. You can’t SEE that the asshole pizza delivery driver miles ahead of you decided to turn the cab of his truck into a steam sauna bong and is now driving so slow that the cops got out of their cruisers and are walk-chasing him down, but because of the contact high they got from the 1892 locomotive pot smoke trail he was leaving in his wake, there are now 40 police officers walking alongside of a giant pizza slice while singing Koombaya and laughing at mile markers. So who do you blame? The asshole that’s done NOTHING to deserve your horn of retribution. You fucking LAY on that bitch and yell ‘MOVE IT ASSHOLE’ out of your car window to the guy in front of you…well, where the fuck is HE gonna move it too? It’s not his fucking fault.
THAT’S where Halloween comes in. I may not have anyone to blame for my holiday agoraphobia, but I can take destiny into my own hands this ONE time of the year. I’m not some crazy douche bag who thinks he’s a warlock, I’m not some schticky dickhead who waits ALL year to wear his fucking Jedi Knight robes in FRONT of people, and I’m not some crazed old man who puts teeth and hairballs from my one eyed cat named ‘Mucus’ in the kids’ trick or treat bags. As far as I’m concerned, trick or treat can go fuck itself…that’s NOT what Halloween means to me. Halloween is the ONE holiday of the year that I don’t have to spend alone. Yes, once again? It’s all about me.
In my twenties, I started throwing parties in the basement party room of my mother’s condo. The party room was a huge space with a full kitchen and two bathrooms. From its humble beginnings as a simple Halloween get together with booze and orange table cloths, it grew over the years to become one of the most talked about social gatherings in my small town. Every year my decorations became more and more extravagant and people would come from miles around just to say they were at the Hempen Halloween Party. Since I lived at home and had a full time job, I had a seemingly unlimited supply of discretionary income.
Since my mother passed though, and I’ve lived in several different apartments…my Halloween Party’s just haven’t been the same. I haven’t put my heart into it like I used to, and I haven’t really had the extra scratch needed to make them what they once were. I DO have parties from time to time, and sometimes they turn out to be pretty good, after all it’s not always the money you throw at these things as much as it is the people who attend. But the sad truth is that everyone gets ONE good party per year. That’s it, just one. If my Halloween party is great? You can be sure that my Christmas Party is gonna suck. If my Christmas Party rocks? You already know that my Halloween Party was a bust. You just can’t pull off party magic twice in the same year. But this year? Things have been going pretty good, so I decided to put my heart BACK into the Halloween party and make it the event of epic proportions that it deserved to be.
I’ve been getting a pretty big ego this year. Usually, I consider myself to be something of a loser. NOT in a ‘poor me’ kind of way, so don’t even THINK about patronizing me with shit like ‘oh, stoppit Mike, you’re NOT a loser’. Fuck you, you don’t KNOW me. I’m a realist, and in the REAL sense of the word…I AM a fucking loser. Sure I could blame my parents, or my upbringing, or global warming, or even the fucking butterfly effect, but the truth is that there is NO one to blame but myself. That’s when you know you’re a TRUE loser…when you can’t even pander for a scape goat to your own self conscience.
But this year was different. I’ve had some luck with women, not the kind of long-term luck I was looking for, but I can’t complain about getting the occasional stank on my hang low. Work has been going fairly well, I was offered a book deal from a legitimate publisher, one of my favorite comedians sent me an e-mail saying that he liked my writing, and I recently got blown by a stripper (I still get a smile on my face when I say that). The combination of all these things has made my head inflate to the size of the Hindenburg…and we all know what happened to the fucking Hindenburg, right?
So, because I’m a legend in my own mind, I decided to go ALL out with this party. After all, I’m ALMOST a famous writer, it’s time I started showing people that I’m worthy of their adulation. I got my bonus check a week before Halloween so I used up the last of my vacation time to prepare. I spent COPIOUS amounts of money on this fucking festivity. I changed every light bulb in my apartment to red, I draped purple string lights ALL around the ceiling, I put tiki torches and more string lights on the balcony, I carved pumpkins, hung that fake spider web shit, put up horror movie posters, hung black lights, and I had spooky Halloween sounds playing in the bathroom because who doesn’t like to take a scary piss? I put the old ‘Abbot and Costello Meet’ movies on one TV with the sound off, the original ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’ on another, and spooky ‘Three Stooges’ shorts on the last. I made a Halloween party playlist on the computer, bought booze, food, and the piece de resistance? I hired a midget bartender. That’s right, 200 bucks got me Danny the Midget for 4 hours to serve drinks and say humiliating things like ‘Don’t go into the light Carol Anne’ and ‘Oompa Loompa Doompity Doo‘. I was NOW ready for my adoring friends and fans.
Cricket chirp, cricket chirp, cricked chirp.
That’s right, after inviting people for over 3 months, putting up an ‘Event’ on my face book page, even hanging up flyers and pandering to EVERY mother fucker I BARELY know…nobody fucking showed up. Ain’t that a bitch? Well, that’s not entirely true. Cous’n Hemp’n came and made fun of me all night for throwing a lame party. My buddy Steve came, but just used my party as an excuse to get away from his ball breaker wife for one night. My best friend Mike came but left after an hour to go to a better party. And finally, Joe came with his girlfriend who LITERALLY fell asleep on my couch. Made the Hindenburg look like fucking bathtub fart.
I invited a lot of girls to this party, but there was ONE in particular that I was looking forward to seeing that night. She’s a fellow manager at my job who I’ve always had a bit of a crush on; Samantha. We’ve become pretty good friends over the past year and I’ve never put a move on her only because she told me once that I wasn’t her type. I accept that, hell there’s a lot of people out there who aren’t MY type. Plus, when you get to a certain age you realize that although they may be sweet to watch? Romantic movies are full of shit. If someone isn’t into you, there’s fuck all you can do about that. You’re never going to change their mind, TRYING to only makes you LESS attractive to them, and not trying doesn’t send them running towards you with thoughts of missed opportunity…it only makes you distant and eventually forgotten.
But, during a conversation we had recently, Samantha TOLD me that she didn’t mean that I wasn’t her type, what she meant was that I wasn’t the type of guy she usually dates…because I’m nice. Well noooooow, what have we here? It seems that I may have been hasty in my assumption of the vaginal situation. I figured that because of my recent bout of luck with a STRIPPER, this retail manager would be easy pickings. Don’t get me wrong here, I wasn’t looking to fuck her…THAT night, but because of the friendship we’ve built over the past months, I decided that I would start the romantic ball rolling on Halloween and hopefully end up in the dating zone.
The truth is that I genuinely dig this chick. Not in a creepy ‘bother her all the time’ kind of way, but she’s a very good friend and to me that’s the foundation that a relationship is built on. Sure some people say that you should NEVER sleep with a friend, but what kind of stupid shit is that? If you’re dating someone, aren’t they your friend? Things work out? They work out. If not? Fuck it, Nothing is meant to last forever. Penises and vaginas are MEANT to be ships that pass in the night. Occasionally they’ll dock in the same harbor for a time, maybe even years, but then they move on to find other ports of call. I don’t think of that as sad and I don’t mean to berate relationships, but let’s be honest…we’re ALL assholes, I’m just trying to find a girl who may think of me as HER kind of asshole.
Again, I’m being a realist, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not a romantic as well. I don’t LOOK for something to end, and I don’t go into anything with the word ‘forever’ dangling precariously from my tongue. In my eyes Samantha is intelligent, savvy, quick to wit, sexual, and gorgeous to boot. So, since the wheel blocks were taken out from the front of my tires, I decided that, on the night of my party…I would roll forward a bit and see what the dillio was.
The Saturday of my party, I talked to Samantha throughout the day and she assured me every time I brought it up that she’d be here at 9 sharp when the party started. Look, you say a party starts at 9? You expect that nobodies coming until 10.I get it. But by 11 it was just Cous’n Hemp’n, Steve, Danny the Midget and I. Cous’n Hemp’n had adopted Danny the midget as his unofficial sidekick, and the two of them stood next to each other cracking wise about the shittiness of my party. Just picture this 320 pound, six foot five man laughing and pointing at me with his index finger while he held a Rolling Rock bottle between his middle and ring fingers on the same hand. Meanwhile, a three foot two mustachioed Hispanic midget stood next to him looking at me with disgust and saying in that tiny helium laced voice ‘This mother fucker right here’ and shaking his head. Occasionally Cous’n Hemp’n would stop pointing at me long enough to bend down, stare at the top of Danny’s head, laugh hysterically, and then pop back up and start pointing at me again.
NONE of the events I’ve described so far were even CLOSE to the humiliation that was coming…
My ego had taken a blow from my expensively decked out, yet nearly EMPTY party. Some stragglers would occasionally come by, and when I’d ask Danny to get them a drink? Cous’n Hemp’n would say to him “you’re MY midget now…you get NOBODY a drink but me”. Then Danny would look at me in disgust and say “Yeah, what are you? Some kind of friendless racist?” And Cous’n Hemp’n would double over in laughter. I don’t mind midgets; in fact I’d go so far as to say that they are the tiny glue that holds our society together, but an UPPITY midget? Two hundred bucks well spent. Thanks Cous’n Hemp’n.
FINALLY, at 1130 there came a knock on my front door. I opened it to find Samantha, her sister, a tiny Mexican girl, and her big ass best friend who has a crush on me. Earlier in the year I had a party and Samantha decided that she would try to hook me up with her friend. When I asked her if she was hot, Sam said “I don’t know that”. I ASSUMED because I’ve talked at length about how I’m not interested in the hefty broads, she was bringing me something that I could work with. What she brought with her though was a beastly woman of magnificent proportions who rarely smiled and talked like Shaquille O’Neil.
But, because there were FINALLY girls at my party, I was happy to see her. Samantha, her sister, and her friends all sat down on the couch and began to drink with Cous’n Hemp’n, Steve, Danny the Midget, and I. I turned the music up, and the ladies began to dance. Danny soon joined in to the bellowing sound of Cous’n Hemp’n’s laughter and it looked like I finally had a party going. As I watched Samantha dancing in my living room, occasionally I would look over to find the big girl winking at me…or at least trying to. She has a lazy eye, so whenever she’d wink one eyelid shut, her other eye would SHOOT over to the right. It looked as if she were trying to furiously warn me that there was something dangerous under a table or around a corner in the other room.
At around 1 AM, Steve left, and although Cous’n Hemp’n needed to be on his way as well…he found it difficult to say goodbye to his new friend. Cous’n Hemp’n opened my front door, and then slowly turned around for one last look at Danny. It was like the end of Casablanca only with a fat giant and a mustachioed Hispanic Midget. Then The Cuz did something that none of us expected. He turned around, kneeled down and with a tear in his eye, took Danny in his arms and said good night. As we all watched this exchange, we felt that we were witnessing the beginning of a new found friendship. After all, it’s not often in life that we find someone to…it was at about that point in my thought process when I put my foot on Danny’s shoulder and drunkenly kicked the two of them backwards out of my door. “Fuck you, you creepy fucking midget” I shouted through hails of derisive laughter as I slammed the door shut. The girls laughed with me and began to dance again.
I came back and stood at the edge of my living room watching Samantha dance. It was a sight to behold. She was really getting into it. She came over and started rubbing her ass on my leg (yeah, she’s a shorty). When she did, her best friend and my former failed hook up became noticeably angry on the couch. She got up and stormed off to my bathroom. When she left the room, I drew Samantha’s attention to the spot on my couch where the big girl had sat. There, on the couch cushion, in the shape of her ass sat a ring of half eaten potato chips, cupcake crumbs, spilled soda, and pieces of cheese from the snacks I had left out. It looked like a raccoon was building a fucking nest on my sofa.
Samantha then led me over to the couch, sat me down, and began to give me a private dance. She was wearing a short dress and as she moved to the beat of the music she was holding and flitting it up and down in her hands as she shook her hips. I LITERALLY stared into the eye of her vagina-storm. I mean, C’MON, if that’s not a green light to make a move, I don’t know what the fuck is. If I didn’t do SOMETHING, I’d be kicking myself in the nuts for the next year. The big girl came back into the room, sat in her couch nest and began talking with the two other girls. Samantha and I went into the kitchen for another drink.
We both drunkenly fumbled around the mess in my kitchen for another drink. We chatted as we listened to the music coming from the living room, and we went out on my balcony to have a cigarette. She looked incredible in that dress under the moon in the night air. We talked again about my search for a good date and her inability to find a decent man. It was that passive aggressive talk that we hope will lead to someone making a move. When we went back into my warm apartment, she closed the back door behind her and said in a sexy voice “Mike, I feel so good when I’m around you”. This was it, THIS was the moment. I would kiss her and we’d finally be on that road that I’d wanted to travel with her for months. I grabbed her by the shoulders, pushed her up against the door, and leaned in for the passionate kiss that would….
And then it happened. The most humiliating thing that can happen to a man.
As a guy, we sometimes have to take charge. Not in a rapey way, but we know that if we wait for a woman to make that first move, it might never happen. PLUS, women TELL us they want a ‘take charge’ kind of guy. They TELL us that it’s a turn on when a man makes the first move. However, when you’re drunk? All bets are fucking off.
As I leaned in, she put her hand on my chest, pushed me back, and said in a 1983 valley girl tone: “WE’RE just friends, LOSER!” Ok, she didn’t say ‘loser’, but she may as well have. Holy fuck. I just got the open palm chest push on a first kiss lean in (Or, the OPCP on a FKLI). EVERY impulse I’d been feeling in the past year to think that MAYBE I wasn’t as big a loser as I thought I was…died in that moment. It was having the ball swatted from your hand as you come 1 inch from the perfect slam dunk. It was having your brand new car stolen from a gas station because you left the keys in the ignition while you went in to grab a pack of gum. It was being caught masturbating by your mother. It was being fired from work for stealing. It was getting caught in a bold faced lie. It was a big plate of humble pie and I had to eat every fucking crumb of it.
What could I do? I went back into the living room and sat down on the couch. Samantha came in, and for some reason, sat next to me, leaned in and put her head on my chest. She wasn’t apologizing, but she was silently saying that it was ok. Well, when the big girl looked over and saw this, that was the end of the party. She angrily stood up and looked at us like a Rhino about to charge. “I have to go HOME now” she angrily proclaimed as she stomped to the front door, opened it, and stood like a pissed off mother waiting for her children to obey. The other girls looked at each other in shock, but because they’d all driven over together, they reluctantly got up and went to the door. Sam said goodnight and followed her friends out. To be honest, I was a tad relieved that they had all left because I felt so ashamed. But at the same time, being left alone with that moment playing over and over in my head was just as bad.
That is a feeling that takes a LONG time to go away. You never know WHEN it’s going to hit you, but you’ll be sitting on the toilet, or in the middle of dealing with a customer, or kicking a midget through a door way when BOOM! You’re mind, for NO reason at all, turns to that humiliating moment as a shudder of shame runs down your spine. Oofa.
Well? What are you gonna do? At least I tried.
Look, I’m certainly no one’s philosopher, but if I HAD to throw down some Socrates on yo ass? Well, as much as I hate bumper stickers, I think that the meaning of life is summed up on the back of a shitty 1983 Buick Regal somewhere…’shit happens’. Sometimes GOOD, sometimes bad, but always shit. There’s nothing specific about it, that’s why I love the use of the word ‘shit’ in that simple statement. ‘Shit’ can mean any fucking thing. Just found out your girlfriend is pregnant? Shit happens. Oooooh, NOW you find out that it’s not yours? Shit happens. Test results reveal that it IS your DNA so you dig around and find out that it’s your BROTHERS’! Shit happens. You go to work and, in a state of depression, get high while driving your pizza delivery truck? Shit happens. The forty cops lumbering behind you as you drove 2 miles an hour opened fire after discovering that you ONLY had 10 anchovy pizzas in the back and you successfully sue the department for 12 million? Shit happens. See? Even shit is cyclical.
One thing I DO know is that although we can’t always take control of the shit that happens to us, we CAN steer it. So, even though things didn’t quite work out with Samantha…I’ve decided to cut the wheel and make a hard fucking left into oncoming traffic. I’m sick of getting sideswiped by the assholes driving along side of me…I want to look that shit in the eye as I’m headed straight for it.
What makes ME dumb enough to think that I can alter the course of fate? Absolutely nothing. I have NO basis for making this life altering decision. I have no famous or rich friends who can influence people, I have a limited education, and most people think that I’m an asshole. What I DO have is a dream. My dream is that ONE day while I’m walking out of a titty bar, or as I’m pumping gas into my HUGE Chevy Dreadnaught SUV, or while I’m perusing the bestsellers at my local gay bookstore while wearing a hat pulled down tight and Groucho glasses with the fake nose and mustache so nobody will recognize me, SOMEONE will point at me and yell “HEY! You’re that ASSHOLE guy, right?”
As my popularity spreads, I will make the word ‘asshole’ my own. Mothers will put their kids down for the night by tucking them in, patting them on the head, and saying ‘goodnight asshole’ with affection. Coaches will tell their Special Olympic swim teams “Great job you bunch a assholes” with pride. And new couples will passionately look into each other’s eyes and say “you really are a fucking asshole” before they make love on top of each other. Under my thumb, asshole will become a term of endearment. It will no longer spawn bar fights or prison riots, but will induce the general public into making fun of each other without KNOWING that they are all making fun of each other…for MY amusement. I will be like the Emperor, and ‘asshole’ will be my Darth Vader. The asshole is STRONG in this one.
Well, it may not be an ATTAINABLE dream, but you gotta have something to strive for in life.
I’ve felt a bond with Samantha over the past year that I was foolishly hoping to take to another level. I own that. Even if SHE sexually attacked ME now, I don’t think that I could ever get complete hard on after that night, but she’s good people and I’ll go on pretending to care about her and her problems in the idiotic sub conscious hope that one day I’ll get a half chub handy. And even though fall will lead into winter and winter will bring with it the end of another insignificant year, I WILL have another Halloween party and THIS time? You mother fuckers better show up.
But, all joking aside, I know that I need to pimp my confidence. It’s up to me to find that space somewhere between complete fucking loser and being comfortable with myself. One has to be humble in the face of both humility AND success. It’s easy to sit back and let life happen to us, but when we do that, we only have ourselves to blame for the results. Take it back folks. Make life get down on its knees, stick its ass up in the air, and tell it not to move until YOU say it can.