It’s been an eventful weekend, which saw going to a smoky club for a fundraiser, where art was made, people threatening to hook from ceilings, and some METAL where I was more intrigued by the light-changing box that looked precariously like a grill that changed colors. My sister also came down, bringing my darling nephew, and we went to the aquarium, among other little activities.
Instead of going straight to bed, I instead have this compulsion to write. These are the times in which writing can be a little precarious, because the tone is often on the somber side, and I’ll be the first to admit that there’s a lean towards slightly disappointing on my thought process right about now.
I know some pretty decent folks in my little life down here in Atlanta. We do things together, gather for trivia on a mostly weekly basis, have occasional parties, and I’m more than willing to lend helping hands to whomever of these may need one. I like most of them very well, and I know that the feeling is mutual. However, I’m often under reminder to myself, that I don’t really have a lot in common with my frequent company down here, and it often leads to droughts of silence on my end, when I have pretty much nothing to contribute to a group setting.
Upon departure from my friends, I often sit in the silence of my car, and thoughts like these often times pervade my head. It’s not that I’m necessarily a quiet person in general, but if I have nothing to contribute to a conversation, I’d prefer to stay away; listen and try and pick up on things, sure, but risk sounding ignorant, disingenuous, or bored, I’d rather not do. I don’t have the same interests or hobbies as anyone down here really, I’m not interested in gossip, and what I do for a living isn’t interesting to anyone, nor is it remotely recognizable beyond an “oh hey, I have seen that before” kind of mannerism. I can’t always say I’m always interested in what other people do for a living, nor educated in certain talents or comprehensions to where I could hold my own in a casual conversation. Furthermore, when things tend to get louder in a bustling environment, I simply grow agitated and exasperated with the difficulty it is to simply hold common communication sometimes. Then silence ensues.
I really do enjoy the company of others, but I’m kind of pissed at myself for being able to genuinely take part of it sometimes. I look back at a lot of the gatherings where sure, I do have fond memories of, but I’m coming to the disheartening conclusion that a lot of those times, I was drunk, and I apparently didn’t give a fuck about holding my tongue, or risking looking dumber than I already was while inebriated. At that point, Drunk Danny is now a good story to tell in the future.
But then I ask myself, if I were capable of handling myself in a more interactive manner, would anyone care of what I’d have to say? When the numbers increase, my voice becomes drowned out, and it feels like even more of a futile effort to be heard sometimes. I guess what all of these words are amounting to is that there are times in which I just don’t believe that my friends down here, simply don’t think I’m a very interesting person. I don’t have many of the same interests, my love of sports is often met with ridicule and mockery, and I often get the impression that my intelligence in select topics isn’t regarded very highly. I’m an artist by trade, but it’s like when it comes to my opinion on the artistic, you’d be better off asking an invalid.
Personally, I don’t think I’m a particularly interesting person sometimes, aside from the slightly abnormal thought processes, kind of morbid sense of humor, and tendencies to over-think things from time to time. But I grow to dislike the feeling of irrelevance sometimes. I’m the most important person in the world when anyone needs my specific services or expertise, but most times else, I’m the guy in the background who seems to only really be fascinating when drunk.
This is why writing is therapeutic to me. To those who choose to read my words, my voice can’t be muted. It may sound like your own voice in your own head, but they’re my words, and my thoughts. The funny thing is that I’m astute to the fact that not a very good number of people read my ramblings. My site is awesome after an event or a gathering where I had my camera, because everyone likes to see pictures of themselves, or people doing stupid shit. But does anyone really stick around to indulge in my passion of writing? Maybe a few. Maybe they’re the ones who’ve always been interested. Maybe not.
In the long run, and even the short run, it doesn’t really matter. But here’s a little bit of truth in my writing – there are occasionally times like this in which I will jot and share my thoughts down, that I’d otherwise not share with people in private conversation. Not Jen, not my family, not my closest friends. It’s presumed that I’ll simply just talk about the shit I’d brog about, so there’s no point in dropping by. There’s a level of candor that I’m just not comfortable discussing with others, so I put the writing on the wall, and leave it to anonymous chance. Some will give a shit, some won’t. Some simply won’t even know. It doesn’t really matter. Tomorrow’s a new day, and feelings subside in time.
I think Animal Hoarders is seriously one of my favorite shows of all time.
Nothing represents America better than to have a day recognizing Moloch, the Prince of Hell, taker of children, he who demands endless human sacrifice, and the original and almighty entity behind all human evil. What, you don’t know what I’m talking about? MLK day?
“There’s the M, what’s left of it. And the L, and the K.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Deborah demanded.
“Moloch,” I said, feeling a small irrational chill just saying the word here in the bright sunshine. I tried to shake it off, but a feeling of uneasiness stayed behind. “Aramaic has no vowels. So MLK spells Moloch.”
“Or milk,” Deborah said.
“Really, Debs, if you think our killer would tattoo milk on his neck, you need a nap.”
Oh, the perils of misinterpretation. Considering Moloch is just a little bit older than Martin Luther King, Jr., it’s safe to conclude that he is the rightful owner of the clump of letters known as MLK. I’ve accepted who the true MLK is since reading Dexter in the Dark, and I’d implore that everyone, moving forward do the same as well. Until lazy linguists specifically clarify that the third Monday of every January is the recognized Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, anytime anyone boasts how they have MLK Day off, I have to assume they’re celebrating the Prince of Hell, Moloch’s Day.
I swear, it’s like the plot of Rocky III. Rocky has been fighting scrubs for so long that when Clubber Lang comes along, he gets owned. Since Christmas, there has been such an influx of scrubs playing L4D that my brother and I have been getting a little soft. Apparently last night was Clubber Lang night, and every match we seemed to play in was four Clubber Langs versus the two of us, and naturally, two scrubs who have no real talent at the game, resulting in us getting targeted and annihilated pretty much every match. Needless to say, after a while, I begin to get a little frustrated.
A compulsion I have when playing L4D is that I often times look at the profiles of the people I’m playing with/against, when waiting for load screens, or during spawn time waits. The game channels out my inner-ADD apparently. During one of the games in which we were getting bested, I glanced at the profile of one of the people we were playing with, and interestingly enough, in his profile was boasting about how he was a Microsoft employee, who worked on the Kinect, as well as the XBOX version of MSN Messenger. Furthermore, his profile had a little digital watermark above it with “Project Kinect” behind his peripheral information, giving him designation from the rest of us plebeians. Additionally, his profile smugly boasted “I only accept friend requests from people I know.”
As a player, XBOX Employee wasn’t bad at the game, maybe a little too rogue for my liking. However, the fourth player on our team was the typical scrub who completely bogged down the team altogether, and was primarily responsible for our downfall in the first two rounds. Naturally, such results leads to the democratic desire to alleviate the team of such dead weight, prompting my brother and I to vote out the carcass. Upon bringing up the vote screen, XBOX Employee consistently voted no, leaving the result as an unsuccessful stalemate, drawing my ire. Eventually, after consistent losing thanks to retaining a heavy ballast, the dead weight finally left on their own accord.
I thought to myself “maybe we shouldn’t vote the XBOX Employee, he might have some mythical employee powers to smite us later,” but by the time the thought was done my brother had already pulled up the vote screen. Without any hesitation, the thought was discarded, and I hit the start button, and the Smarmy XBOX Employee was unmercifully kicked from the game, just like any other pleeb and scrub we’ve disposed of like garbage.
Nobody fucks with our zbs. Nobody.
There’s a time in every man’s (or woman’s) life where they watch something very graphic, disturbing, unusual (usually some fucked-up porn), and they can’t take their eyes off of it. And when it’s finally over, the man stands up and then realizes that he has, an erection (women, the horny equivalent). Despite the unfathomable visuals just seen, somewhere, unconsciously, it appeals to some deep-down carnal, primal desires, manifesting into an unexpected arousal.
I call bullshit to anyone I know who says this has never happened to them.
Today, jupe sends me this link for this video of Four Loko Chili. And watching through this abomination creation and subsequent consumption of this dietary nightmare, my mind was telling me “jesus christ” but my stomach was letting me know that somewhere in my digestive system, is a food boner popping up. Deep down, I want to be friends with these guys so I could partake in such epic culinary creations.
It’s not even the fact that Four Loko is mentioned in this that made it interesting, in fact, I could very well do without any more Four Loko in my entire life for the matter. But everything prior to the incorporation of the Four Loko would be something I would totally be down trying, and willing to stuff my face with. It’s completely the opposite direction that any normal human being should be headed, but I find that eventually, the food boner must be dealt with.
Officially, with today nixed as well, Mother Nature has taken a net of $1,200 out of my pocket this week. It’s ironic how as children, we love the snow, and want nothing more than snow days to cancel school, and give us days off, but are completely oblivious to the grownups, whom like me, need it to not snow, so that they can work, in order to make a living and keep a roof over their heads. As one with grownup responsibilities and concerns, I can sufficiently say, fuck snow days.
At least over the weekend, it is expected to surpass the 40F degree mark, meaning all this bloody ice all across Atlanta has a chance to actually melt now, and I’ve been informed that work is back on, as of Monday; it’s good/bad news, in that regard because bad, that this place doesn’t have off for Moloch, Jr. Day, but good, because I’m sick of not fucking working, and I can springboard that into a nice, full 40-hour work week. The whole situation was kind of what I predicted; the roadways might have been mostly cleaned up, but the side streets to get to the office, and most importantly the mostly-covered, shaded, wooded parking lot of this place that is on several natural layers of hills, stairs, and asphalt had to have been turned into a parking lot of death through much of this week. It’s slightly different than having to park on the curb when the driveway is too icy to traverse, because at this place of work, there is no metaphoric curb, or remotely close location to park and walk to the building – just hills. And death.
In a twist of irony, I found another job lead that I think I could possibly get my foot in the door with – because I’ve been there before, as a freelancer. Meaning, if I were to apply with this company, there’s about a 100% chance that the agency that initially placed me there for a paltry seven cumulative working days is going to c-block the whole thing by demanding a finder’s fee. But I have to try anyway.
