Turning Wine Into Water (Part 1)

I could get used to this. Mounds of white sand, clear water as far as the eye can see and non-stop sunshine. Caribbean tanned girls in tiny string bikinis, enough to keep my eyes entertained for days on end. An endless supply of alcohol for even the most discriminating drinker, enough to keep me in a drunker stupor for days on end. And course after course of finely prepared five-star food, enough to keep me feeling stuffed for days on end. I thoroughly enjoy life where shirt and shoes are optional. I thoroughly enjoyed Aruba. It’s just the escape I needed to unwind and relax. A remote little island. A private piece of property free from the real world and all the responsibilities and obligations tied to it. It’s a nice getaway to get away from it all. I’m not sure what it was though. If it was the secluded exclusiveness of it all or the inconclusiveness of my life lately, but I was left feeling lonely in Aruba. Despite being surrounded by 20+ people for a close friend’s wedding, something just didn’t feel right. Sure I smiled and laughed and yucked it up, but something was missing.

The beach wedding was beautiful! Something I imagine my wedding will one day be like, if and when I ever get married. It would be small and intimate. It would most likely be surrounded by sea and sand. I’m thinking something exotic, yet semi-casual and simple. And yes, I’ve given it more thought than this, but I’m not disclosing details. It’s odd enough that a straight man has actually given some (emphasis on "some") thought to what his wedding day may be like. So I don’t want to say anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not flipping thru Bride magazine and I’m in no rush to marry. Just the mere thought of being tied down to one person for the rest of my life right now scares the shit out of me! Although in due time, I’m sure I’ll see that differently. When the right person comes along, I’ll know it. And I’m sure my wording of "being tied down to one person for the rest of my life" will change dramatically.

I hope when that day comes I will not think I’m giving anything up. I will not see it as a lose, but rather a gain. I would like to think that I will see her as the greatest thing that ever happened to me and feel blessed that not only have I finally found her, but she was kind enough to let me into her world. I will be deliriously happy, ready and thoroughly excited to start a new chapter in my life. I may reminisce fondly, but will not have the want, need or urge to return and reap the rewards that as a single man I once devoured with an insatiable hunger. The bachelor life will be a distance memory and not something I pine for. I will be happily married and completely satisfied – something that is rare for anyone these days.

I was not the one tying the knot in Aruba and because of that, I was there strictly for fun and play. We took snapshots with the happy couple as we ran along the beach, where the water broke and returned to the sea. Splashy, playful photos that I can’t wait to see. I took off my socks and shoes, rolled up each pant leg and kicked my feet thru what could be nicknamed as the world’s largest puddle - the Caribbean Sea. It was very freeing, almost child-like. I believe this is how love should be, freeing and child-like. If a girl can’t laugh with me, play with me and just let go...then I really don’t want to be with her. Where would the fun be in that? Personally, I think people place too much importance on money and career. And I know that sounds absurd coming from me, someone who has been known to be a work alcoholic at times and lately has been consuming himself in his business. I am devoted to my work, but I can be equally as devoted, if not more so, to a significant other. What most people don’t know is that I only make my company my #1 priority when that is all I have. When I have a girlfriend, I reprioritize my life and she is moved to the top of my list. I do it unconsciously and I think that is a good thing. I’m not saying I need to spend every waking second with her, but she should feel confident knowing that if I ever need to make a decision about something, I choose her. I know how to create a healthy balance in my life.

And seriously, if couples would stop trying to keep up with the Jones’s and start playing like the Jones’s kids, I think more marriages would survive that 50/50 failure rate. Because if you aren’t having fun with each other, then what’s the point? If you aren’t smiling until your cheeks hurt, laughing until you nearly pee your pants and having so much fun with someone that all of life’s stresses just seem to melt away, then you simply have not found the right person to be in love with. Maybe I’m just a stupid boy who lives on his own little happy cloud of romanticized dreams, but to me it’s quite simple. If you make me smile and laugh and feel happy, I want to be with you. I want to hang out, spend some time, see what happens. Is that wrong? I’m not concerned with all the other details. Life has a funny way of working out the details. I think if people would just relax, let their guard down some and go with the flow, who knows where it could take you. One day you may find yourself getting married on an island too. And if not, at least the journey was fun while it lasted and you learned much along the way.

Sometimes before we commit, we need to sin. We have primal urges and needs. And we have the overwhelming desire for those urges and needs to be satisfied. In that sense, I’m no different than any other guy. If I feel a void in my life, I look to fill it. In Aruba I felt lonely, so I looked for companionship. I’m not naïve enough to believe that I would fall in love and I certainly wasn’t looking to, nor did I. Although that empty space was temporarily occupied for a night or two. She was tall and thin, 22 and maybe 5'10. She had long dark chestnut brown hair and the most mysterious green/gray colored eyes. She was exotic looking, which I liked. And spoke with a foreign accent, which I loved! I could pronounce her name, but if I were to spell it, I would surely butcher it. She called me Day-Vead. It was how she said David. Although I understood little of what she said, I could have listened to speak all night. She could have told me she just pooped her pants and it would have sounded sexy coming from her lips.

...to be continued.

I Love The Olympics Like A Fat Kid Loves Cake! (Part 2)

If you’ve already read I Love The Olympics Like A Fat Kid Loves Cake! (Part 1) from earlier this week, then this is the continued post, Part 2. As of right now, I’m thinking there will not be another installment, a Part 3. So that means you need to suck in and savor every single word of this Part 2 post before the Olympic torch is extinguished! And if you haven’t already read Part 1, shame on you and do it now! Yes, you, do it. Now if you are a girl and you’re saying "I don’t like sports so I don’t want to read about the Olympics", let me assure you that Part 1 had little to do with sports and much to do with dancing dicks and bouncing balls. You like those, don’t you? If you answer no, you aren’t into male genitalia, then chances are you’re a lesbian. If that is the case, then duh, you like sports! All lesbians like sports. And if you are a guy who doesn’t like sports, then chances are you are gay and that means you like dicks and balls. So you see, everyone can be happy, no matter what your sexual preferences are or your like/dislike of athletics. (Don’t send me hate mail on this. I stereotyped homosexuality purely for the silliness of this post. If you are offended by this, then I apologize and advise you not to read my blog because I’m a silly kind of guy and I may get your panties in a bind from time to time. And the only time I’m serious is when I’m seriously joking.)

LoLo, we should makeout.
It will make you feel better after falling in the 100-meter hurdles.
Seriously, let's give it a try. It can't hurt.

Phelps, Phelps, Phelps. Hey, I like the guy too. He’s an amazing swimmer, seems like a kind sole and he has an English Bulldog. What’s not to love? But can we please just shut up about Phelps now? I hate saying that because it sounds so rude and cold considering he just won 8 gold medals for our country, but I can only take so many interviews with Phelps’s Mom. I feel like I know more about Michael Phelps’s upbringing, body stats and daily routine than I know about my own upbringing, body stats and daily routine. I can tell you what Phelps’s ate for breakfast last Wednesday, but I can’t tell you what I ate for breakfast today! There’s something very wrong with that. It’s like I’m his creepy #1 obsessed fan without even stalking him or friending him on Facebook. Thanks to Bob Costas and the media’s relentless coverage on fishboy, I now feel like I know entirely too many personal details on Phelps. So many details it’s as if we have been intimate! That’s simply not a happy place I want to be in my mind right now. Yuck.

If you can ever manage to tune into the Olympics when they aren’t talking about Michael Phelps, you’ll find there are over 10,000 other great athletes competing in 28 other events, other than swimming. But can I just ask, when did frat house activities turn into full fledge Olympic events? I’m talking about ping pong, or the official fancy name or it, Table Tennis. Honestly, I can’t stop laughing when I see a Chinese dude shaking out his muscles during a heated ping pong game. If you strain a muscle playing ping pong, you have issues. It may be laughable here in the States, but I know they take ping pong very serious in China. So serious in fact they sequestered their players for 2 years to train! Apparently it was very hush-hush and they didn’t want other countries seeing them hone their skills for fear it would give a competitive edge to an opponent. Geez! You couldn’t even sequester me for 2 days for a mafia trial! So I can’t even imagine being held captive for 2 solid years! I’m thinking I’ll call up my old fraternity brothers so we can form a beer pong team for the 2012 Olympics. I’m totally taking home gold in that!

There are other Olympic events that I have to question if they are a sport or not, like Speed Walking. Speed Walking? What the...? If we are going to accept speed walkers into the games now, then let’s get my 88-year-old Grandma signed up so she can smoke everyone’s ass. Put her in a pair of Hush Puppies and off she goes! And what is this Trampoline event all about? Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s cool as fuck! If I got on that trampoline, you would never get me off, ever! It looks sooo fun and I desperately want to bounce from one trampoline to the next. What can I say? In a previous life I may have been a circus freak or a monkey. Same difference, right? There is also Handball. Now Handball to me looks like a game that is made-up as you go along. It’s very similar to the game we play at work when everyone is mentally drained and falling asleep at their desk due to a 60+ hour work week. It’s when you take a crumbled wad of paper and wail it at your co-worker, just between his face and his computer screen. If you succeed in getting it past him successfully without hitting his face or the computer screen, you score! Try it. It’s kinda fun.

One of the things I like best about the Olympics is the little heartwarming stories tied to the athletes. Nicknames like "6 Feet Of Sunshine". The 15-year-old swimmer who accidentally fell into the water during the Sydney Olympics, was disqualified and ran into the bathroom humiliated...only to return 4 years later in Beijing and take home gold. Or the Sudan track star who fled a prison camp at age 6 and never stopped running. You can’t help but get choked up as a German weightlifter shows off his gold medal in one hand and a photo of his late wife in the other. He stood there before a packed crowd with tears in his eyes during one of the happiest and saddest moments in his life. And don’t forget about hotties LoLo Jones (U.S. hurdler) and Alicia Sacramone (U.S. gymnast) who literally fell on the big stage. I wanted to hug both of these girls and let them cry a soggy mess on my shirt chest.

Of course the 2008 Olympics also brings us some ugly moments as well, things we would like to forget about. Like the weight lifting elbow snap, the Chinese lip-syncing fiasco and women’s wrestling. Those are like dudes with ovaries – scary! So as the games wind down, I surf my way on over to the official Beijing Olympic website and every time I see "Modern Pentathlon" listed as an event, I think it says "Modern Penetration" and I get all excited for a second. Then I click on the link and realize it’s some stupid horse riding thing. What a letdown! But wouldn’t "Modern Penetration" be a great sport? It could be judged like gymnastics. If people will watch ping pong, they are definitely going to watch people having sex as an Olympic event. I know I would tune in! I’ll request it for 2012 and you can thank me later.

I Love The Olympics Like A Fat Kid Loves Cake! (Part 1)

***WARNING!***
This post has more to do with genitals than the 2008 Olympics. Surprise!

I love the Olympics! Love, love, LOVE them! Did I mention I love the Olympics? I love the Olympics like a fat kid loves cake. I love the Olympics so much that when they end, I may throw a temper tantrum, just like a fat kid does when he is told he can’t have anymore cake. On August 24th, don’t be shocked if I throw my body on the floor, kick, scream and carry on. I don’t want to see the closing ceremonies because it means the Olympics are over and I have to return to my normal, boring gold medal-less life. In other words, it means I can’t have anymore cake. I don’t want that day to come! Someone please tell me how to make the Olympic games last forever! Only 2 weeks every 4 years just simply isn’t enough. I want more, damn it. More I say. More! However, there are some parts of the Olympics I can do without. Specifically, men free balling in white spandex shorts that are drenched in sweat to the point where it becomes obscenely see-thru. It’s totally different if it was a hot chick with some nice, firm C-cups in a wet t-shirt contest. Now that I would love to see! A German dude’s sweaty junk flopping and flailing about as he finishes up the final heat of a triathlon, not so much. I’m just glad he isn’t from Jamaica! (And that isn’t a racial insult to black men. It was a compliment. Everyone knows you guys are hung like horses! Lucky bastards.)

Believe me, it’s no coincidence that EVERY photo of Germany’s Jan Frodeno winning the Men’s Triatholon is a shot of him cropped off at the crotch. You don’t want to see the horror my bleeding eyes had to endure.

Usually I refer to tight pants on men as "ball huggers", but in this case, his balls were definitely not being hugged! If anything, they were being violently expelled from his prostrate! I mean, come-on now. I understand why Olympic athletes wear insanely tight shimmery outfits. They do so for speed, so their body won’t be caught up in any loose clothing to distract them from performing at their absolute peak. Although some of it is so tight that I question if cutting off one’s blood circulation is just the price you have to pay to keep your muscles warm? Still, I understand the science behind it all, but can’t we get this German athlete a jock strap? Can’t someone spot the man a couple bucks so he can hit up Beijing’s version of Target? Shed a little love. This is the Olympics for God sake! We are supposed to come together and help our fellow country man out. So please, someone, anyone? If we can’t get him a jockstrap, then can we at least get him a darker colored leotard to compete in? Preferably black so even if his ball sweat reaches epic proportions, the viewers at home will experience "trick eye" - the human eye just sees a blur thanks to the color black, detail is lost.

Hey, I mountain bike. So I know what it’s like. Your shit shakes, it shuffles. It bounces and bangs from side to side. And even though I am anti-spandex (which I think every man should be), I did buy some compression shorts to wear while mountain biking. But the thing is, I don’t just wear that tight little number. I slip on some cargo shorts or mesh basketball shorts ontop. I do so because nobody wants to see a man in tight ass shorts, even if the only eyes that are going to see me while biking thru the woods are the eyes of Peter Cotton Tail, Bambi and Bigfoot. Still, I show them some respect and have the decency to dress accordingly. And ladies, just because you don’t have a twig and a couple berries doesn’t mean you are exempt here. If you dress your hot pocket in spandex, then you very well may run into a little problem called camel toe. Let me just say, that even on a hot chick, camel toe isn’t sexy. So please people, think before you pull out the spandex from your dresser drawer. It’s not an outfit one can just throw on without giving much thought to.

So in closing, let me first say congratulations to the gold medal winner of the Men’s Triathlon Final, Germany’s Jan Frodeno. And second, bro, just say no to white spandex. I beg of you!

***NOTE***
This is Part 1 of...? I’m not quite sure yet, but I’m thinking this will be a 2 or 3 part series. So stay tuned! More Olympic coverage and my personal take on it is to follow shortly! I know you’re excited, but try to contain yourself.

We’re So Over We Need A New Word For Over

I’ve had it. I’m already over it. And I’m done. Finish. Complete. Moving on. You’ve heard it here first. I’m breaking up with one of my employees. That’s right, I’m firing him...he just doesn’t know it yet. I’m not "letting him go" because that is sugar coated talk for being fired. He will not be let go or asked to leave, he will be forced out. At this point, I’m not sugar coating anything, not a word. Ending this relationship isn’t going to be pretty, but it is long overdue. I’m going to keep it professional and as respectable as possible. But let’s be honest here, why should I treat him with respect when he lacks it? Not only does he define slacker, he’s ungrateful too. It’s a shame really because the guy has talent, it’s just overshadowed by his piss poor attitude. He fucks around behind my back and then lies to my face. Then he kisses my ass to save face. It does sound like we are dating, doesn’t it? I assure you, we aren’t. I haven’t gone gay. Although I have grown icy cold to his excuses and apologies. It’s gotten old – very, very old. And enough is enough. It’s time to end this.

If only it were this easy.

When he first interviewed with me to get the job, he really passed with flying colors. His resume was impressive and our personalities seemed to mesh. I really didn’t think it would change so dramatically. In a way, I blame myself for hiring him to begin with. But on the other hand, he is NOT the same guy I hired. You hear the same thing when it comes to dating – he/she is not the same person they were when I first met them. I guess people do change, for better or worse. Unfortunately in this case, it was for worse. I suppose I shouldn’t blame myself too much because I’m still virtually a rookie at running my own company. It’s only been a couple years so I’m bound to make a few hiring mistakes. However, this one has cost me dearly. He’s paid rather generously, over six figures for what he does, or rather what he doesn’t do. And the other week when I signed his paycheck, I felt like vomiting. This is when I knew a change had to be made.

It’s not personal, it’s business. I would like to say that, but the truth of the matter is that it’s both personal and business. It’s almost impossible not to take a firing even a tad personal. I look at those that work for me as my friends. We are like a family and I treat them accordingly. However, I am their boss before their buddy. And because of that, I have to do what is best for my company, rather than what is kind to someone’s feelings. I’m sorry, but you just have to go. There is no other way around it and I warned you this day could be coming. The writing was on the wall, in giant bold red letters. And because you failed to believe it or take it seriously, reality will soon hit you, like a stinging slap in the face alerting you to wake up.

I'm tired of getting fucked by him. It's time for him to go fuck himself. I end up doing or redoing most of his work for him anyway, so why am I even paying him? If anything, I should be paying myself that extra salary. And I think I will, at least for the time being until I find someone else who is willing and able to pull some of the load. Running your own business and being your own boss definitely has its perks. It also has its downsides and having to fire someone is definitely not a fun part to the job. As angry, as frustrated and as disappointed I am with him, I’m not looking forward to saying those two words – you’re fired. I think I’ll wait until a little later in the week before I tell him. I’ll wait until the day I’m set to leave for my vacation in Aruba. That way I can go enjoy myself with a clear head. Note I didn’t say a clear conscious. I have a way of beating myself up about things, whether deserved or not.

Breaking up is always hard to do, whether it’s a personal or professional relationship. And if you intertwine personal and professional, well then my friend you have big problems! It’s the very reason I don’t like to mix business with pleasure. It always ends messy. I can say that from past experience, one or two small office flings. Note to self, don’t makeout with the hot clingy girl at happy hour because the next day, she automatically assumes you are dating. Umm, we madeout. I didn’t propose marriage. Besides, if I hadn’t drank so much, then perhaps I would have been clear minded enough to overlook your perfect body and focused a little more on the fact that you give off major red flags to your clingy side. Afterall, you did hang on and practically pin my shirt sleeve down to the bar so I couldn’t get up and mingle around. Oh well, live and learn. I’m now a wiser man because of it.

So as Carrie once said to Big: "We're so over we need a new word for over."

Bigfoot Corpse Found, Fur Real?

A couple of Southerners had a press conference today to discuss their "discovery" of the legendary Bigfoot, a Bigfoot corpse stuffed in a freezer to be exact. The only problem, they didn't want to show the actual body! Um hmm. Mathew Whitton and Rick Dyer showed two photos (body and dental) of the alleged dead Sasquatch they found in the northern Georgia woods while hiking, but denied assembled reporters access to the corpse until "scientists" could examine it. Whitton and Dyer say they have proof once and for all that Bigfoot exists. However, they don’t seem very willing to share this "proof" with the public. I think I speak for everyone when I say that we want to see the actual body! Not just photos OF the supposed body.

Along with the photos and body, DNA evidence was also to be presented. But just like the body, they didn’t fully deliver on that DNA promise either. The men presented an e-mail from the University of Minnesota reporting the three distinct DNA sequences that showed up. One was inconclusive, one was human and the third was from a possum. It could be from a possum snack or it could be from throwing the guts of a dead possum onto a Halloween custom? However, they were eager to share a whole slew of measurements, which of course can be completely fictional and most likely are. These were taken from their website, SearchingForBigfoot.com

~ 7'7, Male
~ Weighs over 500lbs
~ Creature looks like it is part human and part ape-like
~ Has reddish hair, blackish-grey eyes
~ 2 arms, 2 legs, 5 fingers on each hand and 5 toes on each foot
~ Feet are flat and similar to human feet
~ Feet are 16 ¾ inches long, 5 ¾ inches wide at the heel
~ Hands are 11 ¾ inches long, 6 ¼ inches wide
~ Walks upright (several sighted on the same day the body was found)
~ Teeth are more human-like than ape-like

Not so fast say some who are calling out these two as hoaxters, saying their animal is nothing more than a Halloween costume topped with animal entrails. So is it or isn’t it? Reports are coming in that this is an ongoing hoax being orchestrated by a notorious con-man named Carmine Thomas Biscardi. Biscardi is no stranger to controversy. He pulled a very similar Bigfoot body hoax back in 2005 before finally confessing he made the whole thing up. Obviously a great amount of credibility is now lost. I think something stinks...and it isn’t that big, hairy monkey in the cooler.

I investigated into exactly how two men pulled this 7’7, 500lbs Bigfoot out of the woods. They say they towed him out with a truck. Ok, I guess that sounds responsible, if you could even get a truck thru thick woods, but let’s just say they did. Now this is the part that makes me scream "BULLSHIT!" The men claim that as they were loading the dead Bigfoot in their truck, three other alive Bigfoots watched on from nearby! So what does nearby mean – within 10 feet, a couple hundred yards? No matter what the exact distance was, let’s be realistic here and think for a second. If you and a friend were deep in the woods and stumbled upon the dead body of a Bigfoot, would you really mess with the carcus if you saw three of his 7’7, 500lbs friends watching you nearby? No, you would get the fuck out of there and fast! You wouldn’t stand there poking their dead pal with a stick and fumbling around loading him into your truck.

So I’ll let you decide. Bigfoot or bullshit?

Related post of interest...
10/2/07 - Bigfoot Spotted Where I Go Camping!

Getting Better, But Not Quite There

I pulled this original post, just 5 hours after I posted it. Why? Because I'm going thru another one of my "I hate everything I write" stages. I seriously couldn’t stomach this page even loading on my laptop. Seeing the words, my words, written out before me. It nauseates me to look at what I write. Or maybe it’s just nauseating to look at my writing because it’s me. I think I don’t want to see me right now. I don’t want to look because I know why I have been blogging in a feverous flurry lately, almost daily. And by looking, it is only confirmation to me. Proof that I’m trying to keep my mind busy so I can stop thinking about her. It’s driving me insane! If banging my head into a wall right now would make these thoughts disappear, I would do it.

If there is anything positive for me to say, it’s that I think I’ve finally figured out what I hate most about myself. I hate that when it comes to women, I’m emotionally weak. That’s so not sexy. That’s so not something to take pride in. It’s embarrassing and shameful. I don’t care what people say, vulnerability doesn’t feel good. It’s unsettling. It rattles me. Unnerves me. It makes my mind race. I simply hate it. I do realize I sound overly emotional, too attached and somewhat dramatic. These are also things I don’t like about myself right now. Things that make me feel uncomfortable just being in my own skin. Trust me, nobody notices these flaws more than I do.

I hadn’t talked to you in 2 weeks and then out of nowhere, you spoke to me today. It was very short and about nothing really. But it was just enough to make me feel good. It was just enough to make me feel bad. It was just enough to make me feel, period. And I guess that’s all it took.

It’s ironic that the original post title still fits, even though the original post was nothing like the one you read now. And it just hit me...God, I hope she doesn't see this! At least I don't think she reads my blog anymore? I should probably keep these thoughts to myself or write them privately on paper to be seen by my eyes alone. How long before I pull this post too? I guess time will tell. My gut tells me it may be soon.

Totally Random And Probably Completely Inappropriate

I’ve become another social casualty. There’s enough evidence to hang me. However, I refuse to confess to all of it. I didn’t do what you can’t prove, right? That’s my motto. For right or wrong. For good or bad. So feel free to charge me with the crimes, but you can’t convict me on just hearsay. At this point, that’s all there is – hearsay. And that doesn't build a strong case. In the past couple of weeks I’ve found myself in the habit of saying totally random and probably completely inappropriate things to people, mostly girls. Luckily for me, in each instance, the person had a positive reaction to it – much to my dismay and my relief. Most giggled it off, found it complimentary or summed it up as just "a silly David thing to say". I’ve learned that people are rather forgiving of my "oopsie moments", forgiving of my stupid mouth. That’s one thing I will admit to, having a stupid mouth. I say too much and it gets me in trouble. Think before speaking. That’s the advice I constantly have to give myself. A reminder I should jot down on a sticky note and post it to my forehead. Then at least if I wouldn’t remember, it would give the world ample notice that this boy has a stupid mouth. Consider yourself warned! Then I wouldn’t have to be held accountable for my actions. Ahh, yes. A responsible-free life sounds heavenly!

I sent that e-card to a friend of mine today. Ok fine, you caught me. She was more like a fuck buddy, an ex-fuck buddy to be exact. Does that make it any better? We dated briefly years ago, many years ago. Alright, I’m still lying. We had sex more than we actually went out to dinner or had any type of real date. So I’m guilty. So I’m a scuzzball. But this was years ago, so many years ago that it requires the use of two hands to count all the years that have passed. Today we are just friends and nothing more, I swear! Anyway, I thought it would be cute/funny to send that e-card. The jury is still out as to whether or not she found the humor in it.

I don’t know what’s with me lately, but not long ago, I found myself almost hitting on a girl that I clearly knew was taken. It’s no secret she’s in a relationship, but despite that fact, I found myself once again saying something totally random and probably completely inappropriate. I always thought she was cute, but her hotness factor didn’t really hit me until recently. Actually she’s very pretty, more so than I initially noticed. I have no idea why I felt the need to tell her that. I guess my sudden awaking to this "hotness conclusion" just left me a little shocked. So I felt like I needed to say something? I know, I should keep my thoughts and comments to myself. I'm sure her boyfriend would appreciate it if I did that as well. If you are reading this, you know who you are. And like I told you before, if you should find yourself single in the near future, you give me a call. I’m joking. Kinda. Sorta. But not really. Call me? Ok, I’ll stop.

Even when I try to curb my bad behavior, I still seem to have "oopsie moments", things just slip out and I’m left standing there like a dumbass. Take the Grood incident. Remember that post? Remember the humiliation? It certainly wasn’t the first time I slurred my speech without drinking. Once, on a first date, I picked this girl up at her apartment. She was all dressed up and looked great. So I made some remark about giving me a twirl. She spun around for me to check out her dress and I did the worst, I thought outloud. I said EXACTLY what I was thinking and without a moment of hesitation. I said "I love your ass...assessories?" God! It was so clear I was drooling over her picture perfect ass and I tried to play it off like I was complimenting her accessories. Duh, what straight man would compliment a girl’s accessories? I don’t think she even had any on, with the exception of some diamond stud earnings and maybe a small ring. And let’s be honest, she could have been blinged out and iced up like Liberachi and I wouldn’t have noticed with a juicy J-Lo butt like hers.

It’s not even just when I speak. I’m the master at totally random and probably completely inappropriate typos as well. Yesterday is a perfect example. I’m making small talk with someone and the topic somehow turns and I want to ask if she watches Sex And The City. Harmless enough, right? But instead of just asking, "Do you watch Sex And The City?" Somehow it comes out as, "Do you want Sex?" Did I mention this is to a married woman who I don’t even know? A married woman who happen to e-mail me out of the blue to say she liked my blog and I ask her if she wants to have sex! Brilliant, David. Just brilliant. I later deleted her e-mails, hoping that if there isn’t an electronic trace of me saying such a stupid thing, then maybe it never really occurred? That is what I would like to believe, to help me save face. Of course she had a good sense of humor about it all when she wrote me again today and said "wow, I'm so flattered to know that you deleted my emails. I always love to hear stuff like that..."

What can I say, I’m a charmer. I know how to make women swoon by saying totally random and probably completely inappropriate things. (note the sarcasim)

I’m Getting Published! Well, Maybe.

If you’ve read the Profile section on my blog, you’ll see that I clearly state..."I am not a writer. You will never see my name embossed on a fine leather book. The dream of being published does not exist for me." I wrote that about 3 years ago, but the truth is, I now WISH to be a writer and I would LOVE my name to be embossed on a fine leather book. Or a newspaper, magazine, online, anywhere! The dream of being published is a new goal of mine. I am a dreamer, but I’m also realistic. I understand that I may never be good enough to write for a living, to get published. And although I would be sad and disappointed if I never reach that goal, I probably wouldn’t stop reaching for it. I would continue to write, even if it was just for me. I would keep writing simply because I enjoy the process. I enjoy the journey, even if I never reach my destination. And that’s ok. Sometimes that is just how life is and it’s a part of life I am preparing myself to accept - to be an unpublished writer, a mere amateur at best. (Ouch. I feel a twinge in my stomach for just admitting that to myself outloud. If that is all I become, then there’s no doubt it will hurt badly.)

That is NOT a photo of me. That is just some random photo I found on Flickr of a person who was proud to be published. I don't think that dude even looks like me, but apparently some people are getting confused. Comeon now. I would never let my hair get so fluffy. ;)

Make no mistake about it, I am hopeful. My worst fear in life has always been failure, but just like everyone else, I do fail sometimes. However, I have always learned great lessons from my failures. So if I fail at writing, it won’t necessarily be a tragic experience because I’ve already learned so much about myself from writing. So in that way, I’ve already succeeded, without seeing my face on a book jacket and without my words ever going to print.

An opportunity has recently presented itself and I’ve decided to take hold of it...

=========================

Get Published! Essay Contest!
A group of people in their twenties are looking for essays written by a wide range of people who are between 19 and 29 years old to be part of a future published collection of essays. The purpose is to create a book that reflects, but does not attempt to pigeon-hole or ultimately define our generation as a single entity. Write an essay that tells us who you are. It can be about anything - mundane or monumental, a moment or a year, an individual or a group.

Any essay submitted stands a chance of being published in the final book (provided it comes to fruition, of course).

The details for submitting:
~ Essays can be up to 4,500 words long and should be e-mailed to ProjectEssays@gmail.com
~ E-mail your essays by 11:59 p.m. on August 18, 2008.
~ Please paste your essay with its title in the body of the e-mail along with your name and contact information. Also attach the essay as a Word document.

Please forward this announcement to anyone you think may be interested.
Questions? E-mail us at ProjectEssays@gmail.com

=========================

I figure, what the hell. I don’t know what my chances are, but I’m willing to take a chance. Why not? I have nothing to lose. I’m not sure how legit this essay contest is or what exactly happens if this book ever does goes to print. Will I be paid for my work? Will my words be given proper credit? Will my writing be used in it’s entirely or will it be spliced at someone else’s sole discretion? These are all good questions that need answers and questions I will ask.

I thought of submitting 12/19/05 - Twenty-Something, Life Thru Our Eyes. But for now, I am going to write, or rather re-write/revise this piece, 2/10/06 - Permission. From the feedback I got on it, it seemed to be one of my better pieces of writing. It was a look back at one of the lowest times in my life and an experience that nearly every 20something has to live thru - to have loved and to have lost. It illustrates how life is full of change and how we must grow and move on when life changes unexpectedly. How the route we were taking begins to bend and turn, then ceases to exist. It's the road that we then are forced to take. That unfamiliar path that we must travel that defines perseverance. I am certain that there is no pain greater than that of a broken heart. And my 20s have not only brought me my first broken heart, but my 20s have also taught me what it means to persevere thru pain.

If you are a 20something who has a passion for writing and a story to tell, why not enter the essay contest and take a chance at getting published too!

License To Fornicate

First things first. Let's get the obvious out of the way. We all know that this post would be better titled as "License To Fuck", but I used the word "fornicate" instead to classy it up some. Like it? No? Well, me neither, but I'm trying to keep this blog semi PG-13. So deal with it. Now onto the subject at hand...

You need a license to drive, a license to drink, but what about a license to "do the deed"? Personally, I think people should need a license to have kids as there are too many idiots out there reproducing mini-moron versions of themselves. It’s just a vicious battle, but I’m not running for President so I can’t establish the "License To Have A Baby" law. However, a new license has emerged – a license to fornicate. That’s right, a license to have sex. And it’s not just for whores at the Las Vegas Bunny Ranch anymore. It’s for everyone! It’s for you. It’s for me. It’s for dirty birdies like A-Rod, Pam Anderson and every rockstar who has ever gone on tour.

Fellas, how many times have you agonized over whether to use a condom, but then figured, "Hey, when am I going to be in Haiti again?" Men will say anything to get out of using a condom, from..."If you really loved me..." to "What's a condom?" So isn’t it time you let a piece of plastic do the groveling for you? A safe sex license called STFree is making it so two strangers don’t have to trust each other one bit when they want to try the rhythm method. Since its invention in 2004, over 15,000 potential mates have been issued the sex licenses. Based in Brooklyn, STFree promotes a responsible way to "bump uglies" with a clinically backed safe sex wallet-sized license. The only way this could get any more romantic is if the company merges with Match.com

Want to know how it works? Well, first you sign up online and download the clinic verification form. Then you go get tested and mail the results to STFree. Once they review them, they'll send you a card with your unique member ID and photo. Then simply hand the card to whomever you want to bang and tell him/her to dial the card's 1-800 number. Via phone they will then be privy to the dates and results of your last two HIV/AIDS tests – verifying your good health! That’s irrefutable proof that you were disease-free on at least two specific occasions in the past. So umm...if your partner got laid the previous night or anytime since his/her last test, obviously the license is about as useful as an expired library card. Still interested in having unprotected sex with your one night stand? I didn’t think so.

STFree also provides accounts for herpes, gonorrhea and other STDs that require a more frequent testing rigor. Although that's usually only required in the adult film industry, or for men who are accomplished at stupidly talking their way out of using condoms on a regular basis. Yeah, don’t be that guy. And ladies, stay away from that guy.

I’ve never had any type of STD, but they do sound scary as hell! Right now, if I were to compare a committed relationship to casual dating, I would have to give a check-plus under the committed relationship column. Who would think that having a girlfriend would give you LESS to worry about, LESS stress? I don’t like wearing a condom anymore than any other guy, but I’m not stupid enough to not wear one, unless I’m in a committed relationship. It’s just common sense and it’s just another reason a committed relationship receives another check-plus.

Now if I could just stop thinking about my "moving to DC girl", perhaps I could have accepted last night’s booty call. Perhaps I could be more manwhorish to snap me out of my mopey state. I think that might help me, but right now, I simply can’t bring myself to do it. What's wrong with me? Honestly, sometimes I wish I were scummy. Scummy enough to require the use of an STFree card. Life would probably be easier.

Related post of interest...
09/05/06 One-Night Stand Etiquette (3 Credits)

Have The Carpet Match The Drapes

Bottled blondes take note because the gig is up! You may have your girlfriends fooled by telling them you are a natural blonde, but we guys know the truth. And just how do we discover that truth? Well I shouldn’t need to explain that, but sooner or later, we will find out whether the carpet matches the drapes. Of course if you have a silky, smooth, hair-free playing field (mmm), I’ll just have to take your word for it that it matches, not that I really care if it matches or not. I’m too focused on "other activities" to be concerned if you are a few shades off. Now for those of you who have 70s bush, I’m not even speaking to you because you should be ashamed. Cleanup the hedge. Buzz it down. Wax it up. Install a landing strip. Anything. Just go groom! I’m a guy and I even manscape. I know, I know. TMI.

I thought I had seen it all, until I saw an ad for pubic hair dye on a NYC subway. (You just gotta love NYC for endless blogging material.) "Betty Beauty" is the name of the company manufacturing the pubic hair dye. They claim they are "color for the hair down there" and they are boldly going where no color has ever gone before. Apparently it’s been around for 2 years, but this is the first time I ever heard of it. Then again, I no longer subscribe to Pubic Hair Weekly magazine – hottest trends in little curly hair fashion.

Intimate grooming products are not normally advertised on the subway, but the ads make only oblique references to pubic hair. The ad shows boxes (no pun intended) of the product in the five available colors - black, blond, auburn, brown and "fun"...AKA hot pink. So if you are a redhead and you are tired of the verbal abuse of being called a "fire crotch", you don’t have to take it anymore. You can choose to be any color you like from jet black to platinum blonde! No matter what color you choose, each box (again, no pun intended) has a sketched torso with a wispy, carefully placed triangle in the relevant color. The ad campaign reflects the balance between noting the growing attention to grooming a particularly private area of the body and the desire to avoid the use of any language that could be interpreted as crude or misogynistic. (I know, I just used a big word, but go look it up if you don't know what it means.)

"We knew we wanted a catchy tag line that wasn’t going to be too risqué, but would make it acceptable," said Nancy Jarecki, the founder of the company. Ms. Jarecki said she was inspired to create Betty Beauty in 2006, after seeing the small sample bags of coloring given out at salons in Rome so women could make their hair "match" in the privacy of their homes. Perhaps this is how the question "does the carpet match the drapes" came about?

As for the other question on some of your minds, the company says it doesn't come off if you engage in any sort of physical activity. And yes, Betty is edible. Good to know!

Hey, is anyone else thinking I should have a blog label/category titled Va-Jay-Jay? I seem to be posting about a woman's naughty place an awful lot lately. Sorry, I can't help it. It's my favorite place to visit and stay awhile so I tend to write about things I love. I say this as I'm devouring a fresh ripened peach whose juice just hit my laptop keyboard. Coincidence? I think not.

You Know You’re Fat When You Can’t Find Your Penis

You have probably already heard about the World’s Fattest Kitty-Kat, nicknamed "Princess Chunk". The media has been swarming this pussy with photographs and interviews. Yes, interviews. Now I don’t know exactly how you interview a cat, but apparently it’s being done. The thing is, "Princess Chunk" isn’t really a princess at all. You see, he is actually a she. So it should be "Prince Chunk". Everyone just thought the 44 pound cat, whose real name is "Powder, was a she because they couldn’t find a penis. Apparently this cat is so morbidly obese that his wiener actually disappeared under his giant belly and fat rolls! Now that’s just embarrassing, but in the cat’s defense, it’s not really his fault. He wasn’t the one prying open can after can of Fancy Feast. Is overindulging your pet a case of animal cruelty? Some would say yes. I would say yes, depending on how fat we are talking. Keep in mind a normal, healthy cat should weigh 10-12 lbs. This cat tips the scales at 4x that size! He sports a FUPA like no other feline and it has earned him a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records.

This Jersey kitty was recently given up, due to the fact that the owner could no longer afford to feed him - no joke. The shelter in which "Powder" was given to received over 400 applications from people looking to adopt the chubby lil’ guy. I’m happy to report that he now has a new Mommy and Daddy, as well as a new home. Rumor has it that he may suffer from a thyroid problem which has led to him being so overweight. Or it could just be the fact that he eats too freaking much and sleeps 22 hours a day. Think that has anything to do with it? Now before anyone sends me hate mail and thinks I’m picking on fat cats, let me make it clear that I too have a soft spot in my heart for fat cats.

You see, when I was a teenager, I rescued a newborn kitten out of the jaws of our family dog and nursed it. Everyone told me it was going to die since it was so young and desperately needed its mother. However, I wasn’t hearing that. All of his littermates were murdered and the mother of the stray kittens was nowhere to be found. So it was up to me to play "mother cat". I began feeding him via an eye-dropper and eventually moved up to a baby bottle. Around the clock I cared for him, including all hours of the night. I’m more of a dog lover than a cat lover, but it was hard not to fall in love just a little bit. When he turned 8-weeks-old, I convinced my sister he would make the perfect pet for her. Today he is 22lbs! We are convinced it was all that extra TLC he was given early in life, all the extra nutrients that got him to his fighting weight.

Most cats aren’t known for having huge schlongs, so I suppose we shouldn’t really poke fun at a fat cat’s penis being virtually non-existent. However, doctors say that for every 35lbs you lose, you gain an inch to your penis! Ok, that rule probably only applies to men and not cats, but still. An inch for every 35lbs you drop? Something tells me that is more of an optical illusion than actual growth. Think about it. Cut back on your FUPA and tell me what you find. And seriously, if you are looking down and you can’t see your own penis, you’ve got major problems! Put the Twinkie down!

I think I’m going to send "Powder" my ab workout. Then not only will he be able to see his penis, but before he knows it, he too will be tucking his cock in his sock. That’s just how a fat cat should roll and soon he will have two tails to sway. Powder, fat or small, you're a badass cat and don't let anyone tell you different.

Montauk Monster Mystery

Ok, just what the "beep" is going on in Montauk? And what the "beep" is this thing? It looks like some sort of rodent-like creature with a dinosaur beak. Some claim it’s a sea turtle without its shell, but that just can’t be right. Perhaps it’s a sea monster, but not a sea turtle. Click on the image for a larger view and look closely. It has flippers on the front and feet on the back. On its head, there appears to be horns. And turtles don’t have long tails like that, not even Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. It does look like a mutant of some kind though. A hybrid, a crossbred, an inbred, a bred of...I have no idea what.

The corpse of this beast washed up on the beach in Long Island, New York and nobody really knows what it is, but everyone is sounding off on what they THINK it is. Now there is a government animal testing facility very close by in Long Island. So do you think...? Nah. Well, could it be? Could this be evidence of a government experiment gone mad? Stranger things have happened. And truth is often stranger than fiction.

Jenna Hewitt, the 26-year-old that took the photo said that she and others were looking for a place to relax when they saw it. The photo hit the web last week and has spread like crazy through the blogosphere! Since then, it has made it onto mainstream media outlets like CNN and Fox News. You would think a week later there would be some answers as to what exactly this is, an autopsy, something! But it turns out that the story ends just as oddly as it began. According to onlookers, an old man came and took it away, claiming he wanted to put it on his wall. Hmm. Anyone smell Government cover-up?

And is it just me, or can you actually smell and taste the sickening stench of that dead rotting carcass just from looking at the photo? Keep in mind that it probably baked in the 90 degree sun for hours, even days before being discovered. Of course, maybe the old man who scooped up the monster is just a clever guy looking to make a fast buck on eBay. Hey, people bid on pieces of toast with the so-called image of Jesus burnt into it, so why not a dead and bloated beast?

Skeptics claim it’s just viral marketing for a campaign yet to be announced - a Hollywood prop or a Photoshop hoax. So what do you think it is and how it came about? Can you solve the mystery? Personally, I’m baffled!

***UPDATE***
This just in, new photographs have been published of the "Montauk Monster"!

It's starting to resemble more of a dead dog than anything - ears, fur. Obviously, it's male because it's weenie is quite apparent. As far as the "beak" goes, it looks like it could just be a snout that's decaying. Decay would also explain the strange feet, another explanation could be that fish, crabs, etc fed off it. The body is small, measuring in at 2 1/2 to 3 feet in length. Still, there is no official word on what it is exactly. I'm going to go with dog though. And I hate to say it, but all that muscle reminds me of my Bulldog. The chest and thighs are VERY similar. Plus, English Bulldogs aren't the best swimmers. They sink like rocks. If this is the case, it would be very sad, but it would make sense.

A Salty Gaping Wound

You won’t find this particular definition of the word "salty" in Webster’s. Although, you will find it in the Urban Dictionary. It’s common slang, but just in case you are an old and crusty sole that is unfamiliar with the phrase "feeling salty", let me explain. Salty is being pissed, agitated, upset, embarrassed. It’s an irritated state of mind, in contrast to the contented state of feeling sweet and the more intensely angry, judgmental, and longer-lasting state of feeling bitter. The word originated in Philadelphia and in general means that you just got played or you are looking stupid, either because of something you did, or something that was done to you. With that said, I’m salty. I’m mad. I’m sad. I’m shocked. I’m disappointed. Tell me when I should stop trying to express how I feel in a bunch or worthless, mundane words? When you’ve heard enough. Actually, I’m having a hard time trying to write because I’m still trying to wrap my head around this. To put it bluntly, it’s fucked up.

Like most people, I have a tendency to say mean things when I am upset. Despite the fact I try my darndest to bite my tongue, occasionally something is bound to slip out that I later regret. Unfortunately by then, it’s hard to "take it back", hard to apologize, hard to convince the other person you didn’t really mean it and it was just said out of anger. For this very reason, I’ve kept my mouth shut for the past week – to avoid putting my foot in my mouth. And more importantly, to avoid unnecessarily hurting her. I’m not quite sure if that’s the adult thing to do, to think of someone else’s feelings before my own. Or if it’s the stupid thing to do, to stuff my own feelings down and let them fester inside of me. I suppose that is why I write and why I am writing this now. It’s how I release things, how I unload the weight on my chest. And I’m sure I shouldn’t admit this, especially in print, but my chest actually hurts. I’ve been feeling nauseated and distracted all the time as well. It takes a certain amount of extra effort at work to stay focused and that is NOT the norm for me.

I’m sure I’m being a stupid boy. One who is being oversensitive, over attached and one who should just get over it already. So what’s my problem? Shouldn’t I have entered the "I don’t really give a fuck" stage by now? What’s taking so long? She seemed to enter that stage immediately and here I am a week later whining about it on my dorky blog like some pussy. Seriously, this is one time where I think I need to grow a pair. She’s just another girl. No big deal, right? Right, David? That’s what I’ve been trying to convince myself of today, but something in me doesn’t seem to be buying it. I’ve been keeping busy waging wars on myself and I can’t seem stop the fight. The battle where there is never a winner or even an end, it just keeps going on and on until it drives me mad!

I don’t know what to think. I just know I feel disgusted by my whole giant mess of emotions that are consuming me right now and I want detoxified from the effects they are having on me. I can’t decide if I am more mad than sad. Or if I’m more shocked than disappointed. I’m a whole slew of these things and more, but mostly, I’m overwhelmed with frustration. I honestly hate myself for ever getting involved. I regret all the time I spent for it to never evolve into what I wanted it to truly become. It feels like a big waste and that is one thing I NEVER wanted. I tend to romanticize things in my head more than I probably should, that is no one’s fault but my own. And because of that, I blame myself for feeling like a love sick puppy licking his salty gaping wound.

***UPDATE:***
This post has been heavily edited. After much debating, I have decided to remove the next and original 5 paragraphs, which essentially was a HUGE chunk of the story. I didn’t do this upon her request. I did it because I truly feel there are two sides to every story and my words (sometimes angry, sometimes sad and sometimes complimentary) only reflected my side. When I initially published this, I was torn between my want for discretion and my need to vent. After reflecting on this for a few hours, I feel it’s in her best interest, as well as my own, that this is kept private. I appreciate everyone understanding and apologize for any confusion this may have caused.

I really do think this whole situation just sucks though. It’s ridiculous it has come to this. It makes me want to return to my manwhoring ways. No attachment = no hurt. And there will be no need to ever cut my feelings because I’ll never develop feelings to begin with. Brilliant! I’ll fuck a girl and then she has 5 minutes to get the fuck out. Ok, I’ll give her 15 minutes, sometimes it's hard to find your scattered clothes in the dark.

As sad and as pissed as I am right now, I do wish her well in DC. And I already miss her. I wish I didn't, but at this point, I can't really help that. Lastly, I'm sorry reality didn't unfold the way I had romanticized it to play out in my head.

Related post of interest...
07/17/08 Less Than 5 Days To Keep Her