I admit it. My mind has been elsewhere. I am going on a fly fishing trip next week and I'm psyched. I'm going to have home base in Evanston, Wyoming. Because my Gilbert Grape Momma brother is tagging along, camping is difficult. So, we will have to commute to the Bear River every damn day, so I don't have to smell his three day funk--showers are a virtue. It got too hard for me to accommodate for him when I'd take him camping. Hell, my friends and I would just throw stuff together and sleep under the stars when we could, nothing fancy. My bro just can't swing it, so an inexpensive fishing trip is getting to be a pain in my wallet. Evanston is boring too. Well, you can go bet on the horse races, get illegal fireworks, and X Vision Video is always a good call for those who want a little "Hey Hey". I am semi-reformed, so none of that.
Well, that's that out of the way.
I voted on Wednesday for the passing of a bond (local school district). The voting machines were the new electronic ones. They had those things so screwed up. I was also treated to the local pitchfork brigade's seal of disapproval. I am unaffiliated, and when that was read out loud from my voter registration card, about three ladies fainted. I guess that not being a Republican is the equivalent of taking it up the ass from Satan around here.
I think I've ingested plutonium. I had some bad, er, bowel movements, and I swear it had green glowing bits in it, seriously! It looked like D-Con. Is someone trying to kill me with rat poison?
I smashed my hand the other day with a big mother of a hammer. You know, the mini-sledge? Not once, but three times in the same place. It hurts like a son-bitch! Grunt life is hard on the body. All these really physical jobs have given me a tough callous body, muscles, and lots of dirty jokes. It is also killing me. I feel like I've been run over by a Mack truck every morning, and I can see how easy it would be to get hooked on pain killers. I was so tired one night, that I went to bed covered in dried mud in my work clothes.
The movie "Office Space" paints a pretty picture of that kind of work--in the ending, but let me tell you this: besides certain things, it is a bitch to work in every kind of weather known to man, injuring yourself constantly, being around hazardous materials, being in dangerous situations, working with dangerous equipment, and being ridiculed if you have to take any time off for being sick or hurt. It's the culture. I have taken one sick day in two years. I have had just two and a half weeks vacation, total, in the past three years. I've had it, and no I don't want to talk about it. I've said what I've wanted to, and if I want to change my life, then I just have to go out there and do it myself.
It's like that saying, "You can't have a different outcome if you keep doing the same thing", or something like that. It's a cliche, but a good one.
My good friend, and cousin, is getting married on Friday. He's just a year older than I. He's going to have a happy life. I still can't visualize that kind of life for myself, yet. It's not like I don't want it. It's just that I don't picture it in my head. Total lie! I will be a great father and husband, but I'm in no hurry--despite the locals and their pitchforks. I just have little shit tizzies. The reality of divorce scares me to no end. I'm a spit hand shake, blood swearing, kind of guy. If someone is at all flaky, I still love them, but it makes me want to shake them and scream. I would make a great Free Mason. Any Masons out there wanna hook me up? My great uncle was a high ranking one. That counts for something, doesn't it?
I only would want to be a Free Mason so I could become a Shriner. It has been my childhood fantasy to wear a fez and drive a go-cart. You can blame it on all the damn parades my mom took me to growing up.
It sounded like I gave money-rich people a bad rap in my previous post. No, I feel that one can be rich in life, spirit, and family as well as the other. Enough is that point where you should be happy. This does not mean that more than enough is bad. I will never judge, but if you want to know what I'd do with Bill Gates type money, I'd try to be the first person on Mars. Selfish, huh? That kind of scratch wouldn't be enough, but I'd try.
I've lost a ton of weight, but women keep wanting to feed me. Well, what is it? You can't have a good fit Grunt and then buy him Olive Garden, bake him cookies, give me chocolate all the time, and then wash it down with Mountain Dew. My little fraternal harem of married, and or, older women are great. I don't mess around with them. If I become homeless, I know that they'll feed, colthe and shelter me. But, I really think that they don't want me to date the kinds of girls that I want--they want me all to themselves. This explains the whole fattening up scheme. I think I recently pissed one of them off. I'll have to see if they have any rat poison hidden somewhere.
Death by Woman. This is how I intend to die. Either by sex or delicious baked goods. Who wants to be the first to try to kill me? Email me if you're dying to kill me.
3 years ago