Pathetic. That's how I felt when I realized I started this blog months ago, only to leave it rotting.

Well like any good zombie, I'm going to rise up, half decomposed and sun burned, to feast on a few brains when someone walks within range.

Because consistency is the key. The lack of that trait has haunted me throughout my life. I have always failed to be consistent. I've never had a problem being per-sistent, even to the point of being extremely obnoxious and arrogant about a topic I've known very little about (I get paid for this now). But sticking to my guns, staying with the ship while it sinks to the murky depths, that has never been a strong suit. I've always managed to hitch a ride with the closest rescue raft.

Well FUCK THAT. That's over and done. At least until I grow bored.

I've completely dropped the ball on this blog. I really had high hopes, scribbling a few designs for t-shirts and book covers (seriously...unfortunately), thinking I was going to make this blog important. But I couldn't stay consistent. Now this is the first starting point, the first step towards being a dependable, consistent asshole.

The ultimate paradox for me has been the fact that consistency has been closely associated with everything I hate. The time-clock. The habitat. The routine, The SCHEDULE. I've never wanted to be consistent because I was afraid I'd trap myself into being normal. Normal is the last trait I ever want to hear someone associate to me.

I've always been drawn to the free-spirited, inconsistent Kramers of the world. The guys who would be so incomplete, they were lovable. I've almost purposefully been late to every single event so that I could bust down the door, slide in, and slap a hand to my forehead to the chorus of cheers from a studio audience. I've taken the term "fashionably late" to a whole new level. I felt that I absolutely HAD to make a dramatic entrance. My ultimate fear in life? To be forgotten. I lay awake at night afraid that I will die and be forgotten--my existence trivial, accomplishing nothing.

So in a way, that was my consistency. The way I felt, the desire to be seen as abnormal. Remembered. INCONSISTENT.

But in truth, somewhere down the line, you find out that consistency is a necessary evil. An embrace with the devil, in order to secure a steady job, a consistent income, and a consistent standing with the world. Being thorough and timely, routine and consistent, can get you a slice of that apple pie laced with arsenic and baked with the failed hopes of millions---but fucking TASTY with the spice of tears and the motivation to bake a better version. A version that you can take to the bake sale and make old hag Windy shit herself with envy, and pray to God for the secret ingredient. A version that makes the runners-up proud that SOMEONE was able to defeat the champ...

In all actuality, the right mix of consistency and wild spirit can mix a molotov cocktail of success. Consistency actually buys you enough time to pursue your vision for a better life. It can buy you enough time to figure out how to achieve your calling.

You just have to embrace it, but hold on to what makes you. You can't let this world suck you dry-- it will. You have a point, a destiny, a calling. You have to hang on to everything you have....because once you try to ride and tame the beast of routine, you absolutely can't fall. Failure has to be unacceptable, because there's nothing left on the floor to soften the blow.....

So despite fact that it drives me bat-shit insane, I'm going to seek a little consistency. I'm actually going to finish what I started. Look for more writings......

I'm sure I can find more bullshit to write about. And I know I can consistently write and sound like a total douche bag :)

P.S. My apologies if this makes absolutely no sense. I'm not even sure that it makes sense to ME after re-reading. It's ze devil (alcohol is presently involved)

The First is the Worst

My first attempt at blogging outside of Myspace is more than likely doomed to failure.

Not necessarily the blog itself, but this first entry is already reeking of bullshit. I know for a fact I haven't shared the unwelcome wind. It's just that the only topic I could think of to write about is....well....stereotypical.

I'm going to write about FEELINGS. Oh Jesus Stegosaurus Robert Cop Streisand FUCK!!!!!!!

Guys, drop your guns, we've got to get the hell out of here.....it's ROBERT COP.

I figure getting this out of the way early will allow me to slowly work towards living up to the extremely bad ass name of this gospel of awesomeness.

Feelings SUCK. Everyone has them, and no one can seriously say they have complete control of them. 95 percent of the world just doesn't have a grip on it, and if they tell you otherwise, punch them in the ear. Or jaw. And/or face. It doesn't fucking matter where. Just slam them with your head full of hate, and your fistful of fuck-off.

I have no control over them. I do like everyone else....I find an outlet to help mask them. Because no one seriously wants to hear how you feel. And I really don't blame them, because no matter how many times you mention that Sally Jane and Joe Blow stole your Robert Goulet pictograph, fed your cat baking soda and booted a shit slightly to the right of your toilet (aptly named the Scott Norwood)....the person you're bitching to wasn't there. Mentally speaking---he/she doesn't truly "know how you feel". It's wasting time to say that, unless they were physically there to witness Sally and Joe's rampage. Then it's just entertainment, and if you were telling me all this, I'd be laughing hysterically (i'd try not to laugh during our conversation, but I'd laugh all the way home. Who am I kidding? I'd be cackling).

Gravity is a bitch.

(Side note--- why do people update their Facebook statuses with medical emergencies??? I can't jump through my computer screen and come save you. Dial 911, dipshit. On a related topic, why do people comment back and ask "are you okay"???? Obviously they feel ridiculously well, given the situation, fine and dandy enough to type it out. No pity needed. Don't humor them.)

I hate expressing my feelings. I really hate having them, except for that feeling of being alive (funny how feeling "alive" is such a rare emotion among living beings. That's always baffled me). For one thing, I have no one to vent to anymore, because I've been a tad alone in a new city that lost it's newness over a year ago. Not to mention that I absolutely can't stand knowing I'm spreading the disease. I hate making people unhappy, worse than ANYTHING in this world. Even CARROTS (carrots are stupid because I'm not a rabbit).

On the flip side, your feelings are YOU. Because you have feelings, you have passion. Even the worst feelings can feel absolutely amazing. When I'm sad, that aforementioned feeling of being "alive" creeps in, reminding me that I'm not dead or dying, and I have another day to live and make my world a better place.

Don't let anyone take your feelings for granted. Don't let anyone humiliate you for how you feel. If they don't care to know what makes you feel passion, shame, wonder, happiness, sadness, etc.....then they're missing out.

It's their loss. You don't need anyone to understand you, ever. I think being understood is actually a trap. You become a bottled ideal, you become defined by what everyone else sees. When in reality, no one sees anything but your skin. Unless you trip over a black hole and get ripped to shreds. Even then, they don't know how much it hurts.

The most valuable thing someone can have is a good listener. In my opinion, there's nothing holier than an open ear that has no intention of judging you. That's why people pray-- because they never think that God is going to kick them in the gut for how they feel (they just worry about his wrath when they pull some messed up shit).

And if he disagrees, they never hear it. "God" is an amazing listener----completely quiet while you share the most personal details.

Come to think of it, maybe that's why everyone runs to religion. It's that outlet.....the medicine that heals you. Sports, dance, music, fixing old cars, collecting weird hats, photography, eating crayons, streaking, pigging out, vandalism, yelling at random people ....even writing stupid blogs for the faceless void to read. You just want a listener. So many people are just lonely.....

Writing and music have always been my outlets of choice. I used to do exactly what I'm doing at this moment....playing music, spewing out this collection of letters that form the words in my paragraphs of nothing. Only difference now is there are less illegal drugs involved. Even with music, you play instruments in order for someone to hear you. You're kidding yourself if you say "I just do it for fun". You know you secretly want someone to feel your passion, see your heart, live in your world for a few minutes......to connect.

I have an electronic drum set, and it's been the best $1200 I've ever spent. I basically went into a financial hot mess after buying this on impulse, but it's paid me back in trillions of "theoretical dollars". I've been a drummer since I was 13, and busting phat beats always carried my sorrows away, washing them down rhythm river. But now I'm a serial apartment dweller, and neighbors are usually jerks about loud noises at 2 AM, so this was actually one of my more logical purchases (I'll run down my Top 257 idiotic purchases at another time).

I'll run my iTunes through the drum "brain" on the kit, pick a set and jam along to my favorite songs. I secretly pretend I'm filling in the drummer, mimicking each style and song, and I'll stare out my window, alone, with the blinds closed (like the show is on hold, waiting for the curtains to come up, but they never do).

Well I'm now ready to put the "fail" stamp on this nonsensical drivel. I've screwed up the goddamn font, and I can't seem to figure out what the hell I did. Thank God, or Satan, for computers and keyboards, because if I wrote this by hand, my wrist would hurt, and I'd be even more pissed off than I am now.

I just wanted to ramble, so I promise future install-a-ments will have added entertainment value. Including insane explosions on paper, with dinosaurs, guitar solos, monster trucks, robots who just don't give a fuck, and a lot of LEAVING THE CAPS LOCK KEY ON INTENTIONALLY (because that's when I'm serious). I'll make a more concerted effort to edit out the crap, because I type just as much as I talk, which I've been told is an extremely annoying trait. Who cares.

So in review, I see that I wrote some hypocritical stank, which is the nature of the beast. Theoretical dollars is a bat-shit crazy term, that I'll never utter ever again. I misspelled "installments" in the previous paragraph, but adding those two dashes either looks cool or says I'm a m-o-r-o-n. I really do like yelling at random people. A tiny black hole would actually rip you to shreds--and I know because I bought this book I've never finished by Neil DeGrasse Tyson, and I was dicking around with silly putty, and when I pressed it on this book, that knowledge was copied onto the useless gooey booger (I have since returned to reading this awesome book).

I didn't mention Mary Lou Retton at all because gymnastics are boring, but I'm calling every shit that hits the floor a Scott Norwood from now on.

Mary Lou, being so not worth it, and flipping out.

And I didn't mention that my younger brother is the most awesome person I know. He's accomplished more than I ever will, and I'm so proud of him. He's a soldier, who has dedicated his life to this country and its people. Because of brave men and women like him, I can write, say, believe and feel anything I choose. I love him, and I probably should've spent more time talking about him than my feelings, carrots, and "emotosis". He's awesome, and I just can't say that enough.

Goodnight all. Heading to the kitchen to take a swig of my prescribed cough syrup, and drift off to sleep to the awesome sounds of The Darkness. The first is usually the worst, so better luck next time.