Hey, what’s the big idea?

It’s too late at night to be starting a blog post. Lord knows these things take me forever because I’m that retarded genius who is painstakingly meticulous in trying to look like I don’t know what I’m doing. But we already know the motto of my little part of the internet: “Blah blah blah, but fuck it, I’m gonna do it anyway.”

Here’s a secret that’s not so secret. It’s one that I’ve been quiet about, because I know how ridiculous it all sounds. Because you, of all people, know that I’m prone to emotional flights of fancy. But I’ve got a secret to tell. A not-so-secret secret. It goes as such: I’m in love for the first time in my life.

If you’d have asked me 6 months ago, or even 6 years ago, I’d have said one of two things.
1) I’ve been in love a few times. Things never quite worked out, but my heart has been broken. I may not be a smart man, Jenn-ay, but I know what love is….
OR
2) I’m not sure people like me are capable of love. I think I’m probably a sociopath because it’s really easy for me to feel nothing.

Then Bonnie happened. She makes me regret my vasectomy because she is the only woman I’ve ever met who could actually handle having my diabolical genius baby. No, that’s bullshit. I regret it because I think she and I would have the raddest little shitheads to ever live. She is smarter than me, and funnier. There’s something about the way her b.o. smells that makes me feel like I want to cook her in a skillet and eat her up. When she is giggling like a mischievous 6-year-old in bed at 3 a.m. because she’s watching retarded shit on youtube, I am filled with this joy that I’ve never experienced. I mean, the whole thing with me being a sociopath? Right out the window. Because I feel like everything’s gonna be okay when I know she’s happy.

Apparently, I’m not as fucked up as I thought. Or maybe I just found the right thing for me. Or maybe I really am just getting old. It’s disgusting, really. I thought I’d have everything all figured out by now. I turned 33 last week. And I don’t have much at all figured out. Except that… I sorta like getting old.

And I sort of like not having as many lofty goals. I think it would be nice to have a porch at home, for playing chess or backgammon, for drinking tea, for reading books, for working on crossword puzzles. A patch of grass to dig up and plant some vegetation in. It would be nice to have a little tomato cucumber salad with some fresh mozzarella and basil. A few instruments strewn about, so I can pick something up every once in a while and remember what it was like to feel like a musician. A big slobbery dog that grosses me out while making me laugh.

Who knows what will come when it comes? But. I wanna be well. And I’m gonna be.

For now, however, I am gonna go kill myself for being such a sappy fuck and seeing Bonnie there with me in all of these future daydreams I keep having. I think maybe I’ll throw some batteries in a pot of boiling water and drink ‘em all up, gurgling away my last stupid breaths, thinking about the stupid lullabys I want to write her, choking down the hot metallic gravy, thinking my last thoughts on how life would never be the same again without her.

Yerp. That’s the secret. I’ve got it reeeeaaaal bad. And I’ve never felt so good.

Hopefully she dumps me someday so I really will have something juicy to write about.

Also, I’m working on a concept album about revenge-raping a dolphin that once upon a time stole my innocence.

Good night, and have a pleasant tomorrow. Or don’t. Whatever, dude.

Yours truly,
R. Spacely

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I’ve got a plan: to kill you all!!

I have been sick and sick and sick, thinking about this blog lately. Fuck. (Do you know how long it’s been since I wrote the word, ‘fuck,’ here? TOO long.)

A million thoughts here, I’ll likely have a hard time spitting them all out here, but give me a minute. Listen up. I just finished reading some random post I wrote here years ago, and it made me feel a lot of things:

I am all fucked up. If I don’t start purging my mind soon, I’m gonna lose it. The lack of creative flow, the lack of interest in putting in any real work, the lack of finished product to look at, and the subsequent lack of ego-strokage…. I am all jammed up. It feels like my brain and my heart need to both take a big ol’ shit. I’m talking about those giant turds that feel like they’re about to stretch your butthole into unpleasant realms, where there will likely be some bloody t.p. in your near future. But, god damn it, every time that kind of thing happens, you take that dump, you grin and bear it and make sad noises about it, and then you feel like you’ve been given a new kind of clarity… epiphany shits, right? You know what I mean.

Anyway, I need that. I feel sick and sad. I miss the feelings I got off of writing something funny or thoughtful or heartbreaking or pathetic. I miss having a place where there’s no filter, no one’s feelings to consider. Things got really weird for a while, let me not be a liar right now: things are always weird for me. And I tried starting a new blog somewhere in secret, and I tried writing on Stir-Fried here a few times, and it has just been absurd. Facts are, I am always making excuses because I am lazy for unknown but deep-seeded reasons. I am afraid of something, I guess. The excuses are running out, though.

I always made music and wrote bad poetry because I needed it. When I started a blog, it was because I was bored…. only to soon found out that I was writing because I needed to. There were plenty of stupid jokes about how I wrote because I couldn’t afford a therapist, and that was completely true.

I need to be writing. I need to be writing. I need to be writing. I need to be writing. I need to be writing.

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Put the toys away!!

I’m remembering a lot of things today. The kinds of things that I haven’t thought of in a long, long time.

When I was a kid, as in… before age 8? Anyway, back then my best friend was a girl. She was named Courtney. She has grown up to be exactly like she was as a kid: A wonderful loudmouthed brat who doesn’t have time for your bullshit. I liked that about her. I am more subtle and brooding. But the latter, I think, the “doesn’t have time for your bullshit” part, is something either she gave to me or I gave to her, or maybe we both had it all along and that’s part of what connected us, nobody knows. Today, I thought about playing with her when we were tiny stupid humans (see also: children). At my house, we played with my GI Joes and a few of her Barbies that she’d bring over. And Vice versa at her house. We’d also improvise a lot. A tennis racket was a guitar. A broom was a microphone. A rope was a snake. Or, I guess, sometimes a rope was just a rope. Whatever. We both had toy boxes. Maybe that was a thing back then. Maybe it still is, toy boxes? Do kids still have them today? I remember this part today: How frustrated I used to get because Courtney never put her toys away. Her mom and my aunt would be drinking in the kitchen but they’d always know. And they’d always yell. PUT THE TOYS AWAY!! I learned pretty early on that it was less of a hassle to just put my toys away. But she, Courtney, never caught on… or simply just did not give a shit. Don’t get me wrong, we were both incorrigible and rebellious from day one, but I found sense in putting toys away. It was almost peaceful for me. I don’t know why, but that’s just the kind of kid I was.

This image belongs to Little Tikes, not me. They make awesome toys, and toy boxes.

This image belongs to Little Tikes, not me. They make awesome toys, and toy boxes.


The kind of person I still am. I thought about it today, for the first time in twenty-something years. I was at work and needed to borrow a floor-squeegee from the meat department. The guys said, “That’s fine, so long as you bring it back.” My initial response was, “I will, don’t worry,” but what I really wanted to say was, “I will always put things back the way I find them, because that’s the kind of person I am.” That would have been overdoing it, especially in the presence of this meat guy I barely know and will probably never know much more. But, man, something in me really wants the world to know that fact about me. I am the kind of guy that’s gonna bring your fucking squeegee back. Because I’m not a dick, and I have respect for other people’s things. That same bit inside of me is the bit that makes me a very clean eater.

So, yeah, while you’re yawning your way through this post, I am having profound realizations about myself and the world around me. Remember that post where I talked ’bout this blog being for me, in place of an overpriced and incompetent therapist? So yeah, not my fault you were dumb enough to be waiting for “the point” while reading this horseshit.

Pretty cool how I ducked out being held accountable for your loss of time, huh? Yeah… I thought so.

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Dude…. Mercury is in retrograde.

A lot of weird shit happening. Crazy people are looking a little bit crazier. The past is coming back to fuck with us (see also: me). Dreams are kind of boring, but super emotional and vivid and haunting.

I saw a message on facebook yesterday. It said “Are you the guy from The Love Campaign?” The message was dated February of 2012. So. Of course I wrote back.

I said “Just got your message from over a year ago. Weird. But yes. That’s me. Hello.”

The other party wrote back 10 minutes later and said “Wow! ….Mercury is definitely in retrograde.”

Basically, what this post is, is to acknowledge the fact that I used to be a bit of an astrology nerd but I know nothing about transits and retrograde stuff. But I want to learn.

Maybe if you’re reading this, you’ll put something insightful in the comments for me to read later? Teach me, teacher!

Worrrrrrrrd up.

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Well, what the fuck else is there?

Tired of the excuses. The shortcuts. The backhanded way of doing things. I need to be writing. I need a blog. I’m tired of trying/failing to start something new, something anonymous. Fuck it. I’ve already alienated everyone at least once, why should I be worried about doing it again? Why worry about what happens when a prospective job decides to google my name?

See, I was all wrong. I was getting obsessed with “growing up” and whatnot. Turning 30 is hard to do when you spend your whole life thinking you’d never make it past “twenty-something,” you know? HARD TIMES, DUDE. But. Fuck. Shit. I did it. I got old. Now what? Should I “grow up” and find a reasonable way to make an honest buck, so I can someday support a family and blah blah blah blah blah? Even just wondering about these issues puts me to fucking bed. So. Then. What now?

There’s a really good chance that I am too smart to ever be happy. I mean, my brain never stops. I have this job, which I kind of hate. I go in every day and wait for something terrible to happen. I wait for confrontation. Heroin addicts. Meth heads. Arrogant, entitled, homeless people. My manager, who is a total bitch, by the way. Just thinking about the way his mouth curls when he speaks…. it makes me want to take a shit and watch Urkle’s greatest hits and cut myself all at the same time. My last job wasn’t much better. Neither was the job before that, and the job before that, and so on. OKAY. IT’S STARTING TO ADD UP.

Working. The concept of doing something I don’t want to do, for several hours at a time, on a regular basis, in exchange for green papers which I have very little interest in anyway. Yep, that’s working. And I don’t wanna do it.

work
I found myself thinking the other night, smoking on my balcony and staring at the half-moon, I was thinking this: “If everything is so small here, so entirely inconsequential, then what the fuck is the point in living? To help make the world better than it was before you got here.” Don’t worry, I’m not going to become a politician anytime soon, I promise. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? We are probably fucking pointless, unless we find a way to make a larger impact.

For me, that’s not an easy idea to sit with. I am 31 years old. Weird looking. Broke. Never went to college. Not as good at art as I wish I was. Not as good at math or science or languages, either. I don’t even speak Klingon, for fuck’s sake! So, sadly, I have no idea what to do. To make the world better. Not yet, anyway.

And then tonight I watched an old movie, a favorite from my childhood. Pump Up The Volume. Maybe you’ve seen it, hopefully? Here’s a clip, to refresh your memory, or perhaps to inspire you:

Anyway, I’m feeling inspired again. I started a new blog (again), for the purpose of being able to write secretly, privately, never having to worry about friends and family and lovers finding my blog and executing me for being a huge dickbag. But that was weeks ago, and I made 2 posts there. And then, tonight after the movie, I realised something very important. I don’t want to have some anonymous blog, even though it might be easier in the long run. Truth is, I want… no. I NEEEEEEED some motherfucking Stir-Fried Dinosaur in my life. I love this blog. It’s a semi-permanent testament, proof that I once did something constantly and consistently, for a pretty long while, and I was even kind of good at it.

So, in the meantime, even though I’m working a shitty job and having social problems and all of the other shit I get to eat every day, I’m going to do at least one thing I love to do. Maybe it’s not an immediate solution to my own futility, but maybe someday it will be. And even if not, I know this for sure: If you do something you really love, and then you share it for free with anyone who’s interested, that can’t be too bad a thing.

Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level. Next level.

Of course it’s been a year since my last post. And it was a long time before that one, too. I have not stuck with this, even though I promised a few people I would. But, you know, fuck you. Consider yourself alienated. I don’t do anything for you. I’m here because I’m crazy as batshit, and I can’t afford (and/or don’t trust) a therapist. I trust myself almost as much as I touch myself. So. Believe what ye want, while sucking on my ass, even. Because this:

I’M BAAAAAAAACK, FUCKERS!! Let’s party!

ron

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I do not you to tell me that I’m not a cat.

I still don’t know what this blog is about. But “growing up” has been a pretty major theme. I turned 30 in September, and it’s been weird. I mean, it was weird before. But it’s weird in new ways now.

By the way, I don’t think I was posting back then, so here’s a recap of my amazing 30th birthday:
September 19th. New girlfriend almost made me cry with extremely thoughtful and/or handmade gifts. Out to bar and then a different bar with friends and coworkers and new girlfriend. Got really drunk, for really cheap. A bunch of separate friends were meeting for the first time, and everyone loved each other. Saw some boobs (tits, breasts) that I didn’t expect to. Sucked on some other boob that I didn’t expect to. Brought the party home. Tried to invite some creepy crack-dealing type back with us, but friends didn’t let me. Kept drinking, didn’t need to. Passed the fuck out. Great.
September 20th. Woke up to awesome blowjob. Walked to restaurant for breakfast with girlfriend. Puked violently in bathroom while waiting for food. Went home to take a nap. Got up and drove to somewhere I can’t remember with girlfriend. Stopped home to roll two massive joints. Drove downtown to eat dinner at Quizno’s. Walked across the street to watch The Flaming Lips climb out of a giant psychedelic vagina and start shredding Sweet Leaf by Black Sabbath. Rest of show was too cool to describe. Show was over, walked outside to find Keller Fountain had been bubble-flooded and was now swarming with hippies and happy weirdos. (There’s video footage at the link I just dropped, you should check it out.) Shared joints with hippies, went home, made sweet love, and passed the fuck out.

This is the Keller Fountain, one of my favorite places in the world.

Anyway. Being 30. How weird. I guess I’m having trouble with the whole… being-a-fucking-loser thing? Those are harsh words, but I sometimes feel like that’s how the world views people like me. 30 years old, shitty part-time job, no serious goals, broke most of the time, et cetera. I mean, I’m doing better than the guy who’s still living in his mom’s basement… but not by much. And if my mom wasn’t dead, who knows where I’d be living.

I have been in a rut lately, which is part of the reason why I stopped making excuses and started writing this ridiculous blog again. And I am doing a couple of other things, too. I mean. I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve. I always do. This post isn’t meant to be all doom and despair AT ALL. I’m just…. venting. Shit is weird when you turn 30. That’s all for now.

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Look at my tail.

I don’t have anything to say, but I do have some time to say it, so I’m gonna say it. Because I think the important thing for me is just to write. Even if it’s terrible and bullshitty and pointless.

Looking for a cool video to post, something that might inspire some words, but…. I got nothing.

All I’m thinking about is this beer I’m drinking. And Rick Santorum.

That guy is fucking scary. I’m really hoping he doesn’t actually have even the slightest chance of running this already-fucked country. He REALLY BELIEVES in Satan. As in, SATAN isn’t just a mythical creature used as a tool of control by some religious sects, but… he (Satan) is an actual real thing that is running around trying to make everything turn to evil.

It makes me sad that anyone with a brain in modern society can’t understand the parallels between something like Satan/Jesus/Whateva and the “Mythology” of the Greeks and Romans and stuff. I mean. (Beyond the fact that the story of Christ can be found in folklore that waaaaaaaay predates the time when Jesus was supposed to have been around…) Really, Rick?

Seriously, though. As if people need a little red dude with a pitchfork to trick them into sucking and fucking, or smoking crack, or believing in evolution?

It just makes me sad that this guy is ahead in some of the early polls. I can’t fathom how anybody living in this time and place could POSSIBLY find any reality in what this dude is saying. I worry that he will win the primary, and somehow end up stealing the election in November.

Not that Obama is any better. Personally, I think that guy is a fuckhead, too. Even Ron Paul, my idea of “the lesser of two evils,” probably has no chance whatsoever.

Other than that, my coworker’s girlfriend got him a home-brew kit for Christmas. And I am enjoying a brown ale from his inaugural batch. Quite delicious. Making me think about how much fun it would be to start making ridiculously yummy microbrews at home. Even though my fat belly would not approve.

Anyway. Yeah. Here’s that weird video I was looking for.

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Do you look in the sky a lot??

And who’s to say I can’t write about happy shit?!

I just drove my fat ass home from the gym. That’s right. I have a gym membership… that I actually use. Me and D both do, actually. Kind of a New Year’s resolution thing, to get in better shape and whatnot. But shit. It’s the end of February, and we still go. Quite a lot. And we work hard. And we sweat. Today, I went by myself because my lady is at work, but I left a few minutes premature because I smell like garbage. I don’t know why I smell like garbage, but I do. Not always, just today. Like a 3-week-old ham and cheddar sandwich left in the sun, in a greenhouse. And I’m writing this before I even shower.

I’m making some taquitos. Because my stench is making me hunger for something that hasn’t yet rotted.

Anyway. Here is a video that I liked a lot. I’m putting it here because it is relevant to me and my blog and my life and my hopes and my dreams. Whaaaa whaaaa whaaaaaaaa!

ALIEN SHIT!!

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What is the light?

Yeah. I know. I’m a fucking jerk. I was getting really decent about posting here for a while. But. What can I really say? I just don’t have a lot of time these days. I work my shitty job, and I have a few friends to drink with, and I’ve even found myself a rad girlfriend. Life is good, and I guess that always makes me less likely to get on my blog to complain about the world. And without complaints, I really have no idea what to write. And even the complaints that I do have lately, I just don’t feel like really whining about.

Oooh, here’s something worth sharing:
I turned thirty (30) a couple weeks ago! Yep, no longer fitting into the “twenty-something bloggers” demographic. Me and the aforementioned rad girlfriend went and saw The Flaming Lips! Oh, right… Wayne wanted everyone to know that, despite playing in a fairly small seated venue, he triumphantly went into the crowd in his space bubble. And it was fucking cool. Goodness, so many things to say about that show…. things I have no desire to mention now. You should have been there, dummies!!

Also. Well, no. That’s it. I don’t feel like writing anymore yet.

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We Are The World

Well, this weekend was fucking SICK!!

I was going to try to write about it, but I don’t want to.

I will just show you this:

Yes, sir. I was there. Life changed.

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