God, I swear this isn’t going to be one of those things that I start, and never finish. Maybe “Attack of the Super Rad Women” will have to spread out over say… 12 days? Because I really do need time to just write. I am getting too sad about not writing. And I know I’m still not very good, but it just feels so healthy. And I’m listening to Schoolhouse Rock Rocks! This music makes me feel too dopey and cute to try and write a diatribe about the poor, misunderstood Yoko Ono right now. And there’s whiskey.
I’m wondering if someone dipped into my Jim Beam while I was out last night. This bottle is definitely a little lighter than I remember it being. And the only person I could think of would be my little cousin. 13? That’s old enough to want to try getting drunk on Bourbon, isn’t it? Or maybe I did just drink more than I realised. Who knows. I just like to imagine what it’d be like if he was just sitting around drinking Jim Beam on a Wednesday night. Weird weird.
So I watched the second half of The Wedding Singer before. I am a sap, and so I think that movie is adorable. I always wished that Adam Sandler would record an album of cute, serious songs, you know? Like that song about “I’ll even let you hold the remote control?” It’s fucking cute. And he’s got a really decent voice when he’s being earnest about it. I should make a post in the near future about how much cheesy romantic comedies have destroyed my ideals of fulfillment in love and relationships. I know this post would be a bit too Sex, Drugs, & Cocoa Puffs. But I wanna do it anyway. I have my own voice. Klosterman can piss off. But that’s maybe for another time too.
I’m thinking about the futility of this blog. I am really weirded out that I kinda have to censor myself now. Not majorly, I guess. But yeah. This used to be my dirty little secret. And now, people who aren’t ready for my secrets can be in on my secrets. It makes me feel very exposed, you know? Which, I suppose, could eventually be a turn-on, maybe. But I’m still new to this sensation, and it’s still a little icky. I feel like a kid that got caught jerking off. And I’d hoped I was past that point of my life.
I guess I have to push myself though, right? I mean, I have to be me, regardless of how painful that gets. Well, that’s nothing new really either. I’ve always made decisions based on fear… or more, my need to push myself into fearlessness. Haha, some of the results have been irreparably bad, I have screwed up a lot of good things by just being myself. But, really, what the fuck else is there? I’ve been other people too, and that was probably much worse.
No. I have a responsibility to do the right thing. Integrity. I have to have integrity, especially if I ever want to do a taping of the Oprah Winfrey show when my blog gets megafamous and all.
I don’t know if you can tell but. This post is about nothing, other than my “coming to terms” with having people I know read this. In particular, that girl I keep talking about on here. God. The thought just makes me squirm though. Can you imagine being out with someone, playing all this kissy-face stuff, and then you come home and you know want to write about it because THAT is just what you do, but you know the kissy-face person is gonna read it? That is some daunting shit. See? This is why I’ve never been much of a musician. I am really fucking good at being myself in a room, by myself, with some instruments and recording gear. But the second you put me on a stage in front of humans, I get all locked up. When I play guitar in front of people, my hands (not really, more like MY ENTIRE BODY) starts to shake. A lot. And I feel the blood in my face getting hotter. And I have to drink 9 whiskeys to calm down enough to play. And then I end up shitfaced drunk, playing sloppily acoustic Ol’ Dirty Bastard covers.
But then, that is kind of just… my way. I like that, I guess. I think I should just assume that I will turn out to be too weird for this girl, and then I’ll just be alone again for a month until I find something else that wastes time until the next thing? See, there’s that pop movie romance bullshit speaking for me again. I assume that I deserve to have someone amazing who gets me RIGHT NOW, you know? Like there will eventually come a day when I meet someone, and right away, I won’t have to feel terribly sorry about who I am? I’ve already explained to you guys that I feel guilty for all my ramblings and eccentricities and quirks and stuff. I think pop-culture mythology has raised me to believe that I will eventually get my someone, a someone who just understands it and embraces it, all my crazy.
Someday, maybe, right? So I guess it’s not bad to just be real here. The girl can read what she wants. And when she runs off because it’s all too much, then I will understand. And I will patiently wait, and I will quietly know that someday I will find the square hole. You know, the one where I can put my square peg? Yeah, that one.
And if I’m too cheesy romantic, that’s not my problem. I mean, that’s how I am. I love women. And I want to be sweet with them. And why worry about one person not getting it? Because there’s probably a line of women out there who wish guys were a little nicer, right?
And, don’t get me wrong. With all my kindness and cuteness and vulnerabilities and teddy-bearlike qualities… I am still a crazy asshole that can fuck some shit up. You know? I mean, it’s not like I’m completely soft. I stand up for myself, and the ones I care for, and I stand up for what’s right. These are good qualities, I think, and sometimes not readily found in men.
Ladies, am I right? Women want a well-rounded gentleman that can cuddle up like a softee, OR build a deck in the backyard, OR fight a menacing alligator that is encroaching on sweet picnic time. I think this is accurate, right? I’m just saying. If this chick is reading my shit, and it scares her off… that’s just too bad for her, right? Because there are definitely some other women that would say I’m kind of a catch.
So that’s it, then. I just gotta say “fuck it” once again. If I want to rave about personal things, then that’s my right. Because this is MY blog. For instance, it wasn’t a fluke: Most perfect vagina in the history of vaginas? All day again with the heat and the sweating and the fucking around… it still tastes so fucking good that I’m probably going to dream about her tonight? I have no fucking shame. I can’t. I have to be true. And those that don’t like it can all eat shit.
That’s the way it’s gotta be. I am okay. I’m good to go. For now. Until anxiety gets to me again, probably in a few days. God, that shit is getting tired though. I don’t know, man. I am not into all those pills because they make me a zombie. I wish there was a more perfect compromise, you know? Less anxiety, but still getting to keep my personality?