I am a traveler of both time and space.

[WARNING: I generally try to avoid spelling/grammatical mistakes, but this post is probably pretty retarded. And I can’t be bothered to spellcheck/proofread because I am completely cooked. Enjoy.]

Well this is just fucking swell. Hot tattoo artist chick has read my blog. I don’t know exactly when. I’m assuming a few days ago. She “found it on facebook.” Ha! Bastards. We’re not even facebook friends. Did I admit that I have facebook-stalked her a little too? No, of course not. But. She knows. She knows something. I don’t know what. Do I ask? Fuck it, I’m asking.

(“I have been to Abilene, the spirit world rising. I have seen in Abilene, the devil has Texas.” This is the Daniel Johnston song I’m listening to that gives me goosebumps still after already hearing it 46,309,309,485 times. Special things.)

Oh man! Fire in my brain! I’m drinking/drunk and there’s lady things and drama and stalking and holy fuck! I am tempted to do the rest of this post in ALL CAPS. That’s how ooky I’m feeling right now!

SUPER! And I just dumped whiskey all over my desk. I have soaked my Middle To Nowhere business card once again. AND I just sliced my toe on my Jim Beam bottlecap. Motherfuck!

God damn. I don’t even know where to go from here. LOUDER music? YES. But I can’t seem to make it loud enough to soothe me. Not good. God damn. So there’s this website I use, 20sb.net, and it’s basically a big fucking community of bloggers who are all in their twenties. Like me! I’m 28. Nope, not 30 yet, bitches! But there are forums there. And in the forums, there was a thread, a topic. About “blogging under the influence.” Some folks were proposing a night where everybody got all jacked up on drugs and alcohol and then posted a bunch of weird shit throughout blogland.

(Shit, dude. She’s not even responding to my texts now. Does that mean she’s reading thourgh my bullshit as I write this?)

Well anyway. I don’t need an excuse or a special night. I do what I want. All day long. Shame on a nigga who tried to run game on a nigga. I am fucking crocked. End of story. Thanks, James B. Beam.

MEANWHILE my little cousin walks down here and stands there for three minutes while I don’t notice because the music is so good and loud. He tells me it “smells like bourbon down here.” How the fuck does he know I’m drinking bourbon? He didn’t even say WHISKEY, he said BOURBON. I am drinking “Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey” and he knows.

Oh my fucking god, man. I thought this was an awesome night and now… I have scotch tape all over my face. No. Now, I am shivering in a frenzy of paranoia and shame.

{shot #7 or 9}

Setlling down… settling down.

I fucking love you people. Time after time, I alienate the shit out of everyone. And you keep coming back. This blog is like Andy Kaufman on a bad night. And I know it. But you hang with me. You suffer with me. You cry my ridiculous tears of joy with me… no. That’s going too far. Whatever. I thank you. I should never have started a blog. But I did. And you lovely folks take the ride with me. And I appreciate it more than you know. Because I am an ego-driven human just like you. I want attention and recognition and empathy and acceptance. And you give me that. Really, you’re all a bunch of fucking enablers that are perpetuatuing my mental illness. But that’s okay. I love you.

Here. Watch this, it’s perfect for this moment!

See, wasn’t that perfect? I love Shatner so SOOOOO much. Songs like this are the reason that I do terribly embarrassing things. I complain while it’s happening. But I assume, eventually, I will even make sense to myself. You’re gonna die. By the time you read this, I may be dead. And you, my friend, may be next. So, let’s be honest and HUMAN while we’re still here, dig?

God damn. So I settled down the hot tattoo artist chick. She didn’t decide to hate me yet. God. Could you imagine? Fucking around with some dude. Having fun. Knowing he’s a little crazy, but not really experiencing it fully yet. And then reading this blog (if it happened to be his)? God damn. I think, so far, she knows I talk too fucking much. And I can’t stop my brain from overworking and overanalysing and overthinking. And she knows I almost started to fall in love with her (before I stopped myself and came back to reality).

(I’m not going to say anything but I bet if you come back in a six months, we will be “dating” still, and totally crazy about each other. I know people and sociology pretty well. And I’m pretty sure this thing with this girl is one of those things.)

And once again, my insane ass is crying tears of joy. Bob Dylan’s To Be Alone With You. Nashville Skyline is a brilliant fucking record. BRILLIANT. I’d say it’s my favorite Dylan record, but that would probably mean I’m not really a Bob Dylan fan. If you’re a Bob Dylan fan, you know what I mean. RIGHT?!?! Right!!

God damn. How many paragraphs can I begin with “god damn?” Seven, that’s my limit. But I won’t do seven tonight. I will save that.

I am ending this. Now. I may have more later. But I really hope I don’t. Let’s all just pretend this didn’t happen, okay? Okay, great.


About R. Spacely

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One Response to I am a traveler of both time and space.

  1. jaminicole says:

    The reason I love your blog so much is because I’ll be home alone on a Friday night, kind of lonely and melancholy. And then you’ll post something, and I’ll be doubled over in squeaky giggles, calm down, press the down button, only to see that you’ve written even more (just when I think you can’t go on, you always do), at which point my giggles will get all squeaky and ridiculous.

    It’s dumb, but I’m no longer all lonely and melancholy. I’m like, “aaah, INTERNETSILOVEYOUS!”

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