I need a meal plan

I've been at home all day. I went to bed last night before midnight and got up about 10:00, expecting to spend the majority of my day catching up on mandatory reading. I'm still feeling the effects of this past week's procrastination, and I don't intend to re-live that episode anytime soon. So I made up my mind that I was going to be caught up going into next week and had every intention of doing just that.

Despite my plan, my day has generally been consumed with phone calls and emails. I've called or received calls from five different co-workers today. My wife has called. Two of my brothers have called. And one of my buddies has called. Twice. When I haven't been on the phone, I've been emailing people within my department. Between trying to coordinate the schedule for the Writing Center during the summer (which is actually becoming finalized due to my efforts over the past week) as well as conversing with folks about EGAD (our English graduate organization of which I have assumed power), it's been a busy fucking day. So busy in fact that lunch didn't happen until about 2:30 and amounted to two corn dogs which I shared with my son. So much for getting shit done.

My wife and children will be leaving for Wichita Falls this evening due to her grandmother's recent fall and hospitalization. She's a really sweet lady, but I think I'll pass on a weekend of sitting around there with the in-laws. With that in mind, I've had several options open up for me this weekend, and I'm currently trying to figure out what I'll be doing. First of all, Sinthia called (it's got a good ring to it, doesn't it?) and wanted to gather some of the troops for a get-together after this asswhip of a week. It sounds like a good idea. T has already made plans with the love of his life, so he's out, but I think E and A-train are good to go. The Goose is currently AWOL, and by now we're all getting the sense that he just doesn't want to consume mass quantities of alcohol with us anymore. Perhaps the Little Rock trip was a little too much for him. I can only assume that one of the other three on the trip may have gotten a little handsy with him and made him a little uncomfortable. I just hope it wasn't me.

My oldest brother called and requested help texturing the walls at his newly-acquired house. I told him I might try to get out there tomorrow to show him how to do it. Still not decided about that, though.

My buddy wants to get together and watch cars turn left on Sunday, though I think he would probably have liked to get together sooner to drink some beer. That could still happen.

My other brother has been confined to his house since his wife wrecked her car. She's had his truck, leaving him bored and under house-arrest for the last two weeks. I should probably rescue him sometime this weekend. If not, I'm afraid I'll stop by for a visit and he'll be wearing an apron and eye-shadow due to the constant stress of the ever-changing power dynamic within his home.

This is the best thing I've eaten today. And I used to live off these, especially back when I was a single man. I can remember working the early shift (4-9 am) at UPS--every day I would get home and shower, then play video games until 11:00, at which time I would cook two of these in order to feed my ravenous appetite. Of course, this schedule only existed during the summer, since the fall and spring involved my horrible and somewhat failed attempt at undergraduate work.
Speaking of which, I was thinking as I sat here gorging myself on the crispiness of this meaty and cheesy delight (I actually ate Combination, but who fucking cares, right?)--thinking about shit I used to eat when I was younger, early twenties and shit. It reminded me of something that happened to me a long time ago.

Once upon a time, I was the President of a social fraternity, specifically Kappa Alpha Order (pledge Fall '94). We were one of the few fraternities with an actual house--most of the other ones just met in a fucking pasture or some other nonsense. The house itself is set up in a square shape, complete with a courtyard in the middle. The house contained several different areas: The chapter room had a pool table, we had a separate office area, another nicer area (where I first found out my girlfriend/wife was pregnant), six bedrooms, five bathrooms, and a full kitchen. Since this is an eating story, it is only natural to assume that the kitchen would be the place it would occur. Generally, though, everyone kept their food in their own rooms--anything left up front was fair game. Most people had a microwave, refrigerator, etc. in their rooms (by the way, it was always two guys to a room). Anyway, one bright, sunny morning, I got up -----okay, that's bullshit. What really happened was that I had been up all fucking night drinking (surprisingly), and about seven in the morning, I had an extreme case of the munchies.

Now, most people don't know this about me (though I would assume that some might guess), but I don't cook much. Call me old-fashioned or whatever, but I was raised in a household where the women did the cooking while the men did other "manly" shit. Anyway. I'm not trying to get into a sexist thing here, but I do not like to cook. Not that I can't or that I haven't--it's just a matter of following directions anyway, and any fucking knucklehead can do that. But I just don't like cooking. My wife could tell you that I could starve to death with a pantry full of food simply because I'm too damned lazy to put some chili in a fucking bowl and heat it up. I kid you not. As I've gotten older, I do cook myself breakfast every once in a while if my wife's not here, but only breakfast. If it's past noon, I am not standing in front of the stove. But back to the story.

It's seven in the morning, the sun is coming up, the fucking birds are chirping loud than a bitch, and I'm hungry as a motherfucker. And I want some fucking pancakes. And I did have some fucking Bisquick handy and a bottle of syrup. So it was about to be pancake time. But being without the necessary implements in my room, I was forced to move it up front to the main kitchen. Picture me half drunk with a fucking skillet going, mixing my batter and all of that other crap and I'm pouring my batter into the skillet and I'm making some beautiful, round pancakes. I'm flipping 'em like a pro. The problem was that I could only do about two at a time. Being that I was "hungry as a motherfucker" as previously noted, I felt that two just were not going to do the trick. So I put two on a paper plate, covered it with a paper towel, and placed it inside the microwave in order to keep them warm. I cook two more and put them on the plate as well. By this time, my batter was beginning to run out, so I began frying the last two, my stomach growling in anticipation. I was just so fucking hungry.

As I'm watching the bubbles rise and pop on my pancakes, I look over toward the microwave to check the time. I knew it was getting early, and I probably had class, but I never really went, so why I decided to check the time I'll never know. Anyway, I look at the time and it's suddenly difficult to make out. I do wear glasses, but none of the coke bottle variety. I can see close up without them. But the time on the microwave, well, it looked weird. I moved in a little closer and what did I see?

A fucking roach crawling inside the place where the digital readout is.

"Aww, fuck!!" I yelled, tearing open the door to the microwave and whisking the paper towel off the top. And my plate, with four fucking pancakes--the ones that I made because I was so fucking hungry--the shit I made even though I fucking hate to cook, what did I see on it? About 15 of those little sonofabitches crawling all over them, with their beady little eyes mocking me as they pranced around on my fluffy brown pancakes, their little roach mouths smiling as though they had just encountered the fucking breakfast buffet at Shoney's. By this time, I was fucking hungry and furious. I called those little bastards every name in the book as I grabbed my plate out of that den of disease, all the while the pesky critters were fucking with me, crawling on my hands and wrists, trying to trick me into surrendering my hard-earned breakfast. Fucking roaches creep me out--spiders, moths, flies, snakes, other miscellaneous vermin, they don't bother me--when I get a roach on me, though, you will see me jump around like a little bitch. It's not that I'm scared of them. They are filthy and gross. I detest them.

So I sling the paper plate onto the counter and all of the little bastards high-tail it to one corner or another. So I'm just sitting there, staring at that plate of light, fluffy pancakes, trying to decide what to do. As much as I hated the idea of eating food that had just been covered with roaches, at the same time I hated to throw away food that I had spent the morning cooking. I must have sat there for a good twenty minutes.

Then my stomach grumbled.

Hi, my name's Jeremy, and I'm a fucking dumbass

A post from another blog reminded me of the greatness of my all-time favorite movie. For those of you who have not seen it, I highly recommend it. In a nutshell, the film is about a decorated war hero who has a bit of a problem with authority. He finds himself working on a prison chain gang from which he escapes several times. It's got just enough humor in it to make you laugh a bit, and enough disappointment to make you a little sad. But it's all about non-conformity. Of all the movies I've ever seen, perhaps no character is simply as cool as Luke. I don't have many man-crushes, but Paul Newman is the shit. Cool Hand Luke is the guy that guys would like to be.

Unfortunately, this is more the way I'm feeling at the moment, with George Kennedy (aka Dragline) representing the graduate school and the massive workload that I've been fighting all week. As you can tell by the pic, Luke is getting his ass kicked. But even though he goes down about twenty times, he keeps getting back up. I only hope I have that same fortitude.













I received some bad news via email today regarding my submission to the South Central MLA conference. I was denied. It probably wouldn't bother me too much, except that I thought it was a pretty good paper. Anyway, it turns out that they are only putting ONE panel together (I misread it earlier today) and they received over 25 submissions for the panel. I'm sure my standing as a graduate student didn't do me any favors. The panel chair said that they could have put together four or five really good panels, but I guess there just wasn't room. Needless to say, I hope the conference is a failure and that the hotel catches fire. Okay, not really, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little bitter. Fuck it--Life goes on.
Right now, I'm just beginning to work on my research proposal for American Lit. I do have an idea of what I want to do, but I can't say I'm all that enthusiastic about it. I have received a ton of help from my friends and colleagues (thanks for the stuff on the short story/composite novel, A-train). But it is 11:30, and I haven't read or looked up much of anything. Generally I don't wait until the last minute to start when I have research to do beforehand, but I kept finding better things to do than busy myself with this process. On the bright side, I did get a pretty good nap today from about 4-7 this afternoon/evening. So what did I do after that? Well, naturally, I watched the first two episodes of The Sopranos (courtesy of Rick) and the lastest edition of Lost. Which leaves me sitting at the computer after 11:00 with jack-diddley-shit done. So despite the difficulty of the week, I was able to take a break today and relax and enjoy myself a bit. I even took my wife's advice and had lunch today, which is something I'm often not able to make time for. I only wish I could work out my schedule so that I could do it everyday, but what do you do? Life is just too fucking busy, and there's always something else I should be doing.

I will likely be back on later . . . but for now, I've gotta seriously get this shit started.

*************Update*********
It's about 2 am, and I haven't written a single word. Nor have I done any more research for Dickinson tomorrow. I think I may do my paper on Hemingway. I feel pretty good about that. He's a hell of a lot more interesting to me than fucking Gertie. But I'm going to bed. Hopefully I can find time tomorrow afternoon to get this shit done. Until tomorrow, then.

Scratch what I said yesterday (Updates)

Things have gotten considerably worse, starting last night when I realized the mountain of crap that I must overcome tonight. This is what's on my shitty list for the evening:

• Eng 201: Prepare some type of lesson plan for Emily Dickinson and Theodore Roethke. Due Tuesday.
  
• Eng 201: Prepare an assignment which involves the students determining whether or not their favorite song is/is not poetry. Due Tuesday.
  
• Eng 676: Prepare a presentation for a review of a composition book. And maybe write a paper? Due Tuesday.
  
• Eng 526: Read secondary material for Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. Due Tuesday.
  
• Eng 526: Write a 4-5 page journal over the play and the secondary reading material. Due Tuesday.
  
• Eat dinner at some point in the evening. It seems that inserting food in my mouth has become a tiresome activity, neither exciting nor intriguing.
  
• Eng 521: Research paper proposal for Am. Lit.--probably something over Gertrude Stein and the short story cycle. Due Thursday.
  
• Eng 521: Prepare annotated bibliography on Edith Wharton (vomit!!) for next week (Since this is due later on, it seems rather presumptuous for me to even pretend that I'll work on this anytime this month).

It seems that all of my positive-ness has been sucked right out of my lifeforce. As much as I require a certain amount of pressure to actually accomplish any academic task, I think I may have bitten off a bit more than I can chew today. It is likely that the 521 crap will wait until Wednesday, as will my need for sleep. Maybe I can just find a nice, soft place to take a nap somewhere Wednesday afternoon. Hopefully, it won't be in my truck as I'm driving 75 mph on I-30. Sleep will be haunting me the next few days--this will be more of a self-induced insomnia. Wish me luck. I'll probably re-post later, just to take a break from scholarly activities.

**********Update****************
Well, it's just past ten o'clock and I've made some limited progress. I've gotten the majority of the book review finished and have written most of my letter of recommendation for one of the faculty. My Shakespeare is still not done, but I really shouldn't bitch about that. It turns out that I didn't get all of the reading. I'm sure it was an honest mistake by my friend and not some subconscious way of "sticking it to the man," though I still contend that she enjoys inconveniencing me from time to time. Either way it was very kind of her to make the copies for me. There E --- I do say nice things about you.
On another note, a colleague of mine in the WC had a very amusing comment today at work. I was discussing college basketball with The Goose, and she made the statement that I was "a man." At first I was a bit confused, thinking that somehow my sexual identity had somehow been misinterpreted for these last nine months. I immediately began thinking up ways to further illustrate my manhood--I thought wearing low-cut V-neck shirts to show off my hairy chest might do the trick. Or maybe wearing tight sleeveless shirts to show off the powerful biceps. Anyway, I digress . . .
What I believe she was referring to was my interest in stereotypical male entertainment, namely sports and all that implies. Apparently, I have become no more to her than the typical testosterone driven male. And all this time I considered myself to be sweet and sensitive. Perhaps she may login sometime (she does read occasionally) and clarify this issue. I just hate being pigeonholed, though I believe she meant the comment to be a compliment? A-train, what was your take?

Things are better today than . . . ever?

During my conversation with my dad yesterday, I was asked the very generic "how are things going" question that generally provides me the excuse to say "fine" or some other unremarkable answer. But as I started to reply, I paused for a moment before responding.
"You know, Dad," I began, "this is probably the best year I've had out of the last ten. Last year at this time I was afraid I was going to die, and the same can be said of 2004. This year has been better than the last, and last year was better than the one before. I can honestly say I'm probably happier now than at any time I can remember, except for maybe parts of my childhood. So it's nice to be able to say that things are getting better."
He just kinda sat there and nodded. "Well," he said, "not too many people can say that."
"No, they can't."

I'm quite sure that most people would probably gasp at the thought that I consider myself to be quite happy, especially considering the rants which frequent this blog. Some people know a few things about my troubled past, most probably don't . . . or they've only heard rumors. I've thought about posting on some of the things which tend to plague my psyche, real shit, not the stuff I fabricate--but I probably never will because I think it would make some people a bit uncomfortable, myself included. And though I'm not particularly thankful to TGLJC for these things, they have certainly molded me into the man that I am today.

For example, I used to have a really shitty job. It was one of those jobs where you go to interview because you want to do something different or maybe you feel a little trapped wherever you are currently employed. Such is how it was with me. I was working as an assistant manager at Winn-Dixie, working alternating shifts and making about twelve bucks an hour. But the scheduling sucked and I barely saw anyone or could do anything because I lived in that bitch on weekends. Realizing that any further advancement would probably only occur after the deaths of those above me, I resolved to spare their lives and try to find some other means of gainful employment.
After being offered jobs with several different companies, I decided to go with a national rent-to-own chain, mainly because they stressed rapid advancement and paid about two dollars more an hour. The man who interviewed me was so impressed with my initial interview and Wonderlic score that I was immediately given all of the tests required for management which included about six hours worth of personality and intelligence tests. The personality test was perhaps the most bothersome, since they wanted to know so many details about my sex life, whether or not I had ever wanted to kill someone, and if I had homosexual thoughts. Very fucking bizarre.

Anyway, I take this job, spend a week watching those dumb-ass training films and soon enough I'm out delivering furniture and stereos to the most economically-impoverished community in the Dallas metroplex. My grandfather used to laugh and shake his head in amazement whenever he asked me about my job, always saying that someday I would wind up on the news in some gruesome story of murder. Besides delivering goods, I also spent a good deal of time on the phone calling delinquent accounts. Sometimes up to twenty times a day, leaving messages that became more and more unfriendly as the day progressed. If they still didn't bring me my money, it was time to hit the streets--just me, a list of past-due accounts and an empty delivery truck. It's really quite hilarious as I recall those days. We were forced to wear slacks and a white dress shirt and tie--and in Texas, that is not a good or comfortable combination, especially when it's about 100 degrees outside and you're lugging a fucking sleeper sofa down three flights of stairs. Keep in mind also, that I'm only about 5'10", 150 pounds and white. Regardless of all that, when the workday was winding up for most people, I was going from one shitty section 8 apartment complex to the next, determined to either get my money or get my shit.

I couldn't tell you how many times, in searching for a customer, I would walk up a flight of stairs past some really dirty guy that always would say--"They ain't home." I probably heard that shit about a million times. "Well, I'll see about that" was my usual response. Upon finding the apartment, I would knock politely once or twice and wait. There were always things to look for when scoping out the customer hiding in her apartment(sometimes it was him, but it was usually a her). First, after knocking, it is important to look at the peephole. You cannot see anything inside the room, but you can see if someone comes to the door, peeps through, and then walks away because you can generally see light coming from the other side of the door. When that light disappears briefly, then comes right back, you know someone's home. Other sure signs are the sound of a TV clicking off, or noisy children. And you always had to watch the blinds--people love peeking through blinds. So what do you do? They're inside with your shit that they're not paying for, nor will they call you to set up any type of payment arrangements. What would you do, do you think? Or better yet, what would Jesi do?

This is what I would do.
I usually began to beat on the door hard enough to shake the hinges. Not with your knuckles--that hurts--but with underside of your fist, like you might beat on a table. After you do this for about a good minute or two, then you start being really loud and obnoxious. "HELLO!! MRS. JACKSON!! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!! WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO STEAL MY MERCHANDISE?" Of course, they are not deaf and you know that they can hear you, but what you really want to do is make sure the neighbors hear you. You want to piss them off. They will be mad at you and hate you, but they will also give your customer shit because they are tired of hearing the fucking repo man "ACTING A FOOL" where they live. At this point, the old man on the stairs would then yell up, "I already told you they ain't home, man!" To which I would cheerfully reply that I knew someone was in there because I saw them. "Oh, well maybe they is home then," he would say as he bummed a smoke from you then wandered off.

The response that you got from such tactics varied. Sometimes you got nothing. Sometimes I knew they were probably sprawled all over that rented mattress doing Jesi only knows what to some other equally disgusting person while I banged away like a grandfather clock stuck at twelve. Sometimes they would call the store and ask to speak to the manager (the irony here is that for a good period of my time there, I was the manager). Sometimes they would yell obsenities through the door. That always made me laugh. Sometimes they threatened to kick my ass. Sometimes that was funny, sometimes it was a bit spooky, particularly when it was already pitch-black outside and you were stuck in the ghetto by yourself. Sometimes, they opened the door up, and cursed at me to come in and get my shit because it never worked right any way (simply a way to justify returning the merchandise). Or sometimes they would act meek as a little lamb and were very embarassed. It was not terribly fun, but it could certainly be exciting at times.

I did this for about four or five years until I was fortunate enough to go back to school. So even though I'm simply writing all this down to keep from reading this book or work on that assignment, grad school is a much better (and safer) career choice. And I like it. And it likes me. And that makes me all warm and fuzzy. Sure, the money sucks, but at least I don't have to jeopardize my existence just to fulfill my job requirements.

There's nothing like a shitty job in the past to make you appreciate the one you've got now, right?

Soccer games, nagging, and farming adventures

Well, it's Saturday afternoon. And today hasn't been horrible really, but it has been a complete beating. After a two hour softball practice last night, my family and I drove back out to my mom's so that my daughter could attend her cousin's pre-birthday party slumber party, since she had a game during the actual party (does that make sense?). Maybe it was just me, but I really don't think so. Anyway, my wife has been in a really pissy mood--not at me--but just bickering at the kids. And when she gets going, she's like the fucking Energizer bunny . . .just going . . .and going . . .and going. Usually, in times such as these, I will calmly say my wife's name in a very low tone of voice so that she is aware that she is really doing little more than nagging. And although it was not directed at me, simply hearing it sucks the lifeforce from my person.

So last night driving to my mother's, she was berating/arguing/nagging my daughter, and I was really too tired and aggravated to listen to it. So as she continued, I began to turn the stereo volume up louder and louder. My wife looks over and says, "I'm trying to talk to her." "I know," I answered and turned the music up a bit more. So she backs off my daughter finally, and then she wants to talk about random shit. Shit that I really don't want to fucking hear about, much less discuss. So the music is blaring, I'm singing and playing the steering wheel guitar in a manner which clearly says "I'm trying to have a good time and relax. Please fuck off." Apparently, what I thought was a clear message was sadly misinterpreted by the spouse. She talked the entire way (it's about an hour's worth of driving), though I can't say what she talked about because I refused to acknowledge it through anything except a quick glance and a nod. Sometimes I both glanced and nodded. But we all know that I was just pretending.

This morning began much the same way. I was replacing some electrical outlets in the room we are remodeling and asked her to run to Lowe's and buy another box of plugs. I wanted to finish the job ASAP so we could return home as quickly as possible. She began to have a discussion about ceiling fans and other shit. I told her I would not be doing ceiling fans or other shit and that I just needed more plugs. She continued to push the conversation toward ceiling fans. What the fuck, I thought as I imagined myself holding an AK-47 or perhaps a freshly-sharpened machete. "Never mind." I walked out. Naturally she followed me back to where I was working so that she could tell me how much she wasn't trying to fucking argue. I told her I know she wasn't trying to argue (which was complete bullshit--I just didn't want to argue about her arguing/not arguing). So I went to get the shit myself.

Things then got much better. I had my shopping adventure and then decided to visit my dad on his dairy farm. He was cleaning up after the morning shift, so we just shot the shit for a little while. We also had to track about 15 springing heifers (this is a term meaning pregnant for those not familiar with this discourse community) that had busted through a fence. So we rounded them up and found one had actually given birth during her jailbreak. It reminded me a lot of how relaxing that kind of lifestyle can be, riding around on a fucking tractor and pulling a trailer--both of which I did today. Then I stepped in cowshit and remembered that it wasn't all good times.

My daughter's soccer game was an abysmal failure. We lost 7-1. I am a very competitive person, so losing really gets under my skin. After about 4-1, I was considering leaving and never coming back. It was horrible. Especially when the poor girls are just looking at each other like "man, we fucking suck." It's depressing. Add that fact to my wife's nagging, which has yet to let up (it's like a fucking slow drizzle, sometimes it lightens a bit but it never stops). Needless to say, I was hoping to get some academic work done, but it appears that beer will take the priority. I need to fucking relax.

Well, it's Friday, but . . .

It hasn't really been that good of a day. Although I am not working today, I did forget to turn in a scholarship application for some Honors program, so that probably won't be happening. I don't really think I would get that one anyway. Unfortunately, I was pretty much hoping on getting at least one (I was actually praying for a sweep) from the department until I found out that all of the scholarships are going to the resident militant feminazi. My apps will likely wind up in the "MEN" pile, a receptacle which strangely resembles a trash can. Good times.

So the dentist visit today was a complete asswhip. My wife tells me "be there at 9:45 in case you have to fill out paperwork." So I stay at my mom's house an hour away on Thursday nights, and I'm leaving there at 8:30, to make sure I'm there on time. So I'm strolling in the door cool as a fucking cucumber at 9:40 ready to get this shit over with. I bring the David Sedaris book with me because, well, I am in a waiting room. So I was prepared for a wait.

So I walk up to sign in, and the receptionist tells me that my exam has been postponed until a later date, but that my cleaning had been moved to 11:00. So I waste my morning walking through Wal-mart (which is just next door) and boring my brother who I called on my cell phone. ***************[There may be few things worse (besides the sniffling sound of the woman) than being called by somebody who has nothing to do. There isn't really anything to talk about, so you basically deal with them narrating whatever the fuck they're doing: "Hey these are some cool ass soap dispensers" or "Have you ever used the laundry detergent with the Febreze in it? It's the shit, right?" or "Man, you should have seen this really tall bitch. She was like a fucking giant."]***************
Anyway, at 10:55 I was once again posted up in the waiting room, literally crying from the Sedaris book because I was laughing so hard. People began looking at me funny, but once I had screamed "STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT ME!!" at this one lady, they all left me alone. Well, actually she wasn't really a lady. I think she was six. But whatever, I hate people staring. It's so rude.

As I'm giggling, the receptionists calls my name and tells me that they were running behind and that it would be another twenty minutes or so. "That's fine," I responded. I don't really have anything to do, so I figured I would just sit and read anyway. Two minutes later, they call me to the back for . . . yes, xrays. So I'm thinking, well, maybe they can squeeze me in after all. So the aide or assistant or whatever is cramming those hard plastic pieces in my mouth so far that I thought she was trying to xray my fucking esophagus. My eyes are watering like crazy (I told you I had been crying before) but now it's because I've got this thing way too far down my throat, and I am beginning to gag. The lady looks at me in terror for a second as she removes the film, but calms down once I tell her that I'm not going to yack on her or anything. I then tell her that I don't see how people can deal with things being shoved down their throat. I then stare in a very suspicious and accusatory manner at her just to make her uncomfortable.

That being done, I soon find myself on an epic quest, following this assistant down different hallways and back. I think she was trying to lose me, particularly after my gagging comments, but I followed as cleverly as Gollum himself. She finally located my exam room and ushered me in. Then the chaos began.

I was informed that my cleaning had actually been scheduled for 9:45 that morning, and it was my fault that I missed it. Another woman told me I had missed my appointment for the cleaning because I needed an exam first. The dentist dude came in and asked me if I had had my cleaning yet. All in all it wasted about an 2-3 hours of my life that I will never get back. Plus I have to get my wisdom teeth yanked sometime after the insurance people clear it. Fuck me.

I think I'll keep reading today. Softball practice tonight. Soccer game tomorrow. Papers and more papers to write this weekend. I think I'll get drunk tomorrow evening, if only to make up for the day I'm having today.

Jesus

Jesus in the news:

Hospital asks Jesus to change name

Published: 23rd March 2006 09:00 CET

Bosses at a Stockholm hospital have asked a nurse called Jesus to change his name, after concerns that it might cause confusion among patients.

According to Jesus, an auxiliary nurse at Huddinge hospital, his superiors were worried that patients told "Jesus will be coming soon ," might get the wrong idea.

"If they thought that Jesus was coming they might believe that they were already dead," the nurse told The Local.

Jesus, who will now use his middle name Manuel, said he didn't have a problem with the change.

"I understand why they wanted me to use my middle name," he said.

But, he added, "my name never usually causes me problems."

I have come to a conclusion

As of this very minute, I may well be the most relaxed person on the face of the earth. No, I am not drunk or high. But it's been a good day. Really good. And I really believe that the fact I never stepped foot on campus played a huge role. But today has been a rather bizarre day in that I did not expect things to go the way they did.

For starters, I was speaking with my mom this morning (I always stay there on Tues. nights), when I checked my phone to find that I had 17 missed calls, all of which came from my neighbor's cell phone. It was about 8:15 in the morning, and I was about to head towards C-town. After seeing the exorbitant amount of calls made, I naturally assumed that something was wrong, so I hesitated briefly before calling the number back. Luckily, the phone began ringing immediately and I answered the phone, surprised that it was my wife and not my neighbor on the other end of the line. And then she tells me that she's locked herself out of the house. How in the hell did you do that? I asked.

Here's the scoop. I will warn you that, due to my relative lack of angst, I don't feel very funny or anything tonight. So prepare for the disappointment. Or just quit reading. I would.

Anyway, my mother works at a home decor shop. One of the "benefits"?? of this job is that my house has consequently become full of floral arrangements and whatnot. Along with a plethora of inside decor, my mother has also given me three different wreaths for my front door--for winter, it's the snowmen and holly, for fall, it's the pumpkin and autumn leaves, for spring, it's various spring flowers. And keep in mind that none of these things are cheap. For Christmas, I got a $400 picture, and the various table settings and miscellaneous items generally retail in the hundred to hundreds of dollar range. So to a certain degree, I get a lot of really fancy decor at little to no cost to myself. Which I really fucking dig. But anyway . . .

Now that spring is quickly approaching (or is it here?) the spring wreath has found its way to the front door. Unfortunately, it seems that a bird has decided to do some minor remodeling to our wreath, adding a cute little nest with 4 little eggs. [I have pics to post, but blogger is being a bitch right now] Awwwww, ain't that cute. Our neighbor's wife called earlier and asked us to not hurt the bird/eggs. Never mind the fact that everytime we open the door, we are immediately greeted by the sound of flapping wings and birdshit on my front porch. Good fucking times. My wife was concerned that the mother bird laid the eggs and bolted--to which I responded that birds, like many humans, are too fucking stupid to realize that's even a possibility. So tonight, the birds sitting out there in its nest, preening its feathers and defecating. Fucking (shit)bird.

But back to the story:
My wife became aware of this bird last night, so today she was walking outside with my daughter to look at it. My daughter, who generally leaves the front door standing wide open as she runs to catch the school bus, decided to shut the door for once, locking them both out of the house. My daughter later catches the bus, but my wife winds up sitting at the neighbor's house until they leave for work. Then she sits in our backyard until I show up to save the day.
I'm quite sure that many of you are thinking: "Don't you guys have a spare key hidden somewhere?"
The answer is yes. Or was yes as of last week. It was carefully hidden under the doormat by the back door (please don't tell anyone about our hiding spot), but after most of the Jesi (there were one or two that abstained) contemplated whether or not to flood North Texas, my old lady decided it needed to be moved inside. Why? I don't know. It must have something to do with menstrual cycles and Oprah as far as I can tell. So when key=inside and wife=outside, then Jeremy=beaten down. I threw that in for the math people. High-five.

So instead of going to work, I drive home and let my wife in the house. Then, like any good English student will do, I went to Half-Price Books with my brother. Things I bought:

• The Professor's House by Willa Cather: required reading for Asswhip 521 for next week.
• The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman: book I've been searching for; finally found a nearly mint hardcover edition
• How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie: my brother swears this is a great book, so I figured what the hell. So be prepared for an even friendlier and more influential me. You have been warned.
• Naked by David Sedaris: highly recommended by Little E. Despite my claims that E doesn't read anything worth reading, after seeing a bit of his work on her blog the other day, I was highly intrigued. It also made me reevaluate E's reading tastes. I hereby officially apologize. Unless of course, I read it and it sucks. Then everything will return to its normal state of overall disdain and condescension.

Must go watch LOST now. Maybe more later, but I doubt it.

Another book quiz:

You're The Sound and the Fury!

by William Faulkner

Strong-willed but deeply confused, you are trying to come to grips with a major crisis in your life. You can see many different perspectives on the issue, but you're mostly overwhelmed with despair at what you've lost. People often have a hard time understanding you, but they have some vague sense that you must be brilliant anyway. Ultimately, you signify nothing.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

This is almost scary in a way. I feel as though I should sacrifice several enormous platypi to TGLJC in order to atone for some unknown sin. Yet, at the same time, it makes me want to cry in an over-the-top runny-nose kind of way. I need to be held. I need someone to comfort me. I should go drink immediately. Yes, that's the ticket.

Expecting tomorrow to suck big-time

One of my classes has been cancelled tomorrow--which is a good thing, right? Unfortunately, it is my 2:00. I will still be forced to be at school by 9 to drop off the son so that I can attend the 11:00 lit class. I'll get out at 12:15, snatch my son up, then drive to BFE to take him to my mom's, then turn back around to get to class by 7:20 pm. That's a lot of fucking driving at nearly $2.50 a gallon. It appears that I may have a great, though unwanted, opportunity to spend the greater part of the afternoon and evening in the library. I do have a tremendous amount of shit to get done--namely an annotated bibliography on Edith Wharton (pardon me while I fucking puke my guts out). I should also start looking at what I want to write my final projects on for all of my classes. But at this juncture, I don't really give a rat's ass. Maybe I'll check out The Professor's House and read it. Or maybe I need to see WTF T is doing. I think that would probably be the dumbest, yet most likely occurrence. So, T, be fucking prepared to have me lurching around all fucking day. Scratch that. He'll likely be working on his midterm. Hmmm . . . well, Willa Cather, here I come.

But who knows? I might get motivated. Lord knows I need to, especially this late in the term.
But then again, fuck it. There's always next week.

Fulfillment, comfort, and filling voids --life in modern America: Volume 2

This post should try to do a couple of different things. First of all, it should continue yesterday's discussion about the positives of marriage. Secondly, it will compare and contrast views spewed by Little E who obviously has a completely different perspective. I didn't plan on using word for word, but it seemed easier. Sorry, E.

I think I would like to start by noting some of the obvious problems with E's conclusions.

"There's nothing like being able to be in pajamas all day, hair up in a ponytail sans makeup, and yet someone else looks forward to coming home to you at the end of the day. The need to impress becomes totally unnecessary."

For who? For you or the spouse? Maybe what they really want is to come home to their beautiful mate who has fixed themselves up, not for everybody else in the world, but for them. I think there is a fine line between what we consider comfortable and what they might consider lazy. I, too, enjoy walking about the house wearing my pajamas and houseshoes, though I don't have the ability to ponytail or the cosmetic know-how to be made-up. The need to impress is certainly no longer a daily factor, but I often wonder if it is just because we no longer give a shit. We don't want to have to impress. So we don't. But I'm not sure if comfort is the right answer.

"marriage usually ends up to be a great financial benefit for both parties involved."

Nonsense. Marriage usually winds up being a 'great financial benefit' on one person, and a financial burden to the other. I speak from experience on both sides of the fence. Earlier in my marital career when I was the breadwinner, it was up to me to ensure that all bills were paid, the rent was up-to-date, and all of the other things that we needed were provided for. At that time, my wife was making next to nothing as a waitress. I was making about thirty, she was making about five. It was a headache.
Nowadays, I am the financial burden, though I would argue that I could probably manage just as well financially if I were single. Perhaps even more so. And let's not even bring the financial cost of raising kids into the equation.

"There's always the comfort of simply having another living body there for those times when cuddling and other such things may have the rare opportunity of manifesting themselves."

Again, we see the disparity between the female mind and the male's. First of all, men do not want to cuddle. Cuddling for us is simply a rather long and uneventful form of foreplay, one which only rarely leads to the good kind of interpersonal activity. Generally, it is viewed as a way of being lurched on, of being annoyed whenever we are trying to watch some sporting event on television. It usually involves a woman lying her head on my stomach so that I have trouble breathing or putting feet which are suffering from hypothermia anywhere on my body. Cuddling should be left to mothers and their children.

"Likewise, marriage affords people the fact that there is always someone to watch TV with, someone willing to listen to your papers for grad school, someone to be bored and do nothing with."

I would certainly agree with that last bit. But I am not quite eloquent enough to paint such a pretty picture of boredom.

"There is no other feeling than knowing that someone else has 100% of all their emotional, physical, and other such -al words invested in you."

You can either see this as a huge positive or a potential drawback. With investments such as these, it is easy to see why many marriages end with such strong bitterness. It is not practical to invest 100% of a person's emotions into someone else, mainly because, when it boils right down to it, most people are not worthy of that trust. People are by nature evil creatures. To pretend that living for someone else is a good thing borders on insanity. Likewise, to be the one who is the recipient of this devotion brings a great deal of pressure and stress with it as well. You know that anything you do could immediately send their life spiraling out of control, even though you assume them to be rational people. In this case then, sacrifices are often made which help create the illusion that everything is hunky-dory, when in fact, things may be turning to shit. The pressure to be the A+ wife or the good husband due to this knowledge generally creates a certain reluctance to be completely honest with one another.

"Marriage takes a lot of work and the probability of making it work is, I believe, extremely achievable."

Generally, the odds of getting divorced are roughly the same as staying married. It is 'achievable', but it is also ridiculous. People change over time, and these changes are not always compatible. What someone may have once seen as stable and comfortable too often winds up boring and passionless. That man or woman that once made your heart beat fast may now just give you heartburn and a sinking feeling in your stomach. But then again, this is coming from someone who has been playing this marital game for over eight years now, so what the fuck do I know? Maybe I just like bitching about shit that I have no right to bitch about. Or maybe I've become disenchanted with the idea of the happily ever after that we all learned as children.

Marriage is: what's for dinner, and did you pay the mortgage yet? It's have the kids taken a bath and do we need toilet paper? It's can I get some money for this or can I buy one of those? It's not glamorous or exciting. As a matter of fact, it's rather dull and boring. It's what two people do whenever they've found that perfect person (which doesn't exist) or when they feel like they can't do any better. Or when they're just tired of looking.

Oh, well. Chew on that for a while, kiddos.

Fulfillment, comfort, and filling voids --life in modern America: Volume 1

Here comes the long-awaited discussion on marriage

Let me first say that I don't know what I want to say. As I generally do when blogging (or when writing a paper), I sit down without the faintest idea what it is I plan to relate to my reader. As I posted under the blog title, this truly is a bunch of emotional vomiting. But what the hell . . .

Let's look at the institution of marriage generally. Although I'm quite sure I will delve into certain specifics of my own experience with this social construct, I would prefer not to, simply because too many people might find it . . . well, disheartening to say the least. Just FYI, I didn't voluntary submit to this state--it was a product of surrounding issues, many of which I felt responsible for. So as a man (this is an issue for another day), I did what I thought was the "right" thing to do, and here I am. Let's leave it at that.

Let me begin this discussion by admitting a few things. First of all, there are lots of good things that result from being married. And although and hopefully, most people should be able to find way more to cheer about than I do, please keep in mind that I am only able to relate my own ideas and experiences. And mine is no fantasy land or dreamworld. As with everything else in my life, my beliefs are firmly rooted in reality. There are no magical fairies or elves or Jesi that can sprinkle magic dust to erase the numerous warts and scars I have received from or given to others. Let me also state that I am a fairly selfish sonofabitch, or that is often the way I regretfully see myself. Anything that has happened or will happen I believe is directed merely by fate, and fate is something that we do control to a certain extent. But I see I have begun to ramble . . . let's get back on topic.

First of all, being single is lonely. I know that every once in a while, men and women will watch some movie where people are always out having fun and meeting beautiful and funny people who they will later sleep and have outrageous sex with. Everyone wants to be that guy or gal that is always attracting the opposite sex and luring them into a fabulous one night stand, where they will promptly kick them to the curb. What one fails to remember is that the bar scene is not always hopping. Often times, the supermodel chick has decided to take the evening off, leaving your only options to be either the genetically mutated chick with a babyarm who is drinking her second mai-tai and is struggling to keep her fatass on the stool; or, the forty (fifty?)-somethingish froglady with the bleach-blonde hair who's working on her fifth Beam and coke and her third pack of Dorals. The sad thing is that you will think about it. No, not at first. But by two or three in the morning, you start thinking that --"hey, it's better than nothing." However, in a few days, when you're standing at the urinal wincing because it hurts to piss, you will soon come to the conclusion that it wasn't.

And then you usually have to deal with the lurcher. Then you have to change bars like three or four times, because they keep fucking showing up at whichever bar you've started to frequent. And that's only if you were smart or sober enough to remember that you never take these women home with you. NEVER, UNDER ANY FUCKING CIRCUMSTANCES. If that, Jesi forbid, were to happen, then you realize that you must move immediately. A legal name change may also be in order. Otherwise, this can turn into some Basic Instinct shit where you find your dog gutted on your front porch and your mother missing.

Loneliness is truly a bitch. There may be nothing more powerful than the feeling that is "lonely." It drives men to hook up with someone they shouldn't, and makes women do the same. Therefore, my first point that "single is lonely" is often lessened by the marital vow. Not that married people don't get lonely, mind you, it's just that you don't have to worry about bringing your best friend's elderly aunt home for a (not-so-)good time. You can always just stay home and have an "okay" time with your wife/husband. It's not terribly exciting or fun, but it beats the hell out of having a Q-tip run up your dick by some MD.

Where the hell was I going with that? Oh, well. Hooking up with psycho bitches is some really bad shit. And you don't do that when you're married. Anyway, let's just say that instead of the gimp and Sally Jessie Raphael, the club is packed with hoes. I mean packed. With freaky bitches. So after a drink or two, you and your buddy decide to creep over and introduce yourselves. You ask them if they'd like a drink. So after you've spent enough on alcohol to have gotten you, your buddy, and the black guy named Fred who's charging for the towels in the bathroom--after you have spent enough to have hooked all of you guys up in the Asian bath house down the road, you look up to see these women out bumping and grinding with some fucking shitbird who probably isn't old enough to buy his own drinks. At this point your options are severely limited: A) You tell the guy to fuck off because it was YOU who got these bitches this fucking hammered, and not his pimply little ass; B) You walk up behind her and start grinding her from the back until she looks at you like you're giving her the crabs; C) You creep everyone in the joint out by walking up behind him and doing the "Brokeback Boogie"; D) You start talking to the fucking froglady because you know she's at least got cigarettes.

So, I guess reason #2 would be the lack of rejection. Granted, you are no longer in a position to be rejected, unless, of course, you try to roll over at four in the morning reeking of beer and vomit. Or maybe you are still in a position to be rejected, but it doesn't really hurt that bad. Cause you've been there, done that. And either way, it'll be there the next day, next week, whatever. It's not going anywhere. It's true that one of the great things about hunting is bringing down new prey, but sometimes it's better to get a nice, simple meal everyday. Isn't it?

I'm not sure how this is coming across. I've re-read parts of it, but it still seems a bit disjointed. I've answered no questions about marriage. I've only said some of the shitty things about not being married. And that's what it's really all about. Being married is better than being single because being single fucking sucks. You never get laid as much as you want. You spend way too much trying to impress women who can't even remember your name. You wind up back at your place that you share with your loser-ass buddy watching reruns of MASH and ab workout infomercials, talking about all of the hot women that you just couldn't get back to your shithole of an apartment. The only good thing about being single is that you can be by yourself if you want (which becomes less and less as the days pass), and you aren't tied down to someone else. You can go do pretty much whatever floats your boat. You can try to find that perfect someone (by the way, this person doesn't exist) who'll you'll always be happy with and is great in the sack. You can find that woman that reminds you of your mother, because she cooks, cleans, and screams her fucking head off when you don't want to get out of bed. You can find that real slutty chick that makes your toes curl up, but you're secretly afraid she'll kill herself in your apartment because she's so fucking crazy.

So why would you go through all of that, when you could be married? You have a reasonable sense of fulfillment, and it is certainly a comfortable situation. Any voids left in your emotional existence can be repressed. Nothing is perfect--no person, no relationship. One thing that I feel is an important ingredient is love. Okay, not really. Love is something that grows over time, blah, blah, blah. Love is little more (to me) than a personal attachment. I love my wife, I love my kids, I love my books, I love my SUV. I love all of these things. But in different ways. However, love comes in any relationship, because it is part of that comfort. It may even grow from that comfort. But I think the best thing to have is--hands down--[I am really hesitating to write this now, mainly because it sounds really gay] . . . nevermind.

More to come . . .

I've been out of town, spending the last several days firmly holed up in the sticks, where things like internet access and computers are only rumors. My brother and I actually got quite a bit done-- we replaced five windows on Wednesday night, replaced drywall on Thursday, and textured the walls and ceilings on Friday. My wife primered the walls on Saturday and painted the room today. It would have been a hell of a lot quicker, but the rain and humidity has a way of slowing down a job, especially when you really need shit to dry before you can move to the next step. I was planning on posting before/after pics, but as usual, I have no fucking idea where my camera is.

There's quite a bit to say . . . or maybe there's not. Maybe I just feel like I need to say something since the blog's been silent for a few days. And that's not really like me (or my blog, for that matter). Unfortunately, my #1 all-time beer drinking buddy is on his way in from the University of Arkansas, and he called me a few minutes ago to see if I wanted to hang out and have a beer or two. His fiancee is with him, so he wanted me to meet them at Chili's so they could eat before they continue toward Dallas. This guy is a really good friend. But, it's raining like a mother fucker (Some places have gotten as much as 9 inches-- leave it alone, Andi) and I really hate getting fucking wet unless I'm wearing swimming trunks. And it's cold. And I fucking hate cold.


But it is to go drink beer.

I will probably post more later, though I will likely be considerably more intoxicated. I would like to say some things to the world-renowned A-train for breathing life into her webzine, as well to Little E, who has decided to begin posting in bulk quantity.

It's almost three in the morning . . .

There's very few things I hate worse than going to bed and staring at the fucking clock for an hour. I feel like I should be asleep, but all I'm doing is laying there, shifting position from time to time, watching the numbers on the alarm clock getting bigger and bigger. I just want to sleep at this point, though I really have no one to be mad at but myself. That's what I get for sleeping until 11:00 or 12:00 everyday this week. The later I sleep, the later I get up. The later I get up, the later I go to bed. The later I go to bed, well . . . you've probably figured out this cycle by now. FUCK!!

So I get my tired ass back out of bed, fix me a meaty fucking rum and coke (the kind that makes you grimace when you taste it), and I'm sitting back in front of this goddamn computer, listening to the Cranberries. I probably should have joined the crowd tonight--it seemed like everyone else was out getting fucked up, but I didn't because . . .well, I just didn't. As I lay in bed, I thought about writing a piece on the good things about being married, mainly for T's benefit, but also to contrast the piece I posted earlier. Maybe tomorrow or next week, though. I'm not really feeling all warm and fuzzy right now. More cantankerous than anything else. Not bitter, though.

Which brings me to an interesting point:
For some reason, many people have designated me as a "bitter" person and wrongfully so. I think that bitter would imply that I walked around mad at the world, which I obviously do not. The dictionary in my house lists bitter as as someone "marked by anguished resentfulness or rancor." I don't consider myself anguished, resentful, or bearing ill-will towards anyone. I know the first thing T would say to this is "if it weren't true then why would you be defending yourself?" Two reasons: first of all I'm awake with nothing else to fucking do; secondly, I believe accuracy is important when labeling people. From now on, please only refer to me as cynical, realistic, discontented, cross, or disgruntled. Any of these will do.

***********
Oh, and I did manage to get the midterm done, so I guess that's something. Good luck to the rest of you guys.

It's almost midnight . . .

so I guess that means it's about time for my nightly post. Things went pretty much the way I expected. First of all, I worked on that stupid-ass midterm for a while today. Well, I thought about it intermittently throughout the day, anyway. I only actually worked on it for about two hours or so. My wife gets home about 5:00, wishes me a happy anniversary then wanders off into the house. I sit at the computer until about a quarter til six, when I realize that my daughter has softball practice in fifteen minutes. I scramble around the house, trying to find something for me to wear, barking orders at her regarding what she needs to wear, and get out the door about five til six. Upon arriving, I realize what a complete timewaste it was, as I looked around at the two other girls and their parents who decided they too should attend practice. That's out of eleven girls. Even the coach's daughter didn't make it, though the coach herself did. Luckily, it only lasted a little over an hour, and I was able to get back to my house and out of the cold.

Back at my place, my wife is standing against the kitchen counter, looking as if I had pissed the bed last night. She doesn't say anything--she just looks at me in that way that women do when something's wrong and they want you to ask them what it could possibly be, though you really don't want to. However, my survival instincts kick in, and I avoid her icy stare and make my way into the living room to catch the tip-off of the Mavs-Cavs game. However, the she-lion is relentless, circling the couch, creeping ever closer to her seemingly unaware prey. As she begins to pounce, I move with surprising quickness (all the while determined not to make eye contact) to my left, circling the couch myself and escaping to the confines of the kitchen where I make a nice cool glass of water. After refreshing myself, I turn and consider my route options. I glance furtively into the living room, prepared to avoid the imminent danger of such close contact. The danger appears to have disappeared. I resume my position on the couch, remote firmly in my right hand, when I finally hear the most dreadful sound known to man.

Yes, the sniffles. There may be nothing on earth more ugly than a crying woman--and you can quote me on that.

I take a deep breath and roll my eyes, preparing for the brutal attack. And, just as I anticipated, it was soon upon me:
"It's our anniversary, and you don't even act like you want to spend time with me." Another sniffle. Another deep breath and I complete a full eye roll, complete with head tilt.
"What are you talking about?" I respond, immediately beaten-down by the turn this conversation has taken.
"Well, I came home and told you that I loved you and gave you a hug and you just sat there," she growls back.
"I was doing homework," I reply. "Plus I had to get ready for practice."
"Still, though, it's not like it's Valentine's Day. It's our anniversary. And I didn't really expect much."
"What did you want me to do?" I asked. "Whirl you off your feet to go spend a night in some fancy hotel or something?"
"Nothing like that," she says, rather depressed (and still sniffling, I might add). "'Cause you don't do stuff like that. It's not in your nature."
"Then why in the hell do you think I would do that, then?" I say jokingly, as I give her the hug that should make everything okay. "I'm sorry you're such a miserable little wife."

Then she fixes me a couple of sandwiches and brings me some dessert as I watch the rest of the Mavs game (they come back from nineteen points to win). And that pretty much sums up my anniversary. And to think that some people claim that after a few years the thrill is gone. Nonsense.

Dreaming again

I don't really know what the fuck is going on with my head right now. I had two pretty bizarre dreams last night, and I'm trying to get them down before I forget them.

The last dream had something to do with an ex-girlfriend who I never really think about anymore. Anyway, for some reason, my dad said I should try to hunt her down, and it just so happened she was taking a class similar to skiing on campus (???). So for some reason, I wind up on this road trip with her, looking for antiques and shit, rolling through all these backwood towns. She's driving. And for some reason, I notice that she needs to shave her legs (It's not horribly bad, just not perfect). Suddenly, I look up, and there's some guy on the other side of her, like she's driving from a chair in the middle of the vehicle. Well, he's giving her the eye, and I'm just sitting there wondering where the fuck this clown came from.

So we pull in some hole in the wall joint to eat/look at antiques. I go to get some food, come back around, and the ex is sitting on some stranger's lap giggling and laughing, but like she's trying to piss me off. As a matter of fact, it seemed like everyone in there was trying to piss me off. Coolly, I walk by the guy, flash my wedding ring, and tell him "Hey, man, it's no big deal to me. I'm married." That's when the melee ensues. For some reason, there's two or three guys that have somehow become part of my clique (there's a set of twins). There are several other guys (there's another set of really white-trash looking red-headed twins) who start a fight with them. Suddenly, this little cocksucker comes up and takes a swing at me. I don't recall if he missed me or hit me, but I do remember knocking the shit out of him and he fell to the ground. This other guy that had been flirting or whatever with my ex tries to get in the mix and I hit him to the ground as well. As a matter of fact, it seemed very cartoonish. I'm sitting on one guy, and hitting two. But there's like zero blood. It's just a lot of smacking (this sound usually makes my stomach get ill after a while, but it doesn't now) as I punch one guy, then another.

The sheriff eventually comes in and breaks up the altercation. I look around and the place is practically empty. I move quickly out the door (I remember that I was concerned about not paying for my meal), but my truck is gone, along with my ex and that dill that I just fought on the restaurant floor. The twins in my clique offer to take me back home (I had somewhere to go, but I don't remember where), but I'm determined to get my truck back. I tell them to go to her house. We head that direction, and later see the red-headed twins working on power lines that ran near a bridge in a lake.

That's about it . . . for that dream.

The first dream I remember last night has gotten pretty hazy, although I do remember having to fight some type of vampire/werewolf who were at my mother's house. I was in a fight with one of them, when my wife woke me up. I was probably inadvertently beating her up in my sleep. But when she woke me up, I was sweating and nervous. She asked me what I was dreaming about. I said, "Monsters" and went back to sleep.

Where is Freud when you need him? Would anybody care to speculate on the meanings of these dreams? I would like to get someone's interpretation of what these things might signify.

“Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense.”-- Buddha











Click here for a tense comic about TGLJC.

For A-train: just because you made me laugh

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18 and find line 4.
This is the line: "air, but then, bracing both feet against the edge of the"
Here it is in a complete sentence:
"He went in headfirst--his hair was plastered flat and parted from swimming and diving; he pulled in his back and hips, kicked once at the empty air, but then bracing both feet against the edge of the hatch, pushed down into the dusky cool aquarium, floodlighted through open portholes: nervous sticklebacks, an immobile school of lampreys, swaying hammocks, still firmly attached at the ends, overgrown with seaweed, a playhouse for baby herring." -- Cat and Mouse, Gunter Grass

2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, what do you find?
Some kind of fancy-schmancy plant thing from my mother.

3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
I walked in the living room while my wife was watching "Miracle Workers" or some nonsense like that. She alternated between giggling incessantly when something good happened, to crying whenever something horrible was shown. The last thing I watched on purpose was Mavs vs. Kings

4. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Not a damn thing. Everyone is asleep.

5. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
This afternoon. Getting my Shakespeare book from the truck.

6. Before you started this survey, what did you look at?
Andi's blog.

7. What are you wearing?
White T-shirt, house shoes, and my basketball/stripper pants --the kind with the buttons up both sides. Don't laugh, they come in handy sometimes.

8. Did you dream last night?
Nope. And I've been having enough dreams lately.

9. When did you last laugh?
Reading Andi's blog

10. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
My undergrad diploma, some African masks.

11. Seen anything weird lately?
My brother-in-law acting bizarre after he got shitfaced the other day, but that's fairly common.

12. What do you think of this quiz?
I never do stuff like this because it's gay.

13. What is the last film you saw?
At home: Hostage with Bruce Willis
At the movies: Munich

14. If you turned a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy?
My freedom.

15. Tell me something about you that I don’t know.
I always wanted to be six feet tall.

16. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt and politics, what would you do?
I would prevent stupid people from breeding

17. Do you like to Dance?
Yes, but not with everybody.

18. George Bush.
Poor bastard.

19. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Been there, done that.

20. Imagine your first child is a boy, what would you call him?
Been there, done that.

21. Would you ever consider living abroad?
No, I would never want to be that far away from Commerce.

22. What would you want God to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
Don't worry about it. I probably wouldn't have believed either.

23. 4 people who must also do this meme in their journal.
I don't even know four people.

Academia is fun

I have spent the majority of my day doing academic-based work. Things that were on my "to do" list this morning:

• submit to SCMLA conference

This has been more difficult than it should have been. The deadline (naturally) is tomorrow. So as I went through the files on my computer to locate the paper and proposal I was planning to submit, I realized that both of them were easily found. Unfortunately, it seems that they only copies I have are very rough, unfinished versions. So the majority of the afternoon has been spent copying the hard copy to my computer so that I can email it to the section chair. They will either accept a paper or an abstract, and I really don't feel like writing an abstract today. So I'll probably send it in this format. I'm hoping for a little feedback before I submit, but I'm not holding my breath.

• Write my Shakespeare mid-term

This is not going to be a good time. Despite the greatness of his works, writing about language and wordplay during spring break is a real fucking downer. But it must be done, and I would rather get it out of the way today. I will probably start this evening; hopefully, I'll be finished before I go to bed, though it will likely be at an ungodly hour.

• Write a CV to distribute to professors

Even though I received several examples of CVs at a recent grad student meeting, I managed to leave them there. Whether this was an intentional disregard on my part or mere forgetfulness, I can't honestly say. Anyway, I'm left scrounging the internet to find a good example of an academic CV so that I can get mine completed in order to qualify for scholarships

• Finish Jean Toomer's Cane

I've got one more story to read at the end of the book, and my overall opinion is mixed. It's certainly more palatable than Stein but it's not Hemingway. I've got the Norton critical edition, but if anyone thinks I'm going to waste time reading that crap during spring break then you need to get your fucking head examined. I'll leave that to my good pal Spiderman. He'll be all over that shit. I'm hoping to read something fun this week, too, but it appears unlikely with everything else I've got on my plate.

I've got books to return to the library before the week ends. Plus, it's my anniversary tomorrow, so I'll have to shine my shoes and take the old lady out or something. But probably not. Kids have a way of preventing any type of going out activity, anniversary or not. As a matter of fact, my neighbor just offered me two tickets to the Dallas Stars, but with no one to watch the tots, I had to turn them down.

All of this Jesi talk lately has caused me to remember something about my first novel (the one which has not, nor likely will ever be, written). On the cover, I want to have the devil and Jesus holding hands, and holding each other, while they are staring in each other's eyes in a very homoerotic kind of way. Not that I think that the Good Lords Jesi are gay (or the devil for that matter), but it's how I've always symbolized this love/hate between good and evil. The way they both need each other to help distinguish their own characteristics. After all, if there were no good, then how could we determine evil, and vice-versa? Also, it seems like one hell of a way to visualize the internal struggle between what what we want to do and what we should do, what we really want and what we are allowed. Plus, it kinda makes me giggle. A-train-- I think I'll commission you for this project, right after you finish my portrait ala Jonz.

Some good quotes about religion and Satan on the internet:
Despite everything that seems obvious about human nature, it took the species a surprisingly long time to come up with someone to blame for its own failings.Satan is a modern concept, as concepts go, dating back only to about the 3rd century B.C., when humanity woke up and realized that:

a) The only way to understand people who disagree with you is to characterize them as unmitigated evil, and
b) When people who formerly agreed with you begin disagreeing with you, clearly some supernatural force must be at work. In the Old Testament, God curses humanity and the Earth itself for all time punish Adam and Eve for taking night classes in dualistic morality. He obliterates entire cities for their liberal views about sexual orientation and transforms onlookers into salt. He crams a boat full of people and critters, then kills the entire remainder of the world in a flood, forcing the survivors to repopulate the world through incest. He dumps his chosen people in the desert for 40 years, then gets pissed off when they try to vote him out in favor of a gold cow. In short, God is specifically identified as being the cause of bad things that happen to people.

Working hard?? Not so much . . .

Useless.

That is probably the best adjective I can come up with to describe me today.

I didn't do anything today except watch sports all day long.

Texas A&M makes NCAA basketball tournament

INDIANAPOLIS- The Texas A&M men's basketball team will face Syracuse on Thursday, March 16 in the first round of the NCAA Tournament, the selection committee announced Sunday.

The Aggies earned a No. 12 seed in the Atlanta regional and will travel to Veterans Memorial Coliseum in Jacksonville, Fla. for first- and second-round action. A&M will meet the 5th-seeded Syracuse Orange in the first round on Thursday. Game time will be announced soon.

The berth marks A&M's seventh trip to the NCAA Tournament and first since 1987. The Aggies' best showings were trips to the Sweet Sixteen in 1969 and 1980. Other NCAA appearances in school history were 1951, 1954 and 1975.

I am planning on leaving Tuesday to work on the dreaded house belonging to my mother. But I have a feeling I may try to put it off until later in the week. The upside to that-- I will be able to rest and relax a bit more. The downside-- seeing my mom's face when all of that shit isn't done when she comes back from her vacation. Nothing like familial guilt to get you all pumped up and raring to go. But, at least for the next day or so, I'll be able to sit around the house and do jack-shit. I've also started reading Toomer's Cane. I'm only about one-third of the way done, but it's not exactly giving me that warm, fuzzy feeling.

Also: shout out to theotherfeminist, who filled me in nicely on the Sopranos premiere this evening. It was unexpected but much appreciated. It's like getting a neat little abstract of the show, minus all of the filthy language.

I was glad to get up this morning

Is it because I feel awesome after drinking all day? Is it because I'm excited about doing a bit of Shakespeare? Is it because I really want to finish cleaning my garage?

No, it isn't any of these things.

I wanted to get up because I was having the weirdest, most trippy dreams ever last night. I don't know if it was the large quantity of alcohol I consumed or something else, but I dreamed some shit that I would love to post, just because it would make everybody laugh and freak out, but it could possibly hurt my future. Anyway, I'll tell the parts I can remember.

Okay so I'm kinda like at a class (the Goose was there with me and a few other no-name students), but it was outside for some reason, and I'm listening to this fill-in teacher trying to give us this asswhip of an assignment. And I'm trying to pay attention, but something keeps bothering me. Suddenly, I turn around and there is this prof (not in our dept.) friggin lurching on me. And she's getting all handsy and stuff. And it's completely weirding me out. But what do you say, ya know? I guess I was afraid of failing the class or making a bad grade or whatever. So I just play along. So she's always like trying to kiss me and shit, and she never cares who else is around and it is really making me nervous. --In my dream, I don't remember being married or unmarried, so maybe I was single??--Anyway, it turns out that she winds up being a real fucking drag, always hanging around, and I'm always pretending to like her, even though I don't. It was like being held hostage in a bad relationship. Later on I escaped to some really big, old houses (which in reality don't exist) on campus and wound up hiding from her while I was
trying to finish my homework.

It was very fucking random.

So after the last post yesterday, I called up my brother and his wife, then my buddy and his wife, then my brother-in-law, then Daniel and Elise, then Andi. Surprisingly, everyone showed but the A-train. It was pretty dull, hardly the wild and raucous gatherings at Little E's or Cynthia's, but what could you really expect? I've got two kids. Plus, except for my brother-in-law, everyone was married, and married people are not exactly the party crowd. Instead of loud music and dancing, it was more like sitting around and drinking. But what do you do? We were able to see my brother-in-law instantly change from quietly sober to alarmingly unstable (which is rather common). We were able to put about 60 pounds of cigarette ash on my garage floor. We were able to (for the most part), avoid lengthy discussions concerning religion, divorce, and postcolonialism. We all agreed that families are an asswhip. All in all, it was a decent Saturday night. Not great, but sometimes you take what you can get.

Good times, good times . . .

I'm having a pretty good day, I guess. My wife just went to Home Depot to pick up a new light for the backyard, and I've spent the majority of the afternoon cleaning out my garage and drinking beer. I'm feeling pretty spry for an old fucker right now. I'm busting out my cigars, and I anticipate getting pretty torn down by the time I hit the sack.
Hopefully, I won't be too messed up to play with electricity in a few minutes. That's always fun.

I was pretty gung-ho about getting that garage cleaned, but right now I'm more concerned about losing my buzz than anything else. I may call my brother and his wife later to see if they want to come over and join me in my overall shittiness. Nothing like blogging with a buzz, eh?

My wife reminded me earlier today that our anniversary was coming up pretty soon. That'll be eight years. Holy shit. I told her when we got married that it would never last more than five, so she's been throwing that shit in my face for the last three. I can still remember our wedding pictures--I was so fucking pale and hungover that I just wanted to die immediately. And the pictures certainly prove that point. So March 14 is the day when I make it to eight. Who'da thunk it? Maybe it's because I'm such a great fucking guy. Or maybe it's because I'm a real prick with a heart of gold. Either way, drinking is good. And I'm good at it.

Spring break = no break

This could very well be the most unanticipated spring break ever. What I had planned last week consisted of sitting around my house for a few days, cleaning out my garage, then heading out to my mother's house (which is a constant and never-ending home improvement project) to work on her dining room. Once I arrived at my mother's, the game plan was to:

• replace plywood subfloor where needed
• replace sheetrock where needed
• tape and bed sheetrock joints
• replace all five windows in the room (these are all 6 ft windows, too, not the little ones)
• primer all of the walls
• blow texture on the ceiling and walls
• knock-down texture
• primer walls again
• paint walls and ceiling (my wife will do this part)
• replace electrical outlets and switches
• install new ceiling fan
• cut and router trim for molding
• install laminate flooring
  
• paint trim
• install trim

This would probably have taken almost the entire week. Unfortunately, my brother's wife is having surgery next week (Why is everyone having surgery now?), and he's generally my accomplice in these projects. Odds are that I won't be able to get his assistance. On top of that, I've got a 5-8 page paper due as a "mid-term" in Shakespeare as soon as I come back from spring break. My wife's had me hanging pictures and mirrors and all sorts of stuff all over the house today, so I really don't feel like doing anything right now, even though I may wind up straightening the garage.

I got a letter from financial aid yesterday offering a loan if I take summer courses. I'm all over that shit. But I'm not real sure if I want to take more than 6 hours. I guess I'm just not real sure when I need to take my comprehensive exams, or whether I'm going to do a thesis or whatever. I've been meaning to contact other grad programs in the South and Midwest to see whether they would prefer more coursework or a thesis. The message I've been receiving in my own department varies by instructor. Also, I've got to get an updated CV to a couple of professors who have agreed to write letters of recommendation for me. Plus, I need to do a little homework concerning the SCMLA conference (the deadline is looming); I need to get in that conference, but I don't have a pre-existing panel which would probably increase the likelihood I would be accepted. If anyone else out there has/will submit, please let me know how that's going for you.

The Goose left a comment on my blog the other day, and I was glad to know that he was still alive. Thanks again, A-train, for checking on The Professor's House for me. I must be in a pretty good mood today. I don't think I've used the F-word once in this entire post. That seems a bit out of character for someone generally defined as "bitter" by most of his friends. All in all, it's been a pretty good week, mainly because I was able to get a lot of things that had been bothering me out of the way.

On another note, I was once again disappointed by a recent publication. It seems that for the thirty-first year in a row, I have not made the Forbes billionaire list. I try not to get all worked up, but I start to feel like Susan Lucci after a while.

I love book reviews

Do you ever get that feeling that you're the only one awake in the whole world? That's me, though I'm sure the Goose is still up working on his paper as well.
Cheers, Goose!!
I've gone through two nice-sized glasses of rum and coke, and I'm feeling pretty unstudious right now. This paper is turning out to be a real piece of shit.

Oh, happy day.

**Update** 2:45 am
I'm done. 1516 words. I think it's pretty worthless, but it's done. Bed is going to feel really good.

Things could be worse

As bad as it may be, it could always be worse. However, just because we are good people who work hard doesn't necessarily mean that things are going to be "a gravy truck with biscuit wheels." The Good Lord Jesus Christ himself perished (one could argue it was almost suicidal) due to his suffering in this world brought on by the numerous beatings and physical abuse, not because of a prolonged coughing fit as some modern scholars have conjectured.

It's okay. I'm better now.

Well, my mother has gotten out of surgery, and everything seems to be fine. The doctors have yet to tell any of us much of anything which might guarantee any long-term solution. But that's the way it goes, I guess.
My wife met me at soccer practice and let me go home, so I did just that. I tried to sleep for a while, but there were too many phone calls going on to allow it. But I do feel a lot better--not quite so full of piss and vinegar, so to speak.
I think I was just under a little too much stress earlier.
I apologize to any who were offended by the previous rant.

I'm still pretty tired, but I think I'll fix a rum and coke and start wheedling this paper out of my mind. It's not going to be a work of art, but it'll most likely be as good as anyone else's. I may post some of my poetry later if I need a break, but for now

It's time to get busy.

When a shitty day gets worse

I sat here eating a sandwich and drinking a glass of water wondering why life has to be such an inconvenience. Not that I am condoning death or anything, but all those things that make up someone's life can be quite a drag at times. Maybe I'm just frustrated about some things.
A recap of my day:

• This is the third day in a row that I've forgotten to pick up my check.
• I have a 6-8 page book review due tomorrow. Which I haven't started writing yet.
• Soccer practice for my daughter from 5-7.
• I'm physically exhausted, and this is looking like an all-nighter kind of night.
• The main problem is that I don't feel like doing any of this shit. Not today. Instead, I feel like . . . fuck, I don't even know.

My stepdad informed me that my mother was readmitted to the hospital about 1:00 today for the same thing as before. You'd think someone could figure something out by now. This is like the fourth fucking time.

There's a lot of other shit I feel like writing about, but due to privacy concerns and whatnot, I am not able to. Some of these things involve home and some of them involve work and some of them involve my career goals. There are other things which aren't as clearly defined. The main problem is that people like me use writing as a form of therapy, and as this blog has become a rather public enterprise, it is neither kosher nor wise to bring attention to all of these in such a format.

Right now, I feel like saying something witty and clever and insightful, but all I'm left with today is a sense of disappointment. I'm looking around in my fucking brain for something that might alleviate my mood, but all I can do is fucking bitch about shit. And I know that kind of stuff can be a real beating to think about, much less to read. I'm having one of those days when you feel like punching somebody square in the fucking mouth, just because you want to be punched in the mouth. That would probably make me feel a little better. I'm hoping my wife doesn't come home too soon (not that I would punch her in the mouth, of course) because I have this crazy desire to start a fight just so I can release a lot of this pent-up aggression. There are certainly other ways to release such aggression, but it seems that Madame X has decided on her own when to plan her visits to my house, cycles be damned. Never mind, that's probably a little TMI.

Spring Break is coming up soon, though. But what I'd really like to do is fucking disappear for a few days and leave everything behind me. No kids, no wife, no fucking books, NO SCHOOL. I just want to be left alone to do whatever the fuck I want to do whenever I want to do it. And I want to drink. A lot. Every day. And get really fucking wasted every fucking day. Just for a while. Then I could come back, reassess my status in this world and continue on with the daily grind. I guess maybe it's just the selfish part of me coming out. And I fucking despise not being able to do things that I want to do. That's probably why women always think I'm such a fucking selfish and arrogant prick all of the time. (Are you keeping count of the use of the F-word? Impressive, huh?)

I keep looking back over this post, thinking that I'm about done ranting. And then I read it again. And it pisses me off again. I'm sure everyone by now is wondering WTF is wrong with me. I don't know. I just feel angry. Maybe I'm preparing to delve back into my isolated world. Maybe I'm gearing up for one of my spells when I'm unhappy that the sky is up and the sun is shining. Or maybe I just need a drink and a cigarette. Or two.

I told Andi that I would be posting some random poetry today, but it's not nearly as bitter or angsty as what I have posted before. Right now, though, I'm just not in the mood. Pent-up frustration is a motherfucker. I think the mailman is knocking on my door. I think I'll go stab him in the fucking eye.

Sexuality in Literature

If human beings were not divided into two biological sexes, there would probably be no need for literature. And if literature could truly say what the relations between the sexes are, we would doubtless not need much of it then, either. Somehow, however, it is not simply a question of literature's ability to say or not to say the truth of sexuality. For from the moment literature begins to set things straight on that score, literature itself becomes inextricable from the sexuality it seeks to comprehend. It is not the life of sexuality that literature cannot capture; it is literature that inhabits the very heart of what makes sexuality problematic for us speaking animals. Literature is not only a thwarted investigator but also an incorrigible perpetuator of the problem of sexuality.
--Barbara Johnson, The Critical Difference

This is an interesting point concerning "What is Literature?" It seems very poignant in relating how these two things feed off each other. Or maybe I've just been reading too much high-brow crap, and I have already lost my sanity.

This looks like a late night. Nothing done on my colloq paper. I've gotten some mandatory reading done, but my brain is starting to slosh around in my head. I think it may be time to find a nice short Newbery to help me relax. Then I'll give it another go. Or I'll just go to bed.

Why are churches so weird?

My wife went to church with my mother recently, and she told me something really troubling. Apparently, there had been a dance at a non-church party for a bunch of middle school kids, where the kids were listening to hip/hop and other music which they probably hear every day on the radio. From what I understand, there may have been dancing which some people might label as "inappropriate." I assume there was probably a bit of pre-adolescent rump-shaking and whatnot. Probably rather harmless fun.

Unfortunately for the party-goers, a certain man at my mom's church caught wind of this spectacle and lectured all of the youth in the church about the evils of dancing and listening to music that does not have a religious message. I'll call this man Church Nazi. In order to help set these wayward children on the right path, he initiated a cleansing which involved setting up an altar to the Good Lord Jesus Christ and Our Heavenly Father. On this altar he placed candles to help set the mood, showing the true creepiness of the religious fanatic. The kids were then encouraged to bring their non-religious CDs to the altar and break them in penance to the Good Lord Jesus Christ, etc. Once this was done, they were all applauded for being such good young Christians. Here's a picture I was able to snap of the youth minister at a community canned food drive. The turnout and organization was excellent:














Naturally, I was appalled by this nonsense. Granted, I am not a religious person, though I was raised up going to church and learning the books of the Bible, the parables, and the ten commandments. I was outraged by this manipulation of those kids who were likely forced into this. Next they'll be burning books, and I'm not sure if the world is ready for Jeremy the activist. Things could get pretty fucking ugly. Honestly, though, there is a lot of peer pressure on kids at this age to meet acceptable standards in this kind of environment. I remember being "saved" when I was in my early teens or so, because the youth director kept hounding me about it. I recall that my feelings then were much like they are now--disbelief, confusion, skepticism--but I professed my "faith" and was baptized in front of the whole congregation because I was pressured into it by a pushy youth minister. It seemed like he had a fucking quota to meet. Needless to say, I felt like a fraud.

But this brings me to another funny story (incidentally, although the name has changed over the years, this has all happened at the same church).

My brother is two years younger than I am. We could damn near pass for twins--we look alike, share the same odd sense of humor, and we get along really well. Anyway, about 8-10 years ago, my brother had gone to my mother's church to borrow her vacuum cleaner. She lived south of town and he lived nearby, so it seemed like a good meeting place. So he met her outside the building after church and began speaking with her. She would periodically introduce him to some random church member, whom he acknowledged then quickly forgot. Suddenly, he looked around and realized that he had become surrounded by these church patrons--they had created a circle around him.

Let me add that, during this time, my brother was in a semi-depressed type of mood. Whereas my depression was greatly defined by an increased frequency in drinking binges, his manifested itself in other forms, particularly through a radical change in dress and appearance. His hair which is actually brown like mine, was dyed black. His clothing was black. His eyeliner--yes, that was black as well. He had piercings in his ears, eyebrows, tongue (if he had them anywhere else, I don't want to know). The weird thing was that, although he looked differently than he had before, everyone recognized that he still acted the same--sane, a bit cynical, whatever.

So if we can all picture a kid of about 20 or so, wearing black knee-high boots and a Marilyn Manson shirt sitting in a church parking lot who has suddenly found himself surrounded by a bunch of religious zealots, then perhaps you are beginning to see the uncomfortable nature of how things were progressing.

Suddenly, the group around him starts chanting as they place their hands on him. He remembered looking toward my mother who had scooted to the outside of the circle, and says she was crying. The group droned and prayed (he says they were saying things like "three times three" but that makes it sound like some weird math cult) while he was completely fucking bewildered by the whole spectacle. He remembers how furious he was for these knuckleheads to assume that he had a devil they needed to cast out (number 1), and (number 2) that they would actually have the ability to perform such a stunt if one were actually required. But to be suddenly lurched on by a bunch of these religious fascists would have been beyond my pain threshold. He says he doesn't remember how this enclave actually broke up (perhaps there was a sign from Our Good Lord Jesus Christ), but he did say no one asked him to repent. I told him he should have taken the opportunity to scream like a homicidal maniac, jump up and down, defecate on the ground, and piss on everyone in the circle. They probably would have congratulated themselves on doing such a wonderful job.

Fucking idiots.

These people are so scared of making a mistake and going to hell that they live their entire lives in fear. It's like that infamous bumper sticker which reads "If you don't believe in God or Hell then you'd better be right!!"
To which I say "FUCK YOU!!" Yeah, that's a good way to convert people--don't tell them about the good things that Christians do. Instead, use scare tactics. That'll work. Scare me into loving the Lord. Hallelujah!

Fucking idiots.