Here's your sign
Something is wrong with me.
I mean, that goes without saying, obviously. But I don't mean like the usual, creepy, pathetic, whiney-assed way that you all are accustomed to. I mean I am sick.
No, not mentally. Fuckers!
I have been sicker over the past 3 or 4 years than I have in my entire life. I have no idea why. But it's getting to be really, really annoying.
All last week I was just exhausted. Like, falling over kind of exhausted. Over the weekend I slept a grand total of 24 hours.
And it didn't do any good.
Monday I called into work sick. Tuesday, too. Wednesday I was here, but not exactly in tip-top condition.
Today I had the shit from hell.
Yes, of course I'm going to tell you about it. What kind of blog do you think this is? I'm a naked man on a toilet sitting beside the fucking highway, for cryin' out loud.
It was one of those shits that leaves your entire ass covered in disgustingness, so that you almost need to wrap your entire arm in toilet paper just to reach back there without contaminating yourself. And even that wasn't enough. I was shit-covered from cheek-to-cheek. And it wasn't even an exploding poo session, either. It was just a regular poo. Or so I thought. Then it came time to wipe and I'm like dripping poo, as if someone had sprayed my entire ass with a poo hose. WTF????
Aaaaaaah ... shit!
I'm bumping into things. I'm falling down. I'm dropping things. I can't fucking type. I feel like the Rainman trying to drive Charlie Babbit's Buick Roadmaster or something.
Yeah, so I'm old enough to remember that movie. What of it? Fuck you if you don't remember it because you were born in the 1990s. You're probably still wearing diapers. Although to be fair, I probably should be, too, at this rate.
I'm sitting here sweating like a pig. It's not hot. It's actually kind of cool today. And here I am sweating up my polo shirt like some fat old balding loser who eats hot wings for breakfast and drinks beer as a 'health food' while his fat old wife screams at him to put some pants on because company is coming over.
My fucking shoe keeps coming untied. What is up with that?
One day you and I will be married
Last night I wrote an email to someone I mention so often here on my blog that everyone thinks I actually know her, stalk her, or might even be married to her. Some of you concerned citizens even write to her to warn her, "I think this guy in Memphis might be KUH-RAY-ZEE. Do you own a gun or anything because I'm worried for your safety." Yeah, I'm a real catch, don't you think? All poopie and stumbling and sweaty and wearing a stinky polo shirt and no pants and can't keep my shoes tied and living in a shithole city where our biggest star died sitting on the toilet with his tongue sticking out of his mouth and his pants around his ankles? My profile picture is ironically appropriate for Memphis when you consider that, ain't it?
Yup. Sho'nuff.
Hey look, it's Memphis Steve!
I was just sitting here contemplating my Loserness when this song suddenly popped into my head this morning. I haven't been able to shake it all day. I think it's oddly appropriate, though. It goes like this:
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel,
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so fuckin' special
But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here
I don't care if it hurts,
I wanna have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice
when I'm not around
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special
But I'm a creep
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here, ohhhh, ohhhh
She's running out again
She's running out
She run run run run...
run... run...
Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special
But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doin' here?
I don't belong here
I don't belong here...
Yeah, so apparently being sick and perpetually exhausted isn't exactly doing wonders for my self-esteem either. I get that. I just don't know what exactly to do about it. I might go see a doctor, but my doctor is rather old and drives a car exactly like my mom's. Sue me, but I don't have much faith in anyone who drives those things. I know, I know, that's rather prejudiced of me and all that. But it's how I feel.
Just as Memphis Steve reached Sydney harbor, an iceberg appeared from nowhere ...
Something tells me I'm not ever going to make it to Australia. I keep saving money and disasters keep popping up to burn that money up. My own mother sideswiped my car in her driveway. From front to back. Yeah, so she probably shouldn't be driving anymore. I get that. And she sure as hell shouldn't be driving a big-assed fucking Ford Police Interceptor Crown Victoria. That's a given. But I'd like to see you try to pry that driver's license out of her hand and see how far you get. She's Scotch-Irish. You have fun with that. Anyway, my pickup broke down. And my 4x4 needs 4 new tires. They cost $150 each. And thanks to a certain someone coming to visit me late at night after everyone has gone to bed I have to put some additional security up at my house, which costs and costs. And the list goes on.
Mom, put the radar gun away and stop harassing people.
So anyway, let's see if I can make it to the end of this week without dying or getting swine flu or something. It isn't looking good so far. If I can just avoid shitting my pants I suppose I should consider that a major victory.
You know what? Tonight I'm supposed to go out drinking with a beautiful girl I know. Maybe I'll try hitting on various women just to see if I get any responses worth blogging about, like a kick in the crotch or pepper spray down the pants or something. 'Cause you know what a ladies man I am, right? They can't resist me. Without using weapons anyway.
You have read this article creep /
loser /
poop /
sick /
stalker
with the title Play That Funky Music, White Boy. You can bookmark this page URL http://thebohemianbunny.blogspot.com/2009/10/play-that-funky-music-white-boy.html. Thanks!
