Posts Tagged ‘boredom’

Depressurizing the Noggin

Posted: August 24, 2014 in Rant
Tags: , , ,

Well, half of my skull has business as usual– no issues no nothing.  The other half feels like I got cracked upside the head with Mr. Chin-Up-Bar.  I’ve hit this bastard with sinus meds, migraine meds, and comfort food.  Unfortunately, I can’t shake that bullet loose that’s keeping the cracks open– so let’s depressurize the whole thing with my favorite past time: venting!

Buckle up, this might get brutal.

HERE WE GO, BITCHES!

… and you all know I’m a mean motherfucker when I’ve got a headache.

Should I do a bullet list?  Yeah, why not, it’s not like I can be paid to give a rat’s ass right about now.  I’d bite the face off the Incredible Hulk if he made this headache worse.  I’d probably get utterly Loki-ed afterward, but after getting my head smashed– at least the headache would be gone.

  • If people spent as much time improving themselves as they do bitching about [insert popular -ism complaint here], maybe they’d make some actual fucking headway with life instead of sounding like a crybaby asshole.  Seriously, fecklessly trumpeted rhetoric is as useless as a dick on an air conditioner– and everyone is tired of hearing it.
  • This is the 21st fucking century; there are free literacy programs everywhere.  If you can’t read, you aren’t trying to learn.  If you aren’t trying to learn, go buy a Robin Williams Necktie and quit wasting space for everyone else.
  • I don’t believe that human life has intrinsic value.  I have an unhealthy contempt for humanity until I actually meet them face to face, and they prove they aren’t like the rest.  This may only take an initial “hello,” but without that differentiating moment– you can go skydiving without a parachute for all I care.  The only attention you’ll get from me is watching the splat video– after all, there are billions left to replace you.
  • There’s no difference between extreme-left libtards and extreme-right teabaggers…. except teabagging is fucking hilarious, so their “derisive” nickname is better.
  • Acceptance of willing/deliberate stupidity is the downfall of society.  Hooray for “no child left behind,” huh?
  • We need to legalize sword dueling.  Think about how much of the douchebag population would be dead inside of a week.  Not to mention– I’d rack up an impressive body count, and my stress levels would go through the floor.
  • People will not develop ambition when failure is rewarded.  Anyone who says otherwise is either incredibly stupid or mentally ill.  Nobody will try when they don’t have to.
  • Dudes should shut the fuck up about women’s reproductive issues.  Unless you’ve got a vag– the only opinion you have is the flavor you like best.
  • If the US Government spent half as much time and money on the American people as it does swinging its collective dick around the globe, social problems would actually be dealt with.  They aren’t because social problems are what keep the system moving.
  • Animal testing is obsolete– we have a lot of pedos and other violent sex offenders who should be experimented on instead.  At least that way we can get shit to the open market faster since we will know what the shit does to people from moment one.
Yeah.  Yeah I did.

On the upside, my headache’s all but gone.

Now… I feel a little better.  Depressurization goes a long way, right?

Unplug.

I’m sitting here, minding my own damn business, and my brain decides to take a little walk down Random Thought Boulevard.  I know, this is fucked up territory, so check it out.  My brain knows full well that this street’s poorly paved, overrun with seriously weird shit, and ultimately tees off on an Escher kind of level.  If that whole train of thought derailed on you, welcome to how my randomized brain works.  Now, throw being a little loaded on top of that.

This isn't half as weird as my day.  I saw a legit MCI phone bill today in the mail.

About to load your mind with fuck in three. two. one.

Back to being loaded, I’m sitting on my ass like a lazy pile of waste and surfing the same stupid pages I do every night.  I hop onto LinkedIn because I wasn’t kidding about that waste bit– and I hit this article.  I breezed through it until I happened to hit the last paragraph.  For those of you who aren’t going to waste your time on the unimportant sections of the article, here’s the part that blew my mind into the back of the fucking auditorium.

Remember that partitioning our lives and identities is a trap. When we segment and partition our lives into work life, home life, sporting life, community-service life, etc., we deny a truth that often our greatest strength comes from integrating all the different and diverse network interactions, and ideas into a unified and integrated whole. After all, the etymology of Integrity is from the Latin integer, meaning wholeness, or the unit of one.

Ready for the record scratch?  I deliberately taught myself to be very good at partitioning my life and personality, as well as tailoring the experience to the people I’m around.  It’s goddamn automatic for me.  If this assjack is right, I must be some kind of fucking sociopath.  Right?

I am either too wasted for this.... or not wasted enough.

Some of you shit your pants. Now see why I shat mine.

Let’s see, do I slip from situation to situation pretty seamlessly?  Yup.  Do I tend to curb parts of my personality depending on whose company I’m in?  That’s a big yup.  Is this precisely the kind of segmentation that Mr. Probably-not-PhD’d-in-This says is contrary to being a unified and integrated whole?  Damn skippy.  Does it change the fact that I have more integrity than most people?  Nope.  Guess that classifies me as more of a high-functioning sociopath… but still, I have to look at the facts.

Very little affects me.  I’m a shameless narcissist.  I have about as many “segments” to my personality as most chicks have shoes.  See where I started thinking too much?  I tend to relate to strangers more on a causality level than an empathetic one.  For example, I don’t punch stupid people because I’m too pretty for jail.  If something does somehow get to me, it’s like getting hit in the soul with a C-4 wrapped baseball bat.  I’m easily bored, yet easily obsessed.

Then I realized something else–
— I have no reason to trust a goddamn word that this goofy-looking motivational speaker has written.  It’s perfectly alright to compartmentalize, especially if you’re good at it.  Bottom line?  Always be yourself, but don’t fucking show your hand to everyone at the goddamn table.

… or I could just be a sociopath trying to justify himself.  (Which would actually defeat the clinical diagnosis, since justification is irrelevant to a true case.  Flawless victory for the powers of sarcasm!)

Unplug.

Happy freaking New Year, everyone!  It’s been awhile since I ranted and raved, but then again—it’s hard to find a well of creativity when you’re shell shocked at the end of every day.  However, now that the Christmas Chaos is all but over, I’ve had a chance to reflect on my lack of creativity and attention.  Moreover, having been exposed to all manners of human egocentrism (beyond what I see in the mirror every day), I decided to explode the concept.

Knuckle up, bitches, you’re about to get smacked with enough existential awesome to make you go full nihilist.

I'm about to intentionally mindfuck.

Seriously. Go get a drink. Reality’s about to warp.

The human desire for self-importance has always fascinated me, especially since I’m such a shameless narcissist. However, let’s put some spin on this.  What is a human being—in a biological sense?  We’re a collective of trillions of individual cells, each alive in their own sense. You’re not one, but many as one.  On top of that, you’re host to billions more organisms that aren’t even a part of the system—but live on/in you anyway.  You’re like a walking planet—so even if you’re a blubbering grab bag of genetic party favors—you’re still the world to a whole lot of shit you can’t even feel wriggling their lives away.

Not that you’d want to.

Face itching yet?  Just imagine what's living in your ass.

Every time I’m in the mood for genocide, I swab my face with rubbing alcohol. I only wish I could hear their screams.

Feeling good about yourself with that itty bitty crash course in microbiology?  Feeling more like a world unto yourself?  Well you shouldn’t.  Your national-debt-sized collective is one of several billion such collectives on the surface of the planet.  Technology and accomplishments aside, the whole of humanity seems kind of a big thing.

… until you realize that from a bio-mass standpoint, ants have us beat like a red headed stepchild.  Not to mention, they’re hungry and developing resistance to pesticides.

Better hope they don’t develop resistance to boots.

Notice how humans are lumped in with that little sliver for "mammals"

Even beaten by worms. Just remember that the next time you see the fantastic motorized landwhales at Wal-Mart.

Anyway, how’s that inflated sense of self-importance working for you?  If you were dreading that “but wait, there’s more” moment, hold on to your ass.  Not only are we the minority here, we’re a short lived one.  We all know life’s short, some shorter than others.  Since we’re going on a planetary scale, all of humanity has existed for a laughable fraction of the time the planet’s been here.  We’re talking ~200,000 years of shameless self-aggrandizement on the dingleberry end of 2.5+ billion years.  If you think you did anything worth a damn, that’s like pissing in the ocean and saying you made the motherfucker noticeably warmer.

Even makes your fails seem meaningless, doesn’t it?

Perspective done right.

How small do you feel right about now? Hint: not small enough.

I could pop this and go full galactic, to supercluster, then universe, then really go ridonculous with multiverse—but I feel like turning this bitch on its side before violating your think-jelly with it.  Yeah, we’ve juxtaposed big and small, long and short (yes, humanity is naught but a cosmic dick joke)—but that’s the “normal” order of things, right?

How can we define what’s normal?  We are apparently sentient collectives existing at the spinning, rocky bottom of a gas-filled gravity well that’s whizzing around an open fusion reactor that will eventually torch us in ways that will make Tsar Bomba look like a defective flashbulb.  Our definitions of permanence/importance, on a cosmic scale, are akin to a fruitfly’s concept of longevity.  Thank you, Douglas Adams, for the unique perspective.

Eat your heart out, Kanye.  No matter how big you think you’ve made it, you’re not even a fart in a hurricane.

Unplug.

Karma has a bizarre sense of humor.  You see, back in college, I had a litany of stereotypical “guy apartments.”  Yes, these bachelor pads were a vulgar display of foul– at least by my standards now.  Yeah, I’ve since discovered a rather hilarious side-effect of getting old.  You develop standards.

Either that, or you’re actually sober long enough to give a shit that you can’t find anything when you want it.

This was clean by our standards.  This was also not my apartment.

Cute little devil, wasn’t I? Behold a “clean” party pad.

So my living arrangements were less than what could be passed for as true grunge, but they definitely had their moments.  Naturally, my roomies and I became quite adept at a little game called trash can jenga.  In summer, few fucks were given over the game because who cares– but in winter?  That’s when shit got cut throat.

I, however, worked as a waiter… and as a bar tender… so on top of the inhuman skills developed as a TKE– I was also trained as a professional.  So I thought I was the best there was when it came to the game of games.  I actually thought I was in the top tier of all that played; all we dexterous slackers were on a previously unrealized level of skillful laziness.

Seriously, wastebin jenga is like bumper bowling-- hella fun, but impossible to suck at.

Hackneyed and amateur by the standards of old.

Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that Cortana, hands down, pwns me at this game with extreme prejudice and authority.  Consider the brain-poking madness of such unfathomed fuckery and hysterical karmic irony.  Granted, it isn’t taken to Olympic levels anymore– this isn’t college.  That’s not to say that the game still isn’t played, even if with more subtlety and maddening grace.

The moral of the story: even if for your own sanity, determine whether or not your mate is better than you are at trash can jenga.  Then determine if you are the one on carry-out detail.  If they are better than you, and you take it out– for the love of all that is boozoholic and sane…  realize that there is madness in your future.

… then again, I didn’t have too far to go in the first place.

Unplug.

If you’re scratching your head right now, the answer is yes:  I have once committed aggravated burger battery (with cheese).  That might also be synonymous with delivering cheeseburgers while intoxicated.  Yeah, there are too many freaking verb-adverb oddball combos to keep this theme (for now) so I guess I’ll roll onward before I get distracted and walk away from the keyboard.

It’s no secret that I am at the mercy of the heavily-insulated sociopaths that hold the keys to unemployment in this nation– you know, the HR “professionals” that hide behind automated “do-not-reply” email addresses while letting computer software inaccurately judge you.  For those of you who don’t speak rant-ese, that means I’m still shit out of luck when it comes to finding a job– and moving back to my original hometown to be with Cortana was about as helpful to the situation as throwing a guy in quicksand the other end of the rope.

That shit in mind–  I have found productive ways to cope.  However, you know what I miss most about gainful employment (you know, besides having even a false sense of purpose to accompany a paycheck)?  The ability to forget what a shit is– and subsequently how to give it– and do something irreverently stupid.  You know, for the lulz.

My weapon of choice.

Somewhere in Texas, I have a TKE little who is having a PTSD episode….

Yes, today’s episode is dedicated to irreverent stupidity without even a tip of the hat to ranting.  As for thoughtless shenanigans–  I miss them, dammit!  First off, I miss being out and sociable– because even though being a gym rat has its benefits– well…  there’s something delectable about stumbling into a house party after a long night out, and going all Bing Crosby on close friends with a bag-o-burgers’n’buns.

Ok ok, story time.  A few Homecomings ago, long before I met Cortana, I was out with my little (we’ll call her Trixie).  This is, of course, the same famous homecoming where we opened and closed the bar in the same day.  After that marathon drinking spree that would have killed most mere mortals– she and I ended up back at the TKE house.  Granted, the current chapter no longer has the house (big surprise!), but it was less than a block from Mickey D’s.

Pause for the cause, kids– it’s time for munchies.  Trixie wanted McD’s– and to my fuzzy recollection– I was all too happy to go face-in on a bag of over-processed deliciousness.  So I stumbled (yes, stumbled) to the Golden Arches, and returned with six cheeseburgers.  Trixie, however, was passed out after commandeering one of the undergrad brothers’ beds.

Don’t get any giggity thoughts, you freaks–  she was, and remained, fully clothed for the past-present-and-future of this tale.

You were waiting for it, I know it.

This is the only hidden innuendo.  …So far.

So there’s Trixie, semiconscious, and unwilling to even mouth the beef that she wanted me to bring to her.  So what do you do with a passed out chick who doesn’t want the beef?  If you happily shouted “Beat her with your sack!”   Well…  you may have more issues than I do.  Yes, in front of the undergrad bros– I took my three cheeseburgers out and proceeded to smack her with the bag.  She didn’t react.

I opened one of my scrumptious cheeseburgers, happily began noshing, and continued to smack Trixie with her treats until she finally got back with the party– amid raucous laughter.  Moral of the story?  After enough impacts from a full sack, she was thankful for the beef– and even the cheese.  Drinking munchies for the win, right Trixie?

You see, that’s what I miss.  I miss senseless, harmless stupidity that causes unforgettable laughter.  In short– obvious reasons for needing a job aside (liquid income, being productive, having a purpose, paying for our wedding that’s like three months away)…

I need a job so I can smack a bitch with a bag of cheeseburgers.

Is that so wrong?

Unplug.

Once upon a time, I had “normal” stresses.  In the time before I broke Jill, they were very simple.  You could even call them manageable.  “Why does my job suck?  Why did I go and get a degree to be a collections douche?   When will I find a break and get some writing published?”

For most of those questions, I didn’t have an answer.  That last one?  Yeah, that was a gimme– it’s because I haven’t really sent much out yet (and by “sent much out yet,” I mean tried twice and then got too busy working to do the proper research).  Boom.  Jill got broken, got reincarnated, and I got this little corner of the intarwebs to cope with the boredom.  It was a nice little package.  I’d grown accustomed to the stress profile, and for once– I felt stable.

This is saying a lot– for a card-carrying lunatic.

I <3 you, Hunter

There’s a fine line between brilliance and madness, and I’d like more opportunities to toe that line. The brilliant side, that is.

So after this little (ok, not so little) shake up, and in the wake of the Tough Mudder, I’ve found myself devoid of purpose.  There are few things that can drive me up a wall faster than lack of purpose, even if it is masquerading in the auspices of a dead-end job.  Having income is purpose, in the most basic sense of the concept.  Now, here I am, dealing with a serious headache and insomnia.  Leave it to me to ask the $64,000 question:  why?

Then it dawned on me.  As an unmedicated martini shaker of awesome and crazy, I tend to pick out patterns of behavior (aka symptoms) that tell me when I’m about to stop being fun.  This lovely tendency to bounce myself out into the third person often manifests as talking to myself— but it does allow me to pick up on red flags of things to come.  In this case, depression (cue ominous music).  I’ve walked down that road enough times in my early 20’s to know the early warning signs of the FML’s.

Let’s see… been pretty listless.  Yup, check.  Curtailed physical activity (Hell, all activity) also resulting in a reduction in caffeine intake.  Ditto.  Hey, there’s the source of the headache– withdrawals!   Hate those damn things.  Backtracking from the headache and racing mind, I got back to square one.

I need a friggin job

This breakdown is pretty crappy– and accurate. Now, let’s factor in how employers treat applicants like cattle. No, scratch that, hamburgers get served faster.

Could I step out and grab a throw-away job at Taco Hell or some other food mine?  Possibly, but it’d take a month to get hired– because employers are dicks (but that’s another rant entirely).  Not to mention, nothing reeks of fail more than a thirty-something working with a bunch of teens at a McJob.  Thanks but no thanks, I can flip myself off in the mirror without having to further defecate upon my bachelor’s degree.  Like many other graduates, I’m left asking myself, “I fought this hard for… this?!”

Damn right I did, and having that degree hanging on my wall only serves as a reminder that I need to stop accepting what comes my way– and find ways to get what I want.  No, scratch that, make that need— borderline deserve.

For now, however, there’s only so much I can do at 2am.  So here I sit, after having murdered my caffeine-withrdawal headache with Excedrine, a complete insomniac.  My mind finally figured out why I’ve lacked even the motivation to work out in between application after resume after application.  Yeah, chew on that one, the narcissist didn’t even want to do a single push up.  This, coming from a guy who loves being a gym rat.

Now the fun part of managing my imbalances with naught but my iron will (and sometimes beer):  once I’ve identified what’s making me into something I can’t stand—  I can snap manic.  It’s akin to bottoming out, but without the whole “bottom” part.  Screw that noise, especially when the chemicals in my head like to play with each other in ways others don’t.

It’s just like the adage says, “Some people suffer from insanity.  I enjoy every minute of it.”  Well, to say “every” might be a touch of a lie, but I’d hate more to be boring.

Unplug.

And so it came to pass, the final week of Jill’s confinement is nigh.  I’ve sacrificed the majority of Summer 2011 (and more) solely in the name of healing.  At least that’s what I keep telling myself, but I’ve never taken well to brainwashing– self-imposed or otherwise.  I’d make a great deep-cover spy, in that respect.  Regardless, one basement-bound summer down, September 1 is a mere three days away, and you bet your sweet ass that I’m excited to get use of my elbow back (at very least).   The cliched light at the end of the tunnel sure isn’t freedom.  Looking at this objectively, I really don’t know what’s going to happen on Thursday– beyond cracking Jill out of her fiberglass prison.  For all I know, the doc could be slapping me into another cast.  If that’s the verdict, I’m going to be one pissed off unit.  In the past month and a half of gimptacular goodness– I have gained an unfathomable amount of respect for amputees, stroke victims, and any others who lose usage of an arm/hand (dominant or not).  I really don’t need to say much more.

Important segue aside, I have plans to jump into a pool, or at very least a hot tub, this coming weekend.  Doc and I will have a wee discussion about putting another cast on me, or at very least a swimmer’s cast.  If I’m medically ordered to be off until November 1, he had better not expect me to sit my fat ass on the couch any longer.  Why?  I put on 20 pounds in a month and a half.  I told you, I don’t halfass anything…  I’ve got two asses!  Anyway, considering my armchair obsession with being a walking embodiment of awesome, this full-arm cast has way overstayed its welcome.

Ok, that’s as close to whiny emo as I get.  My hair’s too curly, skin too naturally olive, and I’m flat-out too classy for that kind of non-funny self-deprecation.  Back to releasing Jill from her now-well-tattooed cast.  All ulterior motives aside, I’m more excited than a drunk freshman on a date with the campus slut.  Although I will miss fingerbanging my cast with rapid gusto, I’m actually excited for kamakaze dieting and working out.

In masochistic pre-celebration of this, I’m planning to actually video the unveiling with my hacked-to-bejesus android.  So yes, my monumental date will be recorded in full HD, for those of you with computers that can handle hi-res shenanigans.  Unfortunately, I am not of that lot, so the next step will involve a deal with Mephistopheles himself–  I’ll have to use a freaking Mac.  It’s not mine, since I am opposed to Trashintoss (because it’s the precursor to Skynet).  Anyway, all brand prejudices and commentary aside, I will be posting the first (and probably only) video to the ol’ blog:  the opening of Jill’s tomb.

So I ask you, my handful of readers–  help me with a choice.  I’m going to rip the music track from either of two movies to commemorate the next step in my rehabilitation.  Either I will continue with the whole Zombie Jill thing, and rip the sequence from Evil Dead 2…  

Or, I can do something a little more entertaining (to me at least).

Faces shall melt.

.. and we call all revel in the glory of my head exploding when I see how puny and putrid my first love has become.

So, for those of you paying attention, I pose to you a conundrum—  do I continue the theme, or does Dr. Jones (and equally importantly, John Williams) get the nod?

I leave this choice up to my readers because, well, I’m too preoccupied with plotting my vacation…

Unplug.