Intertubes of the Supermation InforHighway (AntiSocial Networking)

So, you may be one of those people who is like "Hey, look I bought a new plasma and I saved $50 and got a Best Buy giftcard for $10 and a coupon for 20% off Hannah Montana Crocs" rather than say "Hey, I just blew $7500 on a fucking TV." That would make you a glass half full person. I applaud you, but the glass is still half empty no matter how bad you deluse yourself in your own thoughts.

"Hugh, why do you bring it up?" you say.

Good question. I'm glad you asked. Well, social networking is becoming a big part of everyone's lives from ages six to sixty. There are the LinkedIns, The Myspaces, The facebooks, etc... People are twittering, doing status updates to let anyone in their social networking group know exactly what they are doing at all times. Now, is it a form of bragging or just simply information? Well, that's kind of the question, isn't it? Regardless, it's all very Two-Dot-Oh. (GF, seriously, this is the point where I was at when you sent that link.)

I mean it makes sense if someone goes missing. You can then check their status and be like "Oh, SoandSo was hating working an hour of overtime when they would rather be drinking your milkshake." Or, in the event of my own, you would be like "Oh, Hugh has been missing for a week because he was checksually stimulated even though it's horrible for the National economy." So, I guess there is Two-Dot-Value to it in the event that someone goes missing and you need a clue trail, but I'm not completely sold on it yet.

What I am sold on, came to me at about 2:34 AM last night. I'm not sure what woke me up, but in a late night text I half accused a personal ghost and then I was so tired I thought of how fucked up it would be if you did have a ghost and you were single and by yourself in your apartment. I mean, fuck!, like if you couldn't nuzzle in the crook of someone sleeping next to you when you thought there was a ghost in your room, it would just suck. This same train of thought lead to me tossing and turning until 5:30 AM when I just gave up and got up and walked around my apartment in my underwear aimlessly until I decided to take a shower and go to the dentist to get my toof fixed.

So, the idea was a version of a social network that could give a fuck less about what you like and focus on what you don't like. Instead of friends, you would add people that you didn't care for. Dick Cheney, Jack Johnson, Alan Alda, Mattew Modine, etc... You could add things that you aren't interested in, things that you are afraid of (clowns and bears and longterm relationships), foods that you don't like, sex acts that you try and avoid (choking), bands you hate, arch enemies, things that you would like to see burn, stuff you would like to see drown, things you wish never existed, books that you wouldn't wipe your ass with, take out food that you wouldn't feed a dog, smells that you dislike (microwave popcorn and microwaved fish), currencies that you find unfavorable and anything else like that.

Fuck half full and how many friends you have and what books you are reading and how compatible you are and songs you like and movies you like and things about you and your interests and what you are looking for and where you have been and what you are doing.

I want to see the other side. I want to know what things to avoid doing around you because they bug you. I want to know things that you don't want to talk about so that I don't talk about them. I want to get to know the darkness, hate and rage that lives inside you. I want to know things that you would like to destroy. I want to know that you hate me. I want to know that you want to burn the Osmonds, that you want to drown Ryan Seacrest and that you want to kick Miley Cyrus in the throat.

It's okay. Get it out there. You will feel much better once you have aired your dirty laundry. We all have it. We all have malice. We all get jealous. We all secretly wish bad things on others. We are all selfish children at our very cores and it's totally all right as long as you don't act on it. Instead, air it out. Put it out there and leave it to die in the Intertubes of the Supermation InforHighway.

So, there it is another million dollar idea from the HughVoltage think tank. Gotta go play GTA IV now. Totally gay for it.

Your New Favorite Band

Beatallica. Brilliant.

Update: I just listened to And I'm Evil by Beatallica and they are iPod worthy. Might want to keep it out of the shuffle, but there is a time and place for this. The Glen Danzig dude in And I'm Evil kills me. Also, the songs are full of subtle metal jokes.

S'Awesome Part XXII

Just when you think you have the best drinking story ever some asshole dresses up like Darth Vader and beats lightsaber wielding Star Wars Nerds with a metal crutch at a "Jedi Church." I'm envious of you and your shenanigarious ways and I salute you, "UK man."

Darth Vader Beats Up Star Wars Nerds.

Dr. Ink and The Time Log

I just used the word "Time Log" in an e-mail to someone and started laughing this morning. What the fuck is a time log? Is it some mystical, merliny, fuckin' Dungeons and Dragons tree branch that allows sorcerers to cast a time spell in LARP matches? Are they called matches? What would you call something where everyone gets dressed up in costumes and goes out into the forest with plastic swords and cardboard shields and ping pong balls and then actively pretends? Oh, shit I totally know what you call that - STUPID.

So, anyway, I'm adding a Time Log to my children's story about (inside joke alert) Dr. Ink Fast and his Dr. Ink Fast Crew. Dr. Ink is an octopus who walks upright on two legs and has a Ph.D in ball point pen production using reusable materials. He suffers an unmentionable accident while creating a new type of ball point pen and seeks vengeance against those that he feels caused his accident. By the end of the story he realizes that it was his fault the whole time and he totally blamed everyone else erroneously.

I haven't figured out if the time log will be Dr. Ink's adversary or some kind of secret weapon. Perhaps he can use the time log at the end of the book after he has made a mess of everything to go back in time and fix stuff. That will send a message to young children that it's okay if you fuck up real bad as long as you can go back in time and undo everything until your family starts slowly disappearing from a Polaroid picture because that is the true test in time travel. Never travel back in time without a polaroid picture of your family. Pro tip.

Declaration of Independent Wealth or Accept Me and My Monkey

It's colder than normal in the shadows this morning. It's just something that I noticed on the way in to work while I pondered what I would do if I suddenly became independently wealthy. I mean, I guess I could write a web page in PageMaker and use it as my record label headquarters and then tell people that I had a record label. Or, perhaps, I could just buy really expensive shoes and start throwing birthday parties for friends at nightclubs that I rent out and promote with misspelled handbills. Instead, I think I would probably just fight crime or what I perceive as crime.

I'd be like the misguided Greatest American Hero where I'm just kind of fighting crime. My arch enemy would be navy blue pleated pants. NBPP would lure me to a live taping of Wheel of Fortune at an Applebee's in Fresno where the live audience is made up of people doing word searches with Jack Johnson tour shirts on while they piped in music by The Eagles and it smelled like microwaved fish. As soon as I was lured into the place and realized what I was up against I would just put my hands up and say "Dude, you win. Seriously. I'm done." and escape to Mexico to give quad tours that I make up as I go.

Every HughVoltage quad tour would be different. Some days my pet monkey may be sick and we won't be able to do our prerehearsed banana trick to impress our customers. Other days, you may hear the story of the Mayan temple of Voltron about the five lions of Xialtan. Another day you may hear about how Steve Perry from Journey invented Unix programming code in his garage while recording Frontiers to facilitiate the use of photos in video game faces. Finally, one day I will probably tell my customers how I invented the Interrobang punctuation mark and also miniature golf. So, that's the plan. Just me and a monkey and a beard until I get old or Joan Wilder finds me and needs me to help her on her way to Cartegena to find her kidnapped sister and adventure along the way.

Man, that's not too bad of a plan if I'm ever fortunate enough to become independently wealthy. I suppose if I get off my ass on one of these Saturdays and invent adhesive cheese ("AdCheesive"), I could do just that, as well as revolutionize the art of burrito making. Square fuckin' tortillas wrapped like presents with AdCheesive. I've seen the future and it's beautiful.

I just wrote that during a WebEx. Multi-tasking - It's what's for breakfast.

Bi-Icarius

So, I try to keep the blog as honest and unincriminating as possible, so here it goes.

Since Easter some internal wiring has been crossed which caused me to ultimately fly a little too close to the sun (bender) last Sunday. Kind of appropriate, right? Sun and Sunday. I'm not sure I know what caused it, but most of the time even knowing why doesn't help at all.

My sister, in a Monday phone conversation, was like "What do we need to do to fix you?" and I could only respond that "It's not a switch or a simple solution. It's not a matter of taking a pill. It's not a matter of not getting enough vitamin D in my diet. It's something wrong that I need to work out and that's pretty much that." I could get into the tortured soul references and the self-hatred right here, but that's really last year's problem.

There is no easy way to go about it, but I do recognize that something is not quite right. The problem is that I've mastered the art of fakery and can convince almost anyone that I'm having a great time and the funniest man alive, but to each positive there is a negative and that stuff starts to build up in some horrible self-destructive stockpile that has to be let out at some time. It seems the longer I keep it hidden, the worse it is when it comes out and what makes it come out is gargantuan doses of booze which knock down the floodgates and result in me taking out whatever comes close. The good news is that then all of that stuff is gone, however, more than not it's replaced with regret and guilt and a pile of "Sorry Cards."

I met a girl once that said she didn't believe in regret or remorse. She had to have been lying or delusional. I'm pulling towards the delusional argument on that girl, but she was cute as hell. Just a little crazy and untruthful. She had a hankering for liquor store bought gay Mexican porn among other things, but she was one of the most beautiful girls I have ever met on the outside. Anyone would've fallen for it.

Anyway, a lot of reconstruction has been going on and a lot of way too deep and honest phone calls with family members that are covering some topics that no one should ever talk about and instead just leave buried. The mom and son talk covered areas that I don't ever want to go to again. I made her cry a lot. We have an interesting past for sure, but it's never good to make your mom cry. I'm 33 years old now and she is going to be 50 and we still haven't figured our shit out. I think it's about time for both of us to either let it go or deal with it. It's a really weird dynamic.

On top of that, it has been a parade of exes and pseudo exes that have just added to stirring the pot. It's been stirred in a nice atoney way, but nonetheless stirred. It's like that anxiety that you feel before an awesome event that you know is coming. It's not that different than the anxiety that you feel before something bad is going to happen. Excitement and dread look the same on paper. It's like how an intervention looks like a surprise birthday party through a sliding glass door or how crying looks like laughing from far away.

One girl, "The Girl," provided some humbling and appreciated semi-closure. I was shocked to receive an e-mail from her. SHOCKED. It brought up some stuff that I had kind of put to rest, though. A particular Minus The Bear song, a barely avoided misplaced car tire barreling down 101 that narrowly missed the car that we were driving in, the world's most disturbing family barbecue ever and the last lunch that we had where the writing was on the wall, but I refused to read it even though both parties having lunch must have known what was obvious. They are just memories. That's all. The connection was undeniable, though...at first. All's well that ends, though, and I really hope she is doing well. I really liked her a bunch, but I can vouch for myself and say that I wasn't even close to being able to handle anything in that situation and that there is no one to blame. Stuff happens the way it happens and sometimes it's supposed to happen that way. Kismet, if you will.

The other ex met me for lunch and gave me perspective on both how much of an asshole I can be and also what a good person I can be. I even tried to be her boyfriend for a little bit, but couldn't do it. Not boyfriend material or just scared of destroying something is kind of the issue about that. I look forward to having lunch with her now when she's in town because it just feels like a really good friendship once you remove the slumber party aspect from it and replace it with a sandwich or something. She's good people and I wholeheartedly support her new found relationship. She deserves it after dealing with what she had to deal with. I mean, if a girl ever punches you in the face in public, you probably hurt her feelings by saying something shitty or blocked her leg when she tried to kick you in the crotch for saying something shitty. Pro tip. Also, there is no such thing as sex without consequence and if you have found it, you are doing it wrong or with the wrong person. Pro tip II.

The other ex just ended up talking me off the ledge awhile back. She's doing well, too and I'm glad she is. She could tell you some stories definitely. She has seen it all when it comes to this bitch.

So, there is no reason for any of my close friends who read this to be scared or make some phone call to see if I'm doing okay. I'm doing fine. I'm just in some need of some remodeling of outlook. I'm starting very basic with eating and sleeping and hiding from wood consuming animals. Koalas will fuck you up. Don't be fooled by their cuddly appearance and I assure you that cute things that consume wood, but will fuck you up is no metaphor. I don't think life is really that diffficult, I just think that at times it can be taken too seriously. Also, everything is fine. Swear.

Like Rain on a Monday.

For the first year in three years, I think I can confidently say that I'm not going to do anything stupid on the night of my birthday. I'm going to go sit outside for ten minutes and just breathe before I go to bed to retain a sliver of my before bed cigarette. That's the motherfucker of all cigarettes when you are a borderline insomniac. It signals the end of your day to your brain and starts a slow shutdown. I've replaced that trigger with a book before and might just try Tylenol PM if I'm not asleep by 11:00 tonight. I have, however, managed to avoid Nicorette. The side effects freaked me out. Dizzyness and stomach ache will stop me from chewing on Nicorette, but lung cancer didn't seem to deter me at all from smoking.

As far as birthdays go, I'll take it. No one got fucked over. No one's feelings were hurt. No hangover tomorrow. My mom ended up flaking because she is on a detox fast and was just going to be there staring at me eat if we went out to dinner, so I told her to stay home. It reminded me of when I was 8 and she would forget to pick me up from school and I would have to walk. She was only 24 at the time, so I understand now, but as a kid it never really sat well and you never really forget it. That seems really young. Did I fabricate that memory? As a sidenote, if everything goes right, tomorrow will also be the first 4/18 in three years that I've made it to work. I believe they have a pool going at work on the subject.

I got home from work and had a nice package from a blog reader with some new music and a nice note. It was really good timing and her stuff makes it into my iPod really fast because it's a trusted source. It's not like when someone goes "Oh my god, you gotta hear this" and then puts on Black Eyed Peas and you've got to fake like you really like it because you want to wake up next to that person the next morning. Not that that's ever happened or anything, but I have Sara Bareilles in my iPod.

So, I messed around with my pudding pops and then did some iPod maintenance and ran to the store to pick up some tortellini, grapes, and a caesar salad. I also had to pick up my neighbor some laundry detergent because he kept on forgetting to buy it and was using mine all the time.

I know. Not a super awesome birthday and to be completely honest, it's the birthday night of some asshole in a movie that Steve Buscemi would play, but I'll take it. It's all part of Operation: Life Less Complicated. Also, the cake thing is going to make me laugh for a super long time. It's so...I don't know...perfect. Like rain and a flat tire on a Monday or a pink guitar on Christmas morning. Just perfect for the situation.

Pudding Pops: A Tutorial

The pudding pop has sadly disappeared, however, it is not forgotten. So, I made some the other night. I have a gang of pudding at home from an ex who went through a pudding phase and just had to go buy milk and a popsicle mold thing from Target. In the pic, you can see all my choices. I was very tempted to go with pistachio, but instead went with Banana Creme for some reason. I saved the flan for another day and another experiment called: Tripping The Light Flantastic. So, yeah, bowl, milk, pudding mix, wire whisk, mold and lots and lots of patience.



Okay. It's kinda gross seeing pudding in it's native habitat, but there it is. It reminds me of the band days a little bit and a picture of the black last supper, but that's a total inside joke.

Anyway, pudding begins life in powder form. When it is combined with milk and whisked it gets gooey and thick. Now...Let's fuckin' wire whisk.


















WOOHOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Action shot of whisking.



Look at the action blur on that whisking hand.

Whisk

Whisk

Whisk


For two minutes.








Next you fill the molds. You'll probably have some pudding left, but unless you like pudding, don't eat it.

I put some in a coffee cup and ate it while I was frozing and didn't really care for it.












There is the saddest freezer ever. You can see my store bought popsicles giving shit eye to the homemade ones.

My ice pack is also giving a tiny shout out there on the left. I'd be dead in the water without my ice pack. It's like my R2-D2. Like someday I'll be all "Be careful with that ice pack over there. We've been through a lot together."

I chose to froze them over night and it may have been too long, but I don't want to spoil the end for everyone.



The next day I pulled out the mold and started yanking on the stick and it wasn't budging. So, I did what anyone would do and used a butter knife as a lever to force the stick part out of the mold. Well, this just ripped the whole thing out and left the pudding part in the mold.

I hung my head and disappointedly put them back in the freezer while I tried to figure out what to do.







So, today, I was sitting at my coffee table going through mail and whatnot and I put the mold on the table to remind me that I'm a failure in being pudding popular and got distracted with something for a half hour and then went over and remembered the popsicles and just tried to pull one out and HOLY SHIT it came out. It was a fucking sword in the stone moment and I finally felt like the boy king of frozen confections that I thought I was.

Then the whole feeling went away when I took a bite out of it. Apparently, I was wrong and a boy king I was not.

It turns out that the pudding pops that are made at home are very susceptible to temperature. So, if you do try this at home. The key is patience and gut instinct.

Flan pops are the next experiment. I'll make sure I document it.

Y rthday

I just started laughing maniacally in my office due to utter eelarity.

So, it's my birthday today, which is historically disastrous. Whatever. I have faith in it being fine today. I'm bulletproof as if I was inebriated and being chased by SeaWorld police. I slept in an extra hour this morning to celebrate and almost didn't shave in observance of the day, but chickened out and shaved anyway.

I got dressed for work and walked around my apartment grabbing all matches and lighters and threw them in the garbage and then took a pack of Parliaments with six smokes left in the box and broke each of the cigarettes in half and threw them away in the most cliched fashion possible.

On the way to work, I stopped by Starbucks and got a non-fat vanilla latte as I sang "happy birthday to me" in my inside voice. The barista told me that she liked saying my name and said it like three times. That was the first time that had ever happened and I felt flattered.

So far, the day is absolutely fuckin' normal. Last year on my birthday I was a bottle of wine deep at this time and I don't even remember what went down...I remember. It was drunk at Nolas again with my family. That's for the local peeps. For the unlocals, it's a New Orleans themed restaurant with a bar that smells like vomit and Hurricanes that will take the paint off of a car. I swear. I drank two at one sitting once and it was such not a good idea. SUCH NOT A GOOD IDEA!

So, the funny Charlie Brown part of my day is the cake at the office. A woman's birthday was yesterday and they only used half the cake, so they are seriously going to roll out a cake that says:

Y

RTHDAY

It's fucking hilarious and made me start laughing. Oh, on top of that it was an ice cream cake that they put in the fridge. Seriously?!?! I really think I'm turning into some kind of fictitious character. This does not happen to normal people.

Fred Einaudi

Via the Drawn! blog here is a link to the work of Fred Einaudi. It messes with your head a bit, but it's really good while being a little disturbing at times.

Outgoing and Then Some.

I seriously just put this on my outgoing voicemail greeting and it's making me laugh way too hard. I had to listen to it again. The work people that call it might get freaked out a little bit.

"Hello. You've reached HughCentral.

All of our operators are currently busy with superimportant stuff and only two of them think your call is important to us.

If you are awesome, press 1

If you might be awesome, press 2

If you would like to learn the art of awesomenacity, stand on one leg and imagine you are a tomato with bat wings and press 3.

If you just did that you probably look hella dumb."

Really, I was proud of myself like a 12 year old next to the shitty mug he made in ceramics class for his mom. Maybe I'm less complex than I previously thought.

The Perfect Storm

I was talking to my stepbrother yesterday and he told me that my 21 year old sister had just got out of a three day stay in jail for missing her community service. They were never that rough on us in the Boy Scouts when it came to community service, but in a post 9/11 world, I suppose this is how it goes.

So, I went out for one of my last smokes and was talking to my neighbor and he goes "Oh, shit. It's your birthday this week? We should totally get you a stripper or two in your apartment." While I understand that it's a universal male code to like strippers, I'm not completely down with it as expressed in this blog before. Yes, I'm down with hot girls. Even hot girls covered in glitter that smell like pear lotion, but when anyone does anything under a false pretense; It's sad. I mean, if you want to give me a lap dance and then go to lunch, that's fine, but otherwise, I'm not into it.

I'm not just going to beat up strippers on this, though. It happens in real life, too, the whole false pretenses thing. I'm convinced that some people don't even know they're doing it. The human condition is just that fucked up.

So, anyway, it's the perfect storm because if my neighbors try to surprise me with a stripper, my mom will probably be over watching over me because I tend to do dumb stuff on my birthday because I still associate it with some bad shit subconciously. Dumb stuff being alcohol related obliteration or as it's known by it's street name "self-medication."

It would be like a horrible episode of Three's Company where Larry tries to surprise Jack and then Jack has to go meet a flight attendant at the Regal Begal so Janet wears a fake moustache and acts like Jack. I think that may be a real episode. Mr.Furley comes in in the last 5 minutes and wraps up the debacle and Larry gets the girl. Larry always gets the girl. Then, Jack walks in piss drunk without the flight attendant and ten Ketel and Sodas deep and tells everyone in the apartment to "Fuck Off" and falls asleep on the couch in his clothes. Then, Eddie Money walks in the front door and sings "Two Tickets to Paradise" for the TC gang and the credits roll. Wow! I just wrote my own custom episode of Three's Company. That's awesome. Maybe I will start writing them for others like caricatures.

Being smart this year and being a groundhog, though. It's taken a few stumbles, but I swear I learned this time. I even set a "quit date" for smoking of tomorrow and plan on chain smoking until then. I quit for two months last year and made the mistake of becoming involved with a fuckin' hobo drunk nut job that smoked when she drank. She left smokes at my apartment and tended to make things quite complicated and I found myself smoking after a while.

She was very cute, though and had really nice taste in dresses. She was a little too into PDAs, though and I think she may have affected my cool guy street cred a little bit. No life aspiration and some unresolved core issues, but very cute and watched soccer with me in my underwear the morning after our first date. That was probably my kryptonite on that one. Dammit, I got pwn3d. I've got to be smarter on shit like this. British accent? pwn3d. Smart? pwn3d. Likes my hair? pwn3d. Has good hair? pwn3d. I'm a big stupid man who falls for this shit. How many krypling kryptonites (alliterations are fun) can one person have? God, I feel stupid now.

Happy Hump Day.

This Is Dope

The Radiohead sample grabbed me and then I looked a bit closer and here it is. It's Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip and is a song called "Letter From God." It's kinda brilliant.



Enjoy!

Dear God

This is a cool new site that takes submissions from people revealing their innermost hopes and concerns addressed to a generic higher power for the most part. Seems like more of a way for people to get shit off their chest. I find it touching and disturbing at the same time. It's a lot like PostSecret, but a lot less cryptic for the most part.

It kind of makes me want to start the Dear Jesus Flying on a Unicorn site that would be geared to drug fueled hallucinogenic confessions/announcements, but who has the time to administrate a place for dudes on mushrooms to profess their love for their couch cushions while fighting with the equalizer on their stereo? Does sound entertaining, though.

Dear God
Oh God
Other Son of God - Jebus
The God Particle
Gear Dog

Here come the GoogleSearch JesusFreaks looking for their God in an algorithm created by two dudes from Stanford who then infused that algorithm with a revenue generating add-in to drive Internet traffic via advertising and search. Actually, I think "Tiny Horses" and "Centaur Penis" are still the number one search strings that drive traffic on this blog. I need to see if CentaurPenis@gmail.com is available.

How disappointed must the mythological fetishist be when he or she gets to this site and sees no centaur penises? It must be as big of a letdown as when I went to a restaurant called Illusions and found out it wasn't magic themed. I was fuckin' bummed. It was mediterranean cuisine. Shouldn't it be called Mediterrific or something like that?

Cocaine, Valium and Marijuana - It's What's For Dinner.

This news article from the Marin Independent Journal is hilarious. Area 51 Mission. Dudes like this make me feel like I've got a chance. Here is an excerpt:

"He was under the influence of cocaine, Valium and marijuana and stated that it was a top secret experiment with his doctor for Area 51 and the government," she added. "He also stated that he was working for a cure for AIDS by taking the drugs."

That is a rad dude. Misguided, but radical nonetheless.

New Saying

Just said this to someone at work:
"Dude, that's gayer than a rainbow with a moustache on roller blades."

Chewing The Fat

Holy Shit! I just read this article. "Fat Fucks Complain in Time Magazine." I seriously got angry. They are complaining about being discriminated against? Have you ever sat next to an obese person on an airplane? I've done it and I swear to god there was a cheese layer on the side of my body that could not avoid their planetlike gravity. I swear to fuck the woman was being orbited by two small moons. Then, when the flight attendant came around with nuts, it was on. It's not a fucking buffet, hon. That was the longest plane ride that I've ever been on where I was smashed up against the wall of the cabin.

So, wait. Time magazine is going to run this article on how fat people are discriminated upon? This is not an MLK, JR, Rosa Parks thing, dude. They're just fat and it's not fucking hereditary. I'll drink the Kool-Aid on the gay gene, but try and pour me a glass of obesity as hereditary and I'll throw the cup in your fuckin' face. The reason families are fat is because of horrible fucking parenting. Like, "Hey Jimmy, Happy Birthday. Let's go to Sonic and watch you take another step towards diabetes and heart disease and fitting into your mom's giant fuckin' tentlike underwear."

Dude, let's talk about discrimination towards smokers and those fuckers that cough when they walk by me. They cough while they roll a fucking stroller with four fucking kids in it. Should I pantomime horrible unprotected sex when they walk by to respond to that fuckin' lame cough? Aim for the face, fucker. The world is shrinking and we have no room for your fucking sanctity of life. Ooooooooooooh. You can have a fucking kid. Hobos can have fucking kids. White trash can have kids. Parents of serial killers can have kids. Osama Bin Laden was had by someone. Feel special now? Congrats, but it's not that big of a deal. I've spent the last 18 years trying not to. That's the hard part.

So, yeah, I need to quit smoking. Shit, I dated someone and they told me that I could only bag on fat people if I didn't smoke. Did I say dated? Haven't done that in two years. So, anyway, quitting in three days. I'm serious. The only reason is to better bag on obesity. My own private hell will be myself strapped to a chair at a buffet in Orlando while watching Wheel of Fortune. My god, that sounds awful.

Goddamn You Tay Zonday

22% Is Not That Bad

Ummmm, so yesterday was like the best pool day in two years. Not one Asian kid feigned a drowning and I had my iPod at the perfect volume to drown everything in the world out of my head. Yeah, the day started weird. Check this. It really happened.

I woke up at 8:00 AM and put a pot of perfect coffee on. The previous night I even bought half and half at the grocery store during my homemade pudding pop project. Sidenote: Flan pudding pops. I'm serious. I have all the materials, but totally lost interest Saturday night and then Sunday was a blur and is what I'm talking about right now, however it's going to happen. I will invent the flan pop. Take that Bill Cosby.

So, at 8:00 AM, I fire up my laptop and start auditing reports from work. I got through 58 out of 259. Not exactly stellar, but it took four hours. While I was doing it, my neighbor's kid walked in front of my sliding glass door and started pogo sticking for what felt like three hours. It's the most godawful sound you have ever heard. He's going through a thing where he calls me "Uncle Hugh" now and likes to attack me with lightsabers, play whiffle ball with me and also drive a remote control car repeatedly into my sliding glass door when I work after work. It scares the bejebus out of me, but I'm getting used to it. His dad gave me a chair for in front of my apartment and he walked up and said "That chair used to be my mom's. She died." Seriously?!?!?! So, the lil guy and I have talks sometimes. He's a really good kid, he's just a handful. He's been suburban camping lately in front of our apartments. I'm pretty sure a homeless guy is living in his tent about now.

So, after work, at about noon, I rolled out to the pool. It's straight up wife beater weather. I'm a huge fan of it. I laid by the pool for what was like five hours and drank about 12 beers. It was seriously the best pool day in two years. I'd occasionally field texts from the kickboxing, 112 pound girl from Friday night. We exchanged about 80 texts since Friday. I found out that she is serving community service for a felony, but chose not to ask her what she did. She has good taste in music and a good sense of humor. I think she's really young and lives with her parents, so totally my type. I'm like a hetero, non-child molesting Michael Jackson. Wait...that's just normal.

So, my neighbor invited me to a lobster dinner on him because I had achieved uncle status, but I told him that I was good by the pool falling asleep. So I slept listening to an awesome playlist and was jostled awake by my other neighbor when they got back. He let me know that I got some color. Everyone seemed like they were getting perpetually wasted. I knew that it was on when my one neighbor yelled "Where are the strippers?!" and I had to tell him to be quiet and quit being disrespectful, it's the only way that they know to make money and if he would like to be around the strippers he should go to the titty bar or leave dollar bills around his front door like Elliot did with Reese's Pieces in E.T.

So, after pitching the world's gnarliest knuckle ball while holding a beer and a smoke during a whiffle ball game against my neighbor's two kids, I found myself sitting in front of my apartment with the screen door open listening to Otis Redding with my shirt off. As white trash as it felt, it was a moment. I looked at my personal trainer neighbor that was about to fall into a gimlet coma and just let him know that "This was the shit, dude." It was seriously like the best pool day ever in an individual sense. I've had better pool days when I had a partner in crime, but as an individual, this was up there.

Brace yourself, it's going to be one of those weeks. I hate it.

Ad(vertisement)Justment

I often judge myself by the commercials that are aimed at me during television programs that I watch. Sometimes it's not very favorable for my self-esteem. For instance, I'm pretty sure that I suck at art and may have erectile dysfunction if these marketers are choosing their demographic correctly.

So this morning, I've been watching one of the most anticipated and what's turning out to be one of the best soccer matches of the year. Here is the list from half-time:

Half Time Commercials During Arsenal V. Manchester United (4/13/08)
Umbro
Corona Light
Garden State Life Insurance (Meredith Baxter, no Birnie)
DirectTV
Corona Light
Verizon Wireless
The Marines
Challenger British Soccer Champs
Wallbangers
Art Instruction School
Viagra (The Viva Viagra One)
Wire Transfer Service (Xoom.com)
International Calling Service (VIP Communications)
Perfect Pull Up (Perfect Pushup II?) "3 Exercises in one invention"

This list is actually better than normal because they aren't playing the male enhancement ads. Those were really having an effect on me. I almost went out and bought a Hummer to compensate.

Also, Lehman getting a card on a PK is one of the most awesome things ever even if Ronaldo (that bitch) hit two perfect PKs in a row.

Bounce With Me, Bounce With Me

Again, the nights don't cease to amaze me with their randomness. I went to a spontaneous retirement party for an old boss at work that turned into a roast of me once I sat down. Like I said before, I leave a mark on people. I had a few beers and then jumped on my bike to head home from work. Don't get excited. It's not a motorcycle. It's an old school Schwinn Heavy Duty that I enjoy cruising around on immensely, however, don't let it know, but I'm checking this out as a replacement rather than fixing my existing. It would take some customizations, though. I'd have to remove the hand brakes and freewheel so that it was a traditional fixie.

So, I'm on my bike and I stop by the bar that I drink at and grab an after work beer on a super nice Friday and am looking forward to going home and getting a little bit of work done before I watch Battlestar Galactica and go to bed at midnight. I'm lame and boring and I have plans.

As I'm sitting there I go have a smoke with a couple of the bartenders and they are stressed because they don't have a bouncer. I make eye contact and next thing you know, I'm on waters until 9:00 PM. Then, I'm sitting on a stool drinking Diet Cokes for five hours while I check IDs. These numbers went through my head all night: 4/11/87. Seriously, all night.

A couple pricks tried to sneak in while I was checking IDs and making small talk and it was awesome. All you have to do is sound mean and say "Hey Dickhead. Where's your ID?" and then they say "I don't have one" and you get to look at them and shake your head and just go "Seriously, dude. Seriously. Just go home, man." I was totally impersonating my dad when I had to lay down the law. It was rad.

Also, drunks like to talk. They will talk about anything. Their boyfriends, the stock market, punk rock donuts, metal, chess, your shoes, your hair...anything. At one point, I went and got my iPod and just listened to music while I nodded like I was listening to drunks. Some of the regulars would actually doubletake when they saw me on the door, too. One girl told me that she had never met me sober and that it was kind of intimidating. It really was like the ultimate revenge on debauchery. I was Bizarro-HughVoltage.

This one Russian girl (love the accent) came over while she was smoking and asked if she could hear what I was listening, too. I think it was "Poor Places" by Wilco. So, she starts groovin' to it a little bit and is really getting into it and then ends up listening to Force Seven (my old band) somehow. She starts humming along to one of the songs which is kind of weird because there is no way that she has ever heard the song, but she actually got it better than the original trumpet player played it. ZANG! Anyway, she gave me her e-mail after dancing in my personal space for a while. Then, another little kickboxing girl who I let punch me in the arm like twelve times gave me her number on her way out. Then, another girl asked if we could go home and cuddle after work. That was kinda weird. Do bouncers remind chicks of their dads or something?

Anyway, a lot of girls were coming in which creates a testosterone heavy atmosphere which concerned me a little bit because dudes get weird around a lot of girls and I get bloody noses around weird dudes occasionally. At about 1:30 I was pleasantly surprised, however, that only one dude had a real problem and just stood in front of me trying to creep in while I said "Not gonna happen, dude" over and over again without even looking at him. The disinterest defuses aggression, I swear. I think it also made him yell "busta" at a guy inside. Dude, did you not get the memo, playa? Nobody says "busta" anymore.

So, yeah, I was on my way home from work on my bike. Went to get a drink and ended up bouncing until close and then had to ride my bike home with no bike light at three in the morning and got to bed real late. Moral of the story? Making plans is simply a way that life has of fucking with you and setting you up for disappointment. Let life happen, don't make life happen.

UnRestroom

The continuing story of dysfunctional bathroom habits continues here at work. I don't get it, but it backs up my theory that success can be determined by proper potty training.

So, I'm in the bathroom urinating for the 27th time in the day from drinking massive water based mammal amounts of water. It's downstairs so I get my stairs in during the day even without the gym. Plus, I think the tough love is helping my foot heal. It felt like I caught it in a bear trap for a while. I was gimpy.

So, I look to my left because, seriously, my penis has been played out since college, and I see a newspaper laid out on the floor. It's a San Jose Mercury which I wouldn't line a litter box with if I was unfortunate enough to need to fill a gaping hole in my life with a creature that sucks my breath out of me while I sleep. I mean, if anything, a monkey or a killer whale, right?

I see something weird at this point and it's a dude's clenched fist on the floor and I'm thinking dude, that's a rough one, maybe you should go to the doctor. Then, I see his other fist clenched on the other side and his face like two inches from the page. In my mind, I'm going through all of the different positions that could possibly be going on in that stall like a porn movie choreographer in pre-production.

I mean, seriously, it's gross enough to use the bathrooms at work, anyway, but then add placing your hands on the disgusting tile and you've reached the pinnacle of disease and whatnot. Then, the face two inches from the floor is probably going to get you a staph infection.

It's the fucking basics of etiquette and co-existing with your fellow society members. Yeah, nobody likes to talk about going to the bathroom, but it's a pretty basic task and everyone does it. An outhouse in the middle of Lake Don Pedro can add some complexity, but with slight adjustments it can be done and yes, it's fucking necessary sometimes.

Anyway, just reporting back some of the fucked up shit that I have to deal with on a daily basis. I find it really unnecessary and wish some of these people could step it up a bit so I could have some "colleagues." I'm really missing my desk and "colleagues" at Arthur Andersen about now. In a parallel universe, I'd imagine, I'm really happy with a trophy wife that feigns love for me. Instead, I've got this fucking path written all over my face, staring at me in the mirror while I try to figure out if the eye twitch is from stress, disappointment or exhaustion. The hair looks good, though. Maybe I'm bald in the parallel universe. That could be the trade-off and one worth considering the value of. Hmmmm? Good hair or good life.

That's right, ladies. Still single.

Real conversation from this morning:
Co-Worker: "Hey, you know those creamer cups are recyclable."

Me: "Yep, but I don't really give a fuck. I'll watch you pull them out of the trash like an eco-hobo, though to support an eternal life and making the world last forever."

HughVoltage does not and will not play well with others before his first cup of coffee.

Hugh's (Imp)Lamenting

So, first off, there may have been a San Diego related shoe casualty. Should know by tonight, but will have to pull out the leather food and the shoe shining kit or go to the airport to get them shined. That's the only place I ever get my shoes shined.

Second off, it has recently been brought to my attention that I occasionally engage in games of chance against a rigged deck and loaded dice. I know better, but even when the dealer looks over to me and whispers "Dude, the game is rigged," I naively jump into the game thinking that there just may be a chance that I can beat the deck or the roll of dice. It's either brazen arrogance or misguided hope and faith.

Regardless, I lose. I'm not a sore loser at all and instead look for a silver lining in the form of an experience to file away and either remember wistfully or learn from. More often the latter doesn't stick, but like I said to a friend "If you throw enough pasta at the wall, it will stick and be done eventually, right?" He just responded that he had heard me say that before. He had.

After some introspecting, it may be a result of some good/bad advice delivered from an ex in the words of "You are a really good guy. You just need to open yourself up to someone at least once and you never do." It's really a question of timing. Every time I do, I take a pummeling and every time I don't, someone gets hurt and even hateful and malicious sometimes and then I feel remorse for what I did to them and question if I did actually care about them. It's a mindfuck.

Perhaps, against a standard deck these rules would apply or at least have a better chance, however, in my history, I do it on the wrong hands. Again, a question of timing. Eventually, it will work and to tell the truth, I take the blame. I've got work to do before I'm ready to ruin anyone else's life that puts trust in me. That's for damn sure, but it'd be nice to get a break and have a fair chance. I mean, christ, I see ugly people couple up. I see douche bags with hot girlfriends who are total dicks to them and just don't get it. Then again, it could be my standards. Again, taking the blame on that. All I need is a blonde girl who is super intelligent, hot and has a British accent. I'd even settle for a Welsh accent. Too much to ask?

I'll tell you what I don't want: your girlfriend or wife. I'm so over that shit. Why do girls do that? It just makes everything so complicated. Also, dudes shouldn't do it either. No one should do it. This coming from a guy who won't mix his food up on his dinner plate and will instead work around it eating it in modules. It's an anti object-oriented philosophy of eating. So, to apply that to life, I'd prefer something much more of a procedural philosophy than object-oriented dating. Files are meant to be shared, not people. That's for the nerds.

Yes, I've had a fair chance and blown it, but am doing my best to make some life changes so that when the opportunity arises I'll be ready. Waiting for something good to happen is kind of a dumb state of mind, though. Waiting, in general, is just a waste of time. Need to be a doer, not waiter.

Anyway, I did go to lunch with an ex yesterday who is now engaged and doing very well. I also have the respect for her current situation to remain hands-off, but still pick up the bill for lunch. She provides a lot of insight into how I got here while also giving me the opportunity for some minuscule amount of atonement. It's all I'll ever really be able to get. Even with an assistant, it would take me a while to work my way back to the origins of the darkness that lurked in my heart as a young man.

I'll admit, I do find pleasure in doing nice things for deserving individuals, however, I do find pleasure in verbally destroying those that deserve it, as well. I just need a few moments to find your center or your weakness and will work my way out of it until you've really grown to dislike my company in a social situation. It's your fault, though. Also, I'm working on knocking that bit out of my personality due to its unproductiveness outside of selfish entertainment. It would be nice to flip it and find the goodness rather than the weakness in others and expand on that. That's borderline idealism, though. It also opens yourself up to disappointment when you come up blank on the goodness in an individual.

So, again, got my markers out and staring at a pretty blank whiteboard trying to figure out what to implement next. I'm starting with a list on the right side of the board with a list of "Not-To-Dos" and will just work my way back. I also put a hand drawn penis on there, so I knew it was my list. Also, trust me, the "Not-To-Dos" list is fucking hilarious and most of it has already happened at least once. That's how you know not-to-do it. It's the multiple offenders that are the motherfuckers.

Brilliant

I was in La Jolla this weekend underwear shopping with a few women while we brunched and played hooky from the conference. So, we're in Victoria's Secret and I'm just kind of doing my thing and one of my "colleagues" is buying something and the sales clerk asks her if she would like to join the e-mailing list and she said "yeah." I then heard her give the girl my work e-mail address. I just got my first e-mail from them. Brilliant move, Breeder.

Now, the word "colleagues" has been trying to pry into my vernacular, but I really feel that it adds too much importance to co-workers. Plus, "colleagues" are like your peers, right? Like a jury, right? I don't want to think about that. It makes them sound like judgemental fuckers. Furthermore, I'd like to believe that my contemporaries are few and rare. That way, hopefully, when I find them I will appreciate them more.

Yeah, I'm starting to sound like a pretentious dick, but...I have no way to refute that.

Go See World...Blurrily.

This is a tough blog because I think it's in my best interest to keep somethings ambiguous and hypothetical, so everything following this sentence is going in a row in the spreadsheet with a column checked "Alleged" on the far right.

Allegedly, I piloted my car down the road of best intentions to the airport and got on a plane headed for San Diego after paying three dollars more for a double at 8:45 AM. So far, so good, right? I met a friend on the plane that was a real friend/colleague? and not one made spontaneously and we were on our way to a conference.

We land at the San Diego airport after listening to my playlist called "Music For Airplanes" which is a collection of the saddest songs that I've ever heard. Reason being, that I fly alone a lot and find solace in listening to really sad music around a bunch of strangers in a confined space. I'll admit that it's pretty weird, but it's what I do. It's either that or talk about some fuckin' ladies cat and a bunch of bullshit for an hour.

At the airport they managed to lose my colleague's bag so we had to go to a place called a CBO or something where I scolded my friend in front of the tense customer service associates by saying loud enough for them to hear that "Of course, your bag is going to be late if you put your vibrator in it." We, then took off to the hotel/resort that we were staying at and thought about catching a baseball game, but lack of initiative and the weather swayed our opinions.

Instead, we went to the hotel patio bar and saw how many empty lowballs I could stack vertically while giving the bartender a gang of shit about the cats that she owned. They were named "Sassy" and "Smudge."

The final number was a stack of 6 and a stack of 4. They were quite impressive and even the bartender started helping with it. Poor thing, I think I did turn on her, but she was a really good sport about it and even fired back a few things. So, this Brit expatriot and his girlfriend were sitting behind us and I had an Arsenal jersey on so we talked for a bit and then became friends. This is that other version of friends. The more spontaneous version. They were super cool people, though. So, they bought me a drink and we stayed for a while and another colleague showed up and we went mobile to watch some NCAA tournament.

We jump in a cab where I'm driving the cab driver crazy by intorducing her to words like "FuckDick" and then telling her that if she picks us up and gives us a ride home that I 'll let her give me bath. Apparently, it takes double digit vodka and sodas to flip the switch on and then break it so it won't turn off.

We get to a bar on the beach and it's packed with dudes in board shorts and tribal armband tattoos, but we meet dude's friends and they are all supercool, too. So, stuff is working out. We drink beers out of goblets and do a few reverse crunches on the picnic bench (well, I do) and then my colleagues snuck away because they were getting tore up and because they are way smarter than me.

Some dicks with a Sunderland fan get me backed up against a wall for wearing the Arsenal jersey and things are starting to get a little tense, but I manage to get the dude I was with to come talk about England as a distraction with the guy as I peel off to go drink some Red Bull blasters with some local chick. We started talking and then the dudes I was with came and got me because we were leaving. Local chick didn't want to go because "I like him, but I don't like that place you're going." That was nice of her to call me "Him." Then again, I may have introduced myself as Dan Diego. I kept doing that.

So, we end up at a burger place called Rocky's that was really cool and wound down the night over some Stellas. They dropped me off at my resort afterwards and then................Shit got fuckin' weird.

I started walking the wrong way towards my resort. Of course, unbeknownst to me in the state I was in. I came to a barrier in the road and jumped over it figuring that the resort I was going to would be behind it. This became a theme. Also, the fastest way to get from point A to point B is a straight line, right? That assumes that you are going the right direction, pro tip.

So anyway, to keep this short and unincriminating to some degree. I kept coming up to fences and hopping them. I then ended up in a weird place accidentally. It's a place that some of you who read this would know. Also, some of you who I drunk dialed from that place know exactly where it was. It was a very unique experience.

So, anyway, when I got to this place, I realized where I was by some of the more distinct features of the place. Then, four dudes with flashlights started running towards me and I split. It was a collection of more fences. Two fences of interest were the one that was six feet when I faced it and then when I got over the top of it, it was a twenty foot drop on the other side. Buwah-Buwah. I reached behind me and caught some chain link to slow down my fall and managed to mess up my foot and a bit. The debacle closed with the second fence of interest, a barbed wire fence that I used my pant leg to drag on the barbed wire to slow my fall down. That's MacGyver ninja shit right there.

So, I got out of the place of interest and found a guy who was fishing and gave him $20 to get me back to my resort. I was very tired at this point. He threw me into a truck with his wife and took me back to my resort where I happily searched for the bungalow that I was in for an hour.

The next night at the conference the story managed to make it through all of the people that I know at the conference and then also new ones. I must have been asked to tell the story fifteen times at the first cocktail reception and even got referred to as a conference legend now. That last part is kind of scary, though, because I'm pretty sure you've got to die to become a legend. It's part of the deal, right? The bar has been raised in conference shenaniganery. Sad part about that is that I set the same bar last year. Next year I'll wear a fake moustache and be all serious and boring.

Oh, that's the other thing. As I was leaving last night a small group of people lead by this woman asked me if I would be part of this advanced technical users group for the application. This after being Captain Derelict for most of the conference. Whatevs, I guess you can be smart and stupid in tandem. Who knew?

So, anyway, I could probably use a foot x-ray this week, but I'm going to see how icing it does. The rest of the cuts and bruises seem to be healing fine. Needless to say, I'm happy to be back home and in my bed and in the safety of solitude. An uneventful trip to the grocery store sounds pretty good right now.

Open Letter To Trader Joe's

Dear Trader Joe's,
You fucker. I depend on your pre-packaged and pre-prepared foods for sustenance. You see, I'm like an astronaut and need to have everything ready to go when I get hungry or tired. Uh, yeah, not a huge fan of astronaut ice cream, but meals that you just need to pour water on interest me. I won't lie.

So, regardless, your produce is divine and your organic peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies help me close down an enjoyable day. Your chipotle ranch fries are incredible and pair with turkey dogs like you would not believe. Your Dynamo Plus Calcium juice is seriously...Dude, I'm gay for it. I know it's RW Knudsen, too. I know that it's bottled in Chicoooooooooooooo, CA. I know that I have to make my own sparkling Dynamo by mixing a combination of Pelligrino and Dynamo now. I also know that I seriously would be dead if it weren't for Sparkling Dynamo in college when I interned at Knudsen. That was a fuckin' weird job, but free organic juice all day. Delicious.

Oh my god, Trader Joe's, I'm just blathering on to you and not getting to what I was here to talk about. Don't look at me like that, either. I have fucking feelings you know.

So, first, where the fuck are your rolled up tacos? They were so good and they haven't been in stores for like a month. Second, please figure out your BBQ Chicken Salad. There have been three iterations of it at this point. When I first got it there was one dressing container that contained ranch and bbq sauce or something. There was probably chipotle something in there. Whatever, I don't care. Anyway, then there were two containers in the salad container of dressing. I seriously said "What?!" out loud in my kitchen by myself. So, anywway, I got used to it. It was fine and then today at lunch, I go to the breakroom and make stupid fucking conversation while I prepare the salad and there is one container of something that I don't even know what it is because I felt compelled to write this letter to you before I ate the goddamn salad. I'm sure it's delicious, but I need stability like the people that work at your stores need weird forearm tattoos and piercings.

Oh, also, if you read this. Please tell the cat ladys with like no food in their carts and like ten bottles of wine to quit standing behind me in line and being weird. It ruins my shopping experience, but I know I have a chance with weird cat ladys that drink gangs of wine and don't eat. They also always seem to look the same. I wonder if it's a chicken and egg kinda thing. Like the cats sucking their breath out at night gives them that gaunt look or if they had the gaunt look and hole in their life and felt compelled to buy a cat. Now, Trader Joe's, isn't that a fuckin' conundrum?

So, anyway, thanks for all the years of reasonably priced goodness and health...and bananas. At nineteen cents each, I'm living like the king of all monkeys, motherfucker. Just tits up in bananas and loving it like King Kong.

Sincerely and with love,
Hugh Voltage
xoxoxoxo

Where The Fuck Is My Pencil?

Or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb.

In addition to having a stormtrooper on my bathroom sink by my toothbrush and a pencil sketch of Burt Reynolds above my kitchen sink, I have a few oddities or rather uniquities about me.

At work, when I write up a draft of anything or am writing code, I always use a number 3 pencil. They don't work on ScanTrons, you've been warned. I have a case of them. I'm not sure how many that is, but they all say [Hugh's Company] on them. Oooooh. I'm going to get some with my name on them or maybe just hand drawn dicks. I think I'll go with handdrawn dicks. God, they never get old, but I will admit that they look best on golfballs and golf scorecards. It's like guy getting kicked in the balls funny. Never gets old.

So, anyway, there's just something about using a good old fashioned fucking pencil. I've got mechanical ones. I've got pens. I'm actually a bit of a pen aficionado, to be completely honest. If you look up my Amazon.com wish list, which is kind of a life grocery list, you will see a box of pens on there. I seriously get semi-aroused when looking through the Corporate Express catalog. It's all about fucking highlighters, sharpies and the Uni Jet Stream in black ink, 0.7 gauge. That is a motherfucking pen that you would sleep with. It was where I graduated to from a Paper Mate Flex Grip. They are just a'ight. They are what you fill forms out at the doctor's office with. There is no elan about it. It's just not a writing experience.

Anyway, seriously, try getting back into pencils. Trust me, though, get a kick ass pencil sharpener first. A lot of people forget about that and end up using some fucking Chuck E. Cheese, 50 ticket sharpener and it just cheapens the experience.

It's Called Gratitude...

...and that's right!

Man, I'm weighed down by about 120 pounds of gratitude this morning. I should be regretful. Maybe sorrowful. Hmmm. I should feel like the loser king of the world. I should feel at least tired and hungover, but nothing.

So, Hugh? Did you lose your soul last night? Did you sprain your conscience last night? Did you leave your heart at the bar with your credit card? Are you just a terminally tortured soul? Are you Charlie Brown with a sense of humor? You fucking sad clown. (Thanks Pappy.)

None of that. I'm seriously the most fortunate fucker in this area code at the moment. I'll explain it all in a second, but first must address the fact that I could watch a genocide on closed circuit television and be less disturbed than watching fat people at a buffet. I have fucking issues, I know.

So, rolled in to work this morning at ten. I'm currently not wearing shoes and feel naively positive to the point that I'm waiting for a ninja to jump out of my drawer and jam a shuriken (ninja star) in my eye. It's one of those days. I woke up this morning and walked downtown. It takes 45 minutes. I never knew that before, but it's about 15 to 20 minutes too long for work shoes. We know that now.

Got downtown and texted a personal savior from last night and asked if she would like me to bring her coffee after I had missed her text about picking me up this morning. There is a New Pornographers lyric that goes like this "Two sips from the cup of human kindness/ and I'm shitfaced. Just laid to waste." Speaks volumes right now. Great song, though.

Knowing that you're stupid is the gateway drug to actually being stupid. Everyone is aware of that, but fuck, man. You've got to take the gloves off every once in a while to experience anything. You can experience life in your own emotional shark cage, but the shark bite is what makes life worth living, right?

Experiencing life will give you cramps and blisters, but at the end of the day, it's so worth it. Again, if you are in the back of a cop car with vomit in your lap, this does not apply. It's like an 80% rule. Like "Oh my god. I'm so fuckin' wasted...and I'll be your captain today as we fly into O'hare. It's noon local time and if you look out the window you should be able to see..." Not one of those moments either.

Oh, so before I woke up and right before I got to bed. A beautiful girl in an SLK saved my life as I was ready to sleep on someone's lawn lost deep in the bowels of the city that I live in. Fuck, that would have sucked much worse than my headache right now. Anyway, I think I told her this last night, but if not, she reads this sometimes, but I had kind of written her off in a respectful way last week due to a mental malfunction via Vicodin and massive amounts of booze.

It was for her sake not mine. I just didn't feel like she should waste her time with a wretch like me. Seriously, I have self-love issues. If you would like to join that club, send me a self-addressed stamped envelope and I will send you a signed document that states "Yes, I cannot foster relationships because I hate myself and self-destruct on a whim" and I'll send it to you. It's in the mail, Pinch.

Now, just prior to getting the ride from a saint in the church of Jauge, I was singing my ass off at karoke and drinking club sodas, but at some point threw the gloves off in the spirit of "Fuck It" the way I do. I'd be better off staying at home, but I get restless. The nail in my coffin in the last month, however, is that I've pretty much stopped eating. I seriously question whether I have an eating disorder or not. It makes no sense. Three years ago I was a fat fuck who could barely see his dick when he peed.

By the way, dudes, if this happens to you, don't even check the BMI scale. You are obese if this happens...and gross. You are a disservice to the opposite gender and if you do have a girlfriend or wife, get her pregnant before you start balding and she can leave you. You are fortunate and don't forget it and don't lick the whip cream off the stripper at the bachelor party. Obesely worship that person that sucks it up and sleeps with your fat ass every night or at least twice a week.

If your wife or girlfriend is overweight or just fat, then fuck it, go to Cheesecake Factory and eat some gigantuge portion of shit you shouldn't be eating and then go home and eat a bag of Doritos. If you're fat and she's fat, then fuck it. Put on sweat pants because you both have given up and are in the waiting room for heart disease and diabetes. This coming from a smoker, too.

Anyway, I've lost the enjoyment of food. Perhaps, someday I will find that person who enjoys going to a nice dinner or staying in and wrecking a Bon Appetit recipe, but for now, there is no enjoyment in culinary conquests because when I get done making something just fucking awesome, I'm the only one to enjoy it and I don't even like food, right?

I'm whining, whatevs. I'm not eating currently is the thing and it's a little scary. It's where I fuck up big. Go ahead. Try four Ketel and sodas on an empty stomach and let me know how that treats you. Then, try six. Some nights eight? It's not a happy ending. Well, at least not in the grand scheme of things. If you've been married for ten years, yeah, you'd love some of these nights.

Oh my god, the one where the girl goes "You work at [Hugh's company]?" and I roll off her friend and say "Yeah" and she goes "So does my husband." I look down at the jeans that I'm sleeping in and they are hers and wonder where it all went wrong, but to a married guy that would be awesome, right? I can't believe that actually happened. Seriously, fuck a dog. I think I need to adopt a small child to reel this disaster back in via responsibility for another living being.

So, what was I talking about? Whatever, I stamped trouble on an individual because I KNOW TROUBLE. It's in the eyes. You can see it if you look real deep in them. She's still trouble, but as long as I'm stupid, I guess everything will be fine.

Actually, I'm not stupid, just self-deprecating. I'm actually quite handsome, charming, intelligent and witty. Just had to state that for the record. Don't take the blog too seriously. It's pseudo-fiction. It could be a ruse. A handful of individuals (sounds like crotch grabbing) know what's right and wrong and actually socialize with this bag of issues that I see in the mirror everyday.

Conversation of the day yesterday:
Girl: "You have good hair. If I were older I would totally date you"

Me: "Seriously? If you were older, I don't know that I would date you, but if I got wasted enough I might have really sloppy desperate sex with you that was both unfulfilling and left us both questioning our existence afterwards with our backs to each other while we pretended to sleep. That's assuming you were older. As for right now, probably not."