Sunday, October 31, 2010

Chocolate Anyone?

Dear Diary:

Houston, we have a problem.

This is my first Halloween in my house. A few weeks ago, I was being told by my friend and his wife that I would be swarmed with kids looking for candy. I was told that even if I had the lights off, I would have kids banging on my door demanding treats. I was told they blew through eight bags of candy last year.

So, this year I was going to be prepared.

Oh yeah, yesterday I bought ten, yes ten, bags of candy. And since I remember being a kid and going out on Halloween and getting cheap ass shit candy, I was not going to let that happen to my neighborhood children, oh no. I was not going to have disappointed children leave my house, fuck that bullshit. I bought Kit Kat, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Crunch, M&Ms, and Twix. Chocolate baby, it's where it's at.

But, of course this was going to happen. Of course barely anyone was going to show up at my house, and leave a man who is now without nicotine with a big fucking bowl of chocolate goodness. Of course this man would also just have his wisdom teeth taken out.

I mean for fucks sake, if you want to torture this fat man any more please just remove my testicles. In fact, have a squirrel do it. Because the only other thing that could make me feel more on edge would be to have a squirrel chomping at my ball sack.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with all this candy? I can't eat it. I am not dating anyone so I can't give it to the her that does not exist.

Oh hey, I have an idea ladies of the DC metro area!

Tits for Twix!

(this message brought to you by pain meds, nic fits, caffeine and frustration)

Fuckin' Really?

Dear Diary:

Really?

Seriously?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Ok, so, obviously (if it isn't fucking obvious to you wake the fuck up) I am annoyed. Secondly, I am nicotine free and have nothing to take the edge off. Thirdly, my roommate has been a close friend of mine since we were in high school, but fourthly, at this point, I want to throw him and his shit out on the fucking street.

Because he has NO FUCKING CONCEPT OF WHAT IT MEANS TO PICK UP AFTER HIMSELF.

I am not a god damn maid.

As far as a few examples, he has NOT FUCKING ONCE cleaned the bathroom. He has not once wiped down the counter when he leaves water on it except when I tell him (um, it's a brand new granite counter top, and if he ruins it, I will break his hand), and, just for shits and giggles, when a dog he was babysitting apparently PISSED ON MY STAINLESS STEEL TABLE, he let is sit there.

How do I know he let it sit there? Because as I was eating a bowl of mashed squash I look over and notice that the floor has a water spot on it right on the leg, and then I move closer, and it is yellow. And dry.

I mean seriously? You are 32 fucking years old. If I have to tell you to pick up anything after yourself again, I will be telling you with my fucking boot on your throat, literally.

Fuck that bullshit. This is my god damn house, and if you want to treat it like a fucking joke, then find somewhere else to live. I get by fine without you pitching in money. But you are unemployed, and have been for a fucking year.

Don't forget I am doing this because you are a friend. If you take advantage of me I will kick the shit out of you.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Quitting Time

Dear Diary:

I REALLY WANT SOME FUCKING NICOTINE.

Not only is my mouth fucking hurting, but I cannot take the edge off with a dip, so, I am a bit annoyed.

But on the bright side, I will finally be able to give up that disgusting habit, even if at this very moment, I would love pop a dip in.

Now, for those who have never had an addiction to nicotine, I say first, don't judge. Going cold turkey is difficult. It is oftentimes more mental than physical, but I can feel my body having some type of reaction to having no nicotine in my system for almost 48 hours.

Furthermore, I am fucking staring at a can of dip right now. It is less than ten inches away from my hand. But, I know that if I put a dip in, it will only be temporary gratification and I risk causing seriously painful side effects to the wisdom tooth sockets that still need to heal. So, considering I am not a fucking fan of the dentist, not to mention the fact that I continue to hear the sound (oh that terrible fucking sound of the tooth being separated from the bone!) playing in my head, I am not even risking it, not even for thirty seconds.

But if you see me on the street, please try to refrain from pissing me off. I just may sever your head from your body for shits and giggles.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Fuck, My Mouth

Dear Diary:

Well, I am thankful today is over. The root canal went off without a hitch, and I am now sitting here with faint tastes of blood in my mouth as a result of having two wisdom teeth removed.

Oh, and I am hopped up on Vicodin. And part of my face is still numb. And I feel like someone punched me in the mouth, with a Volvo.

The root canal was the easy part. In fact, this is my second root canal, and they are really nothing spectacular. I think when people think of them as oh so painful, it's because of a preconceived notion of what it entails. But it's nothing more than drill, kill, and fill. They drill a hole, kill the nerve, hollow out the root, and fill it with plastic, then cap it. Forty minutes tops. I've taken shits longer than that.

Now as far as the wisdom teeth go, I will say this: I will never, I repeat FUCKING NEVER EVER FUCKING NEVER get wisdom teeth removed again without being put under. I didn't have a choice this time, but I have two wisdom teeth left and when those fuckers are coming out, it's nap time for this guy.

I felt like I was being pulled in different directions, and the sound, oh for the love of all that is good and holy in this world, that sound, the pop, of bone and tooth separating is something I hope to never, I repeat FUCKING NEVER EVER FUCKING NEVER, hear again. And that is what I told the gentleman who did the procedure. He did in fact describe it very well and the procedure happened just as he said it would, and asked me if it went as he said it would, and I agreed that it did, but that sound, holy fuck all I don't ever want to hear that sound again.

And now I can't eat anything except yogurt and ice cream tonight. And tomorrow I get to move up to mashed potatoes (which I made with a garlic and shallot butter) and squash, or mac' and cheese.

One thing I cannot do is spit. And I also cannot dip. So I guess this little recovery period will get me off my nicotine addiction. But I wish I didn't have to hear the fucking sound for it to happen.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

My Smile

Dear Diary:

I've been told I have a nice smile. That is when I smile these days. Which isn't often at the moment since I seemed to be bogged down in bullshit.

What I do know about my smile is that, well, after today, it is one expensive fucking smile.

Yes, I need dental work. How much you ask? How does getting a root canal sound to you? Oh, sounds like fun? Well then, how does having wisdom teeth removed an hour after the root canal sound to you? Like one big fucking party right?

On top of that, I need two crowns.

What? What is that sound? Oh, it is my bank account getting raped by a elephant, without any lube.

So I get to spend what should be a nice weekend recovering from having teeth pulled. I hope the people at the gym won't mind me spitting up blood on occasion, because I am sure that will happen at some point.

I just hope my brand new sheets don't get ruined. Because after all this, yeah, I am concerned about blood stains on the pillows. I mean, how would I explain that too all the women I bring back to my house?

Oh wait, there are none. Carry on.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Dating in DC, A Year (kinda) in Review

Dear Diary:

I have been seriously dating in the District a little over a year. When I say seriously dating I mean seriously putting myself out there, not relationship bullshit like, "sorry you buxom blond bimbo with DSLs from heaven, I have a girlfriend."

If there is one thing I have learned over the past year or so (give or take a couple months because I have been dealing with other shit thank you very much) it's that dating in this city, for lack of a better word, sucks.

It fucking sucks. Seriously. Dating in this city can suck a fart out of my ass, after eating Mexican. That is how jaded I am as I write this.

What I can't fathom for the fucking life of me is that with all the educated people in this area, it is chock full of fucking self-absorbed idiots. Oddly enough, I can picture women reading who happen to live in my area nodding their head in agreement. It does cut both ways, and I am sure that I have been thought of in the aforementioned group of morons at one time or another (I'm not awesome enough to be self-absorbed, unless you count the fact I blog about shit), but for fuck's sake, make it stop.

One thing I have respect for is at least being honest with someone when you don't want to see them anymore. But that bullshit where you just stop talking to them or communicating in any form in hopes they will take a hint is pathetic.

And ladies, for the love of all that is good and holy, please deal with whatever issues you may have before going out with me. I am not your former boyfriend who fucked you over, so don't run away from me and use him as an excuse. And for the LOVE OF GOD, do not get sloppy drunk on a date and flash the cab driver and then sit on the curb and pull your panties aside for everyone to see. You think it's seductive, I think it's indecent exposure.

And fellas, don't be a fucking douche, because honestly, I do not want to hear about how big of an asshole you were when I am on a date with a woman who thought you would be better off shoveling shit at a carnival.

And when you are having a date with someone, at least have the common fucking courtesy to look them in the eye when you talk, even if you are doing nothing but thinking about your exit strategy. If I can fake it until I make it out of there, so can you.

Yet, somehow, and I have no fucking clue how this is even still possible at this point, I remain optimistic. There has got to be ONE, at least ONE, normal, fun loving, intelligent, compassionate, caring, sweet, kind, lively, seductive, secure, confident, inquisitive, curious, attractive woman in the greater metropolitan area who likes to eat red meat, seafood, drink beer, and who would like to get to know me, date me, and at some point have intense, passionate, sweaty, mind-altering sex, with ME.

Eh, maybe I just need to be put down and put out of my misery. I think a nice shotgun blast to the back of the head ought to do it, or maybe even having my intestines pulled out of my ass until I bleed to death. Lord knows it would probably be less painful than me beating my head against a brick wall like I have done for what seems like a fucking eternity at this point.

So, who want's to go out?

Friday, October 15, 2010

I'm No Expert

Dear Diary:

Oftentimes, particularly in the blogosphere (did I even spell that right?) surrounding blogs about relationships or the destruction of relationships, we find little reassurances that everything is going to be fine in the end. Also, one may start writing on a subject, and others will pick up on it and provide their own take, but the gist of it is that people will recover, get stronger, be ok, and so on and so forth. And while this is true, and I harbor no ill feelings towards those across the world that write such things, and agree with what they are saying, there is another side of the story that often goes untold. And, I am no expert, but this is what I know:

Divorce fucking sucks - I mean really, do you think I actually want to be able to write about being divorced? Seriously? Do you think that I enjoyed going through utter and complete emotional hell? Fuck no I didn't. The Big D can suck MY big D, (but yes, I am a better person for having gone through it. Interesting contradiction isn't it?).

Divorce costs money - It costs a lot of fucking money. Do you think that I still want to be paying off credit card bills that I accumulated not only paying for my lawyer because I blew through my savings with legal bills even though I have been legally divorced for almost 2 years but replacing stuff like dishes that I was left without? If you do, you are smoking crack. Divorce costs money. Do you really want to shell out upwards of $20,000 dollars (if you are lucky) so that you can have the pleasure of being emotionally destroyed? Of course you don't. But, you better believe those legal bills add up, and they add up fast.

Divorce will completely fuck with your head - Oh you think you will be fine as you are going through it? You think that you are happy going through it? You think that you are actually smiling going through it? Bull fucking shit on that one. Being fine is the long term goal. Being happy is the long term goal. But if you think you will not feel pain and heartache going through the actual process of divorce, you are kidding yourself. Some part of you will feel like a complete failure. And this will creep up and moments you were not expecting.

This is what I know from my own personal experience. Each relationship and each divorce is different. But in the end......

You'll be fine.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

As She...

Dear Diary:

For She is always busy. And She isn't that responsive, nor is She receptive. So I put the ball in her court.

Yet I can take a hint.

(I should have written this weeks ago, but I have been a little busy. Fucking sue me)

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Fire and Smoke

Dear Diary:

And then there was fire.......

And not just any fire, but MY fire. The fire I have been waiting for roughly 21 months.



That's right baby, daddy has a grill! And not just any grill. A five burner gas grill with side burner. The grill the size of a small automobile. The grill that I have been waiting for for what seemed like a fucking eternity.

And I do not want to hear that it is October and grilling season is over. Fuck that noise. Grilling season is never over. If you have meat and you have fire, then put on a sweatshirt if you have to. I know I will.

This is the first gas grill I have owned. I decided not to go all out and buy the $800 Weber that I have been drooling over for the last year since well, A) I haven't won the lottery, and B) one does not go all out on their first grill. If I want that mack daddy stainless steel motherfucker with the rotisserie spit that gives me a chubby when I look at it, then well, I will get it, but not right now.

Right now, I am perfectly happy with the grill I have. Not only did it not cost me an arm and a leg, but it does the job, and can grill a shit ton of meat (yes, shit ton is an actual measurement of weight, because I said so). For instance, what you see is a dozen drumsticks and eight turkey burgers. What you don't see is the marinated flank steak that went on right after. Not to mention the fact I am going to load that fucker with kabobs tomorrow.

But...but...but...Divorced Guy, where oh where did you put such a beautiful grill?

Right on my big fucking DECK.

(get your mind out of the gutter)