Nice guys do finish last...

What is it about me that drives people to walk all over me?  Do I have sucker written on my forehead?  Is this really what I'm meant for?  To show women that there are still nice guys out there, but it's just not me.  I should have learned by now not to try too hard, because it's inevitably going to end in disappointment.  It's the story of my life.  Seriously... I put in a monumental effort to compensate for my gruesome appearance, and for what?  So I can continually "just be friends"?

I'm not sure what I did to deserve being continually shit on, but it's getting a little out of hand.  I thought I'd found something that might make me happy for the first time in a year and half, but that's what I get for getting my hopes up I suppose.  Maybe it's time to stop being the nice guy.  I'm getting sick of losing out to other men.  

Clearly there's something wrong with me.

What am I doing with my life?

Yes... this is a cliche question, but the more I think about it the more I wonder... Am I doing what I'm meant to?  Since someone was not considerate enough to provide me with a user manual or a troubleshooting guide, I'm left to my own devices in respect to this.  So what am I supposed to do?  I simply can't get on board with the idea that I'm meant to spend the next 12 years bitching about having to fix something that an individual with much more education than I has broken.  Yet, there are very few jobs I can think of that might fit my skill set.  So, what is it I'm supposed to be doing?  I gave up on the musician pipe dream long ago, since I'm not especially talented in that department.  I'm also starting to think that the President thing may not work out either.  Regardless of what that thing may be, I know I'm wasting time every day.

I could be working on a degree, although I have no idea what it should be in.  There's always my Airframe and Power plant License, which would essentially pigeonhole me into maintaining aircraft.  The pay is good, but the work is tedious, dirty and frustrating.  Do I really want to be a mechanic for the rest of my life?  Not particularly.  Doing it for a living has taken most of the fun out of it for me.  I used to get amped up while I was pulling out an engine for a fresh rebuild or tearing a suspension apart... but now, it seems like I'm back at work.  Hmmm.

I could be fixing my house.  Well, I am... sort of.  I could be doing more, but finding the motivation is almost as rare as finding the money.  A lot has been done so far, but there's a good deal more work to do.  Flooring, kitchen remodel, yard work, painting.  I should really get crackalating on it. 

I could be loving my significant other, whoever and wherever she may be.  This is on my mind every day that I come home to no one.  This is quite possibly the longest that I've gone without being in a relationship since I started dating when I was 13.  Okay, fine... 16.  I'm a late bloomer... Shut up.  Still, it's not getting any easier.  But she's out there, and I know that each day that passes is one less with her.  Alas, this is something I have no control over. 

I guess I just hate knowing that each passing day could be my last, and with each that does I know I've not done all I could do... I've wasted it.  Afghanistan is looming around the corner, and I don't have much to show for my life except a beautiful little boy.  I guess I need to get off my ass and make things happen.  Fuck.  Being a grown up sucks.

My Old Roommate or The Wacky Adventures of Shannon....

So I used to live with a very effeminate fellow named Shannon.  I wish I could say that wasn't his real name, but it was... and it was hilarious.  Now, he could quite easily be described as a typical metrosexual... I might even go so far as to say he was most likely a fancy gentleman.  He was also a class A douche-bag.  Now, all man loving proclivities aside, Shannon got into the craziest situations which I will now tell you ALL about, and I will pepper it with questionable images of this individual.  Put your fun hats on!

Bask in the Gayness

"Andrea"
Shannon, albeit a decent looking fellow, was quite fond of internet dating.  I don't know why he was trolling for women as he clearly favored gentlemen, but who am I to judge.  The first incident I can remember is a girl named Andrea who lived in Northern Virginia.  She apparently attended a Christian University as well, which should have been a red flag right away... or not.  Who knows?  Anyway, he had arranged for her to come visit for a weekend.  So, she called to let him know she was leaving early on in the afternoon.  Many hours later, Shannon started becoming concerned as she had not called or arrived after what should have been roughly a 4 hour trip.

So, being the rational individual that he was, be began calling the Virginia State Police and any hospital that would talk to him along 95.  This too persisted for several hours to no avail.  At some point, a friend of this Andrea (if that is her real name) called Shannon to tell him she'd been in a bad accident along 95 and had to be airlifted to... wait for it... Boston.  Airlifted to Boston?!  Seriously?  That's the story as it was told to me immediately after being told to him.  But wait!  There's more!

Somewhere along the lines of this planning, Shannon had managed to get this girls grandmothers phone number.  Don't ask me how or why, because I don't know.  I DO know that he called her several hours later to offer condolences, and he was promptly greeted by... Surprise!  "But Andrea's been here all day... would you like to talk to her?"

Ha!  What followed was an amazing web of lies about how the accident had happened, and she HAD been airlifted to Boston, fixed up, and immediately airlifted back and discharged to continue about her day.  I sat in amazement as he demanded that she send him pictures of her injuries and hospital report...  and I thought I was a freak.  Amazing.

 Shannon's signature GQ pose.

"Heather"
I think her name was Heather.  It might have been Heath.  I don't know.  In any case, this awesomeness occurred shortly after we had moved into a large rented house.  Shannon, my best friend Scott and I all shared this particular domicile.  Well, this girl was from South Carolina or Georgia or something.  Moving on...  Shannon decided it would be an amazing and romantic idea to mow... MOW... this girls name into our backyard.  So he let the grass get pretty high, and then mowed her name into it.  He seriously did it.  And not only did he do it, he set the mower too low and it killed the grass.  So for the whole summer, we got to see "Heather" in the backyard.

So anyway, being unable to contain his excitement he took pictures of his masterpiece and emailed it to this girl.  I don't know what the reaction was, but she still agreed to make the trip up to see him.  Fast Forward to the big day... this girl calls and tells Shannon she's close but she's a little lost, and fires off a couple local street names for him to come find her.  He left in search of this girl, and returns alone two hours later the apparent victim of "fun with google maps".  Good times were had by all!  Well, except for Shannon. 

Is an explanation even necessary here?

"Random Raleigh Girl"
There was a point where he had met some girl... like, a real girl... at a bar or some shit like that.  Well, he'd arranged to come see her the following weekend, and even got an address to come pick her up.  Saturday rolls around... Scott and I are doing something out front, most likely working on a car.  Shannon emerges from the house in an all black suit with a dozen roses.  There's no way he can fail!  Or can he...

About 3 hours later, he returns with roses in hand.  His dates address had turned out to be an empty warehouse.  Coincidence?  I think not.  His disappointment was quite palpable as he did what I refer to as the "reverse walk of shame" alone back into the house.

 No one thought this was funny.

"The Hair"
One day, Shannon and I are driving somewhere.  Where?  Inconsequential.  What's important is that I'm driving, and he is the passenger.  As were driving, I couldn't help but notice that something looks off.  I can't tell what it is, but there's something just not right about him.  Then I see it.  He has no hair on his legs.  I mean none.  This is what followed...

Me:  "DUDE!  What the fuck happened to your leg hair?"
Shannon:  "I shaved it off"
Me:  "You sha...what?  Seriously?  What the fuck?
Shannon:  "Uh, yeah.  I'm a runner."
Me:  "You're kidding, right?  A runner?"
Shannon:  "Yeah."
Me:  "Where's the hair on your arms?  Same place?"
Shannon:  "I'm a runner."
Me:  "You're a hairless freak."

Nothing screams straight like a cosmo.

Stay tuned for more wacky adventures!

Things about me....

Some tidbits about me you might not know, and will undoubtedly want to un-know. Readysetgo!

- I hate Joe Francis. Like, I really hate him. You've no doubt heard about him and some of his more recent litigious exploits, but he's most "famous" (read: infamous) for creating the Girls Gone Wild debacle.

Don't get it twisted, playa. I'm not jealous of him... Not even close. Any idiot with a camera and a couple of wine coolers can get a naïve, unsuspecting 18 year old to take her top off. Not difficult. No sir. There are literally a plethora of reasons for one to hate this individual, but I have a very specific reason. You see, when I used to work the grave yard shift a good portion of my night was spent watching tv. More specifically, I spent an exorbitant amount of time watching cartoons.

Did you know that at 4 am, comedy central stops playing regular programming and begins airing infomercials? Did you also know that, coincidentally, Girls Gone Wild infomercials play at around the same time. Actually, they play at the exact same time. Now, I'm rational enough to realize that it's not Joe Francis' fault that stations stop airing programming that late/early. It's clearly not a smart financial move to air shows that no one's going to watch. Instead, they'll accept money to air infomercials that peddle smut and crap.

No, it's not his fault that they air GGW infomercials at 4am... but it is his fault for being born and subsequently creating that monstrosity.  Burn in Hell, Joe Francis.  Burn in Hell.  Moving on. 

- I've never broken a bone... that I know of. I typically accidentally hurt myself. A lot. I also don't like to go to the hospital. It's quite possible that I may have some small fractures that have gone untreated. I'm fairly confident that one of my knuckles is horribly damaged, but again... once it stops hurting, it's healed in my mind.  Don't judge me. I'm a penis equipped human, and thus have the "tough it out, walk it off" instinct ingrained into my dna. Rubbing dirt on it helps.

- I wrestled in high school. Yep. Varsity, 145 lbs. Yes, I actually weighed 145 lbs at one point. I also had a 6 pack you could wash your unmentionables on... but that was then. I wasn't half bad either. I pinned some weiner kid in 37 seconds once, which was my best pin by far. Also, I was completely miserable. It was a pretty sure bet that at any given tournament I was going to have to lose a few pounds, as I hovered pretty consistently between 148 and 150 lbs.


How'd I drop this weight, you ask? Why, the good old fashioned way... sweating it out. I'd don the old sweatsuit and just run for extended periods of time. I'd always make the weight, but it was completely grueling. I remember one tourney in particular where I dropped four pounds in 2 to 3 hours. Looking back, I have no idea what I was thinking. Not to mention that I had to be very vigilant about what I ate. Pizza and burgers were like a wet dream for me at this point in my life, and soda was quickly becoming a fading memory for me. And for what? Nothing. Nobody thought I was cool or tough. I was just ripped and hungry. Plus, I felt kind of gay sometimes...


This is also where I sustained the ligament damage in my right arm, and began developing the knee problems that I still deal with today. I never had balls in my face though, and I wouldn't tell you if I had. Stupid Wrasslin'. Be smart kids... just do drugs instead.

 I guess what I'm trying to say is... I should have gone to college. 

It's late...

4 am as I'm writing these. very. words. to be exact. I'm very tired and I often say too much when this happens, but I'm just taking a few seconds to throw this up here. I wish I had the cognitive capacity right now to make this funny and enjoyable, but they can't all be winners.

What I'm getting at is I just had the best weekend I've had in over a year and a half... perhaps longer. And when I say best, I mean by far the best. There's nothing I'd rather have done, and I wouldn't have traded this weekend for anything. Spirits are way up, along with hope. Gayfag smiley :).

That is all.

The worst picture I've ever taken...

Now, before you gaze upon this picture, keep in mind that I love my son more than anything in the world. That doesn't prevent me from recognizing when something is completely hilarious. Therefore, this must be shared. Ordinarily, Dillon is completely adorable... but for this picture, there are no words. I can't tell if he's yawning, crying, or if he's beginning to transform into some half-toddler, half-wolf creature.


I do know he's not pooping. That's not his poop face. I sincerely hope to embarrass him in front of a girlfriend one day. However, I would be remiss if I didn't include a contrasting exhibit... so, please enjoy:


Yep. I've got good genes. Don't act like you're not impressed.

So...

I love long weekends. I mean I LOOOOOOVE them. Wait... I know what you're thinking... That's like saying I love air and water and sex... things we need to survive, mostly. What? Food? Food is secondary. But I mean c'mon??! Who the fuck doesn't love long weekends? The opportunities for fun are virtually endless. For example...

copyright SMBC-Comics.com

I like to think that I especially love them, much more than anyone else. Yeah, it's probably not the case... but I like to have my dream. One thing that does crush my dream is the rule at my base that you're not allowed to go more than 6 hours outside of the local area if you're not on leave. Technically, that means that you can go to D.C, Virginia, South Carolina, and very very eastern Tennessee (read: Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge).

Now, I'm not saying that I broke this rule this weekend, but I have in the past. A lot. I don't even need a long weekend to do it. For instance, a few years ago I took off on a saturday and drove down to Disney World to see my Mom and brothers (who were living in Oklahoma at the time). My mom's husband was there too, but I hate him so he has been subsequently scrubbed from the memory. I very rarely got to see them, so I took any chance I got. I made it down there, spent the night and drove back the next day. According to Google Maps: 9 hours, 30 minutes. I remember it being about 9 hours with stops.

Before that, I took a trip to New York City via Atlantic City. Google Time to Atlantic city: 9 hours, 16 minutes. To NY City: 10 hours, 17 minutes.

I once took a day trip to Atlanta to pick up an engine for a crx I was attempting to restore. Google time: 6 hours, 25 minutes.

I also used to make frequent trips to my moms in maryland. This was also around 6 and a half hours, but still past 6 hours and therefore technically unacceptable.

Now, in my loose interpretation, this 6 hour rule is all based on how fast you drive. I drive fast. Not intent to kill fast... not even usually reckless driving fast, but it happens. I can typically cut 30 minutes off a trip just by bending the law. It's nothing spectacular... but I'm gonna brag anyway. Also, I don't really have a problem with cutting off some jerk who feels like he's totally justified in doing the speed limit in the left hand lane.

Statistically speaking, I'm going to be able to get to Maryland fast than Gladys, the 90 year old woman in her Pontiac Bonneville doing 20 under in the left hand lane. Yeah, her blinker is on. I'm pretty sure the fact that she can't see over her steering wheel isn't helping, unlike the blue blockers she's sporting.

Another individual I'll beat to that 6 hour line is Ping, the 20 year old Chinese kid in the Honda Civic. Hell... he'll be lucky to get an hour away from the base without getting into an accident. Yeah, I'm stereotyping. So what?

What does all this mean?

Well, for one... it means I'm a rebel. That's right... I play by my own rules. You hear that ladies? I'm a bad boy. Need more proof? I have tattoos. Boom! I have no problem skirting this directive that goes virtually unattended and unenforced. Bold? Sure. Pioneering? Absolutely. But don't call me a hero... even though I am.

To sum this up, I'm not going to say where I went this weekend... but it involved some old friends, some alcohol, a UFC fight, and it may or may not have blown my previous treks out of the water. I know if I had made a trip like that, I wouldn't want to do it again anytime soon. Also, I'm pretty sure I accidentally ran over a frog. I feel pretty bad about that.

P.S. I'm working on not being so impulsive and forward. Blah.