A little bit of reality

In spite of the fact that I have a tendency to try to not entirely get too personal with what I write on my brog, there comes times in which frankly I don’t feel like there’s anyone I can really talk to and actually feel like I’m getting any modicum of empathy or support.  And I can’t really say that people are obligated to provide such, since we all have our own problems in our lives, and some most certainly more severe than others, especially compared to someone else’s problems.  I think we live in a pretty screwed up times right now, everyone is a little bit more jaded, everyone is a little bit more hardened, and it’s hard to be sympathetic towards others when the world around just ourselves isn’t entirely the best it could possibly be.

It’s times like this in which, where sometimes it really feels like all I can do to not feel so bottled up is to just write it out, throw it up on the brog, and leave it to random chance to who reads it or not, and whether or not they want to do their best impression of an ear to speak into, despite the fact that I’ll likely be writing out everything I’d be saying anyway.  Nobody wants accountability anyway, so there’s no obligation, and I don’t track who reads what I write, let alone sees or acknowledges that I write, because I’m long beyond the days of obsessively tracking hits and analytics, since I always felt that such research took something away from the exercise of simply writing.

For the past two years and change, my parents have been having some marital issues.  I’m old enough to understand the situation, and not fall into the clichéd fallacy of believing that it’s by any fault of my own or my sister’s, but it still doesn’t really make it any easier to know that the relationship between my own mother and father is deteriorating, and despite their bullshit claims, is not getting better.  At this point, for the sake of their sanity, as well as for my sister and I’s as well, divorce looks to be the best possible option, and it’s got to be pretty bad when divorce is seen as a positive option.

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Photos: Porkapalooza 2013

This past weekend, I made a brief trip up to Charlottesville to visit some friends.  On the docket was a trip into rural bumfuck Gordonsville, where they happened to have a pretty decent barbecue joint called The Barbecue Exchange, where they happened to be having their annual Porkapalooza event.  Basically, ten bucks, and as much bbq buffet as one can stomach.

In spite of snow flurries and actual freezing temperatures, it was a good occasion of eating pigs like pigs, as well as enjoying good company.  The quality of the bbq, despite being churned out quickly for buffet purposes, was still pretty good, and I liked their variety of sauces.  Their creative desserts were also almost all very good.

In terms of bang for buck, it really doesn’t get any better than this, so I’d have to say Porkapalooza was one fantastic event, and was a highlight of a pretty pleasant trip.

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Why would Ted DiBiase wrestle in his suit?

While at my parents’ house, I discovered that they had unearthed a lot of my old toys that still existed in the bowels of the basement, for my nephew to play with.  As much as my three-year old nephew was disinterested in a bunch of action figures that he had no idea of whom they were, I was just as ecstatic to take a trip down memory lane of the things I once shelled out money to buy and actually play with when I was still a kid.

Among these figures were all my old WWF action figures, and today’s post is going to be dedicated to just one of those figures: The Million Dollar Man, Ted DiBiase (series 2).

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Beware the road jaws

My friend and I were passing through Sterling when we saw the road jaws in the street.  Zig-zagged lanes for a brief stretch in the road, before everything went back to normal.  Naturally, this elicited a WTF reaction from me.

Was this the result of a drunk lane striper?  Was it trying to scare drivers for some reason?  All I knew is that it felt like the lanes were trying to eat us, and that we needed to get the fuck out of those lanes as soon as humanly possible.

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R.I.P. Springfield Mall, 2012

Around this time last year, I went to Springfield Mall, and took a stroll down memory lane. It wasn’t much of a stroll, because 70% of the mall was closed, and the whole place was this cemetery of drywall monuments, where all the stores were like tombs and mausoleums of what was once a bustling place of commerce and social gathering. But at least back in 2011, it was still a place where I could actually go inside, walk around, and reminisce about older times.

The photo above is Springfield Mall as of November 2012.

Springfield Mall, for all intents and purposes, is dead.

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I’m probably going to get killed by a brown recluse tonight

Since I was yet again unable to make it out of my personal purgatory, Washington Reagan National Airport, I’m stuck at my parents’ house for an extra night. I sat around for a few hours once again baffled at the endless array of employees putting their families through standby hell, unable to move up the list myself, before debating on whether or not to punt on the rest of the day and try to salvage some non-airport sanity and spend some time with the parents alternatively. When I saw a girl throw up directly into a trash can, I knew it was time to bail. I’m guessing she might have been preggers, but it also happened to be in front of McDonald’s.

Since if all went according to plan, I wouldn’t be here, I’m guessing this is the night one of the brown recluse spiders in the basement, kills me.

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If this is what I think it is

I don’t think I’m going to come to parents’ house, like ever again. I don’t even think I’m going to be sleeping in my old bedroom tonight, for that matter. Jesus Christ ain’t got nothing on this demon from hell.

Whether or not it was a brown recluse or not is irrelevant. I actually think it was one. Regardless, I still beat it to death from a safe distance, with a baseball bat. A metal one. Silverfish, deer crickets, spider-crickets, I can deal with those things. But brown recluses? With their poison that dissolves canyons into human flesh??? No way, no fucking way. I love my old bedroom and my old bed, but I’m having some serious second thoughts about sleeping in that potential death trap now.