Chronic Ruination

…take away the stuffing and neither one is as good.

Too late for a Thanksgiving blog post? Yeah, probably. It’s not like I really do Thanksgiving anyway. There’s just something about the  federally-recognized deodorizing of  genocide that makes eating a  Turkey marinated in a broth of its own filth and some delicious nitrites  seem a little…silly.

Sometimes I forget all about this blog until I have one of those delicious little experiences that I really can’t tell My boyfriend or best friends.

Like I said, I don’t do Thanksgiving.  I’m not exactly what you would call a cultural preservationist…quite the opposite.  My upbringing was a white-washed one. Still, I’m a huge believer in not doing anything pointless and excessive.

Excessive stands so magnificently well all on it’s own… in the right setting.

Right setting being the operative phrase…

Ever since I moved to TX, rosie has been begging to come visit Me he-r.  I’ve been keeping My distance though.   It’s always fun to make he-r feel worthless and unwanted before I cook up a months-long cocksucker’s dream/nightmare scene for it to try and get out of.  That’s not the case this time though.

That slut and  he-r lobbying pig pen is into some things I conscientiously object to as of late.  Not really going to go into the specifics but if it’s enough to  make Me depart from My Buddhist gone rogue notions of right and wrong, believe Me, it’s bad.   That and I’ve been busy.

Not just the “fuck off” type of busy either. Genuinely busy and occupied trying to figure out what to do with myself during these increasingly awkward post-undergrad years.

My degrees are in Political Science and Journalism. Since bachelor’s degrees are the new high school diploma, the choices are:

1. Be a newsroom production assistant/grunt alongside some 30-something boomerang kid whose parents made them choose between that job or homelessness.
2. Answer a craigslist ad for an account manager position at a self-described “boutique PR Agency”.  Only you realize during the interview that boutique apparently means attic apartment and that Public Relations has been reduced to posting craigslist ads and writing articles on shill sites in the minds of so very many of Atlanta’s small business owners. I never even brought out My writing or press kit samples during that interview out of fear that I’d probably get mugged for them.
3. Set up a few relevant  blogs hoping that they’ll be a great way to showcase  your skills with some of  the more established magazines or newspapers that have an online presence.  Only you realize that everyone in your graduating class, the one before that and the one before that…at universities all around the country had the EXACT same idea!  So you just send all those blogs to an early adsense grave/hell and hope for the best. Awesome.
4. Do the “logical” thing and get a professional degree.  Everyone looks better  on paper with a few letters in front of or behind their name, so I opted to go the law school route.  Law school everyone’s doing it!

Law school…everyone’s doing it.  That’s part of the problem. Everyone from twenty-somethings, out of work 50-somethings  and even a few 60/70-somethings who are cramming for the biggest final of all.

The first group of friends I made when I moved was with a 3L  and her fiance who graduated 3 years ago.  He’s jobless and under a pile of debt from the whole experience.  Not to mention his adderall addiction. Nice.

When My 3L friend introduced Me to him as a 1L, the first thing out of his mouth was: “Now why would you want to go and do a thing like that?”  For three months, it seemed like everywhere I went I’d meet someone who was also in law school or who had graduated a few years ago.  Have I met any successful practicing attorneys?  A few, but that all graduated before I was in the 6th grade!

I’m not into feeding the Sallie Mae machine so I cut the impending six-figure  losses and withdrew.  Ever feel impending doom taken off of your shoulders?  Yeah, that’s how I feel now.  My aunts, especially the one I lived with My last year of high school, are  livid.  Guess they’re going to  have to find some other way to taunt their friends with adult children who are indefinitely camped out in their game rooms and sleeping on air mattresses.  So now I’m just going to travel and fall into something. I’m no fatalist, but I’ve got faith. I’m thinking  the Mecca of that faith is in Oslo.  Going to check kayak.com right now and start planning My pilgrimage.

Signing back into Niteflirt in 2 hrs. In the meantime…

I’m increasingly becoming a Glenn Kessler fan… check out his latest.

Also, to the drive by- tribute mystery slut with the  micropenis  who is more  generous than I’d prefer with the pics: Send this week’s tributes here . I’m full from you, give someone else a chance.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2011

I’m all about just about anything that blurs that already shaky gender line for you weak little closet pantyfags.

I just had a barely audible talk with someone’s scared, shaky-voiced husband. There must be some unwritten rule that if you’re pre-neutered by some physical shortcoming or emotional defect, that you HAVE to stutter and stammer in the most hilariously pitiful way. My patience made it through a few minutes before I had to let it know that it was just one of those people that seem to beg for a good, long raping. We all know what kind of people those are.  Sluts.

As it was busily teasing itself with the vibrations from its wife’s clairisonic brush because the little lady is way too Protestant for sex toys for her husband to use on himself while she’s sleeping, I got an idea.

This past week, the news decided to bombard us with reports on groups of women in most English-speaking countries participating in Slutwalks. Apparently some police officer in Toronto made a comment about women in slutty clothing begging for sexual assault.  Now, women around the world are dressing like sluts to protest that type of thinking.

Being the thoughtful person that I am, I had to ask myself: Do men who dress like “slutty” women, act like bitches, or who diddle themselves with personal hygiene appliances at 4am in their time zone asking for rape?  I know where I stand on the issue, but everyone has the right to say “no”.

That’s why I want am going to start integrating these slutwalks with REAL he-sluts.

Starting tomorrow, If you know you’re not strong enough to fight off another person who wants to wear your throat or mancunt out without your permission, you need to be at the Slutwalk nearest you. The schedule is here.

Anyone 18 or older,living in the United States, that  attends either the slutwalk tomorrow or one in the future has the opportunity to earn some free, no credit card phone sex. Simply participate in the walk, then email Me a picture of yourself at your sluttiest.

I’ll reward you with 20 free sissy phonesex minutes. 10 bonus minutes to anyone who meets up with Cumwhore Kelly, my inspiration for this whole thing, at tomorrow’s Santa Cruz event. Make a sign or shout he-r name until the two of you are side by side. Hey, start your own movement together!

I’ve been signed in for calls the past few nights and, due to system glitches, a lot of you have missed Me. It seems to only happen when I’m taking calls from my cell. There’s a message in your inbox if your call didn’t connect. If it happens again, send a message immediately after you’ve attempted to call.

Guess who’s baaaaaaaaacccck!!

To be honest, I was done with the phone thing. DONE!

I couldn’t deal with all the headaches after Niteflirt decided to nosedive into another platform, eyes wide shut. Everything seems like it’s a bit more stable now, so I’ll be around at some point later this morning.

I’m in the process of treating myself to a nice loooooonnnng night of making a mess of that walking, whimpering hole formerly known as rosie. If you’ve been following my blog since ’07, you know all about that situation. If not, dig around in the old posts then come back to this one.

Before yesterday, I hadn’t heard from it in nearly a year. I kind of liked the silence. It’s always soooo deliciously shocking exactly how whiny and needy a guy who’s old enough to be my dad can be.

It called this time. Usually it contact me via a text or an email. Calls from it mean a bold kind of desperation; it doesn’t care what I can hear in its voice.

Remember having a favorite toy as a kid? Ever break it on purpose? Not all favorite toys break easily but when they do…when you don’t have to hit it with anything or drop it from the top of the staircase…there’s always this …. feeling.

I don’t know if I should call it a feeling, it’s more of a release. Releases flash fry. They rush in and penetrate everything they come in contact with. Then it’s over and the release is absorbed when feelings creep in and engulf it. Just like any other consumptive relationship, the consumer always takes on some of the characteristics of the consumed. Feelings always take on the characteristics of the release. Which is why people think they have no control over their feelings. There’s too much of the memory of the release still there.

Most people are too lazy or just aren’t smart enough to realize that it’s only that little something the release leaves behind that makes more seem necessary. No matter how much you want it to be, nothing is never as good as the first time. That’s how weakness comes in, the dependency. That’s that’s how a lot of things work. That’s WHY a lot of things “work”.

I’ll be around later…