In A Fridge Next To The Old Ham.

Good news everyone!

"Oh, oh." You think yo yourselves. "What horrible science fiction themed gore-spew is he about to lay upon us? A mission to plant Fishy-Wizz 9? Or maybe just to it's bustling tourist moon of Long John Silver? Hopefully not a delivery of neosporic-tarter-goo."

Why the thinly veiled reference? Because I know my audience here.
Yes.
I do.
Look above.
I read your minds.
I like easy reading.

You people of fleshy bean bags crave a story. A science fiction story. Of intrigue, maybe, horror, certainly. But, what of the account of my past few months of riff-raff adventures? I promised to indulge you all in my ramshackle life-style. I also promised something about coffee last time, but my coffee is like my people.

Black. And drunk.

I've decided to take a different approach to the whole things as I can't stand non-fiction. About as much as I can't stand fiction on the History Channel. I'm looking at you mushroom haired man that claims aliens are our global grand daddy sperm doners.

I've begun outlining a piece that falls in between. Concocting bizarre mutant twists to the creature characters I've been encountering. Nice and clean in between the freaky and the deaky.

You'll be seeing this sci-fi opus of puss to come over the next few days. At least in little pieces, as I like to think of all of you. If that isn't clear enough, please read the title.

-Always Smilin'.

A Squandered Life: My Own Fucking Amusement

     You can expect to various rantings and ramblings which are simply for "my own fucking amusement". Whose been watching those YouTube videos of mine, hmmm? Which is what I expect the next entry to be, keep reading for a sneak preview of the strange thought that hit me 5 minutes ago. Unless I change my mind, then it'll be the strange thought that hits me in the next 5000 minutes. It'll be strange and elaborate; that's my World Famous Joker Grantee!  

    This entry however is part of a series that I hope to later use to compile a book I plan on writing. It'll detail my time living in the ghetto as a white geek-boy, the month of homelessness that followed, and my present state of "sorta jail". Even if I don't write the book, I'll have a shitty blog to look back fondly on.

  

     Today's already too long post is a bit of homework I had to do for one of the groups we have here in "sorta jail". The assignment was to write 2 paragraphs about our greatest fear. I chose to volunteer to read what I had in the next group and received quite a bit of respect from my fellow "sorta convicts". That's step one in becoming a criminal master mind, far more fun than completing the 12 steps. Without further bullshit; My Greatest Fear : A Squandered Life.


     He’ll wake up in his simple studio apartment; he might be hung-over. If he isn’t, he most certainly will be the next day. It’s time to prepare for eight hours of mindless work in a factory, warehouse, or maybe scooping dead possums from the roadside. What ever it is; it’ll be boring, tedious, and all around soul crushing. Perhaps enough pay for smokes, Steel Reserve, Ramen, and rent. Those necessities listed in order of importance in the sad, sloppy, foolish, and flabby failure’s mind. 

     Aside from the usual signs of poverty the apartment is strewn with other sorts of depressing memorabilia from a life of melancholy. The real stab in the chest is what isn’t there. A wife, couple of kids, big TV, nice car; these are things that could have been earned. Worse yet there’s a constantly reoccurring twinge deep within over the education he never finished, the job as a chef he never worked towards, the stories he never wrote down, the sketch books he never filled. He’ll leave the apartment unaware if it’s his day to die; unsure how he’s lived the past forty years. Even less sure if he’s lived at all.

     I promissed a preview of the next post didn't I? Turns out I lied, opps. If you read all the way to here though, I won. 30-Love or something. I forget how they score things in tennies, but god damn, if this was tennis...you'd have love bitches. Oh yeah, I might be addicted to caffiiene. That might count as a preview, I don't know.