Whoredom, I Bid You Adieu.

What do you do when you come to a realization that makes you question your current path? You lay out the basics – how you got there, why you’re there, and where you’re going. After you establish what ISN’T working with that equation, you reassess and reestablish forward movement in the right direction. You get to journey through this process with me.

We’ll start our journey about 3 and a half years ago, right after I had moved from Washington to Arizona. I was still sheltered, naive, and a virgin to life and most of its lusts. That changed quickly. The ex, who I’ve previously referred to as Satan, and I had broken up. I didn’t know anyone here, and had no idea what I was going to do. So I did what any early twenty-something single male would do in a city full of attractive, slutty females – I banged every last one I could. I thought about detailing my sexcapades in a separate post, but there has honestly been too many with too few recollections of names, places, etc. So I’ll keep this basic. I met the first one at a grocery store. She was older and had sexy green piercing eyes that stared straight through the zipper on my jeans, and into my sexually vulnerable needs. Three months in Arizona and I thought I had moved to Heaven at that point. This was only the beginning. Shortly after Grocery Store Chick, there was The Professor. She was taller than I normally like, but had legs that I literally drooled over (I fell asleep in class one day, woke up to a drool spot and her standing over me. All I saw was legs). She was a recent divorcee, and had a body like a 25 year old aerobics instructor. Oh man. I have to stop there, I’m already losing focus. Next, there was a bevy of younger, slutty chicks, mostly from ASU as they’re all like that. I’ve met chicks at gas stations, grocery stores, Home Goods, as I’ve posted about previously. I’ve banged chicks I work/worked with. Chicks from classes I’mnot even enrolled in. I’ve met chicks through this very blog, in fact. In 3 and a half years, I’ve almost lost count. I was sucked into whoredom and loved every last dirty second of it. And until very recently, this dirty whoredom was my lifestyle of choice and I saw nothing wrong with it. I haven’t really dated anyone since Satan, who we’ll now refer to as S. That’s a lot of time to be single, and Arizona is definitely the place to enjoy it. But I was younger then, and I’m old as fuck now. Females still fall into my lap, and I hate to sound cocky or conceited, but it is the reality of it. It makes it tough to end this lifestyle, but it’s that time. The epiphany.

I recently met this chick, who I’ll refer to as K. I was immediately intrigued for a number of reasons, but mainly because of a sexy wittiness that was like a vacuum for my eyes and manparts. Wit turns me on like nothing else. And aside from being witty, she was super tiny, quirky, and looked like she could be a Suicide Girl or God’s Girl, for those of you know what either are. GOD, distracted again. Go Google both. Anyway, I was attracted. We hung out a few times and talked a lot more than I normally talk to females I’m interested in. Talking is usually secondary to action, just saying. In K’s defense, there is more to this than I’ll divulge, but the more we talked the more attracted to her I was. This was abnormal for me, it’s usually opposite this to the extreme. More talking = less attraction. Not the case with her. Since I’m a drunk and tell everyone exactly how and why I feel what I feel, I spilled my guts to her, like a dipshit. Awesome, Ross. Idiot. It didn’t end like I thought it would. I had to put in effort, and talk about feelings, and all of it was denied. I was denied! Instead, all she wanted to do was talk about sex. Not have sex, just talk about it. She even said on more than one occasion that she was slutty. I thought this was sarcasm. Apparently not. And for the first time ever, I was turned off by this. I know, weird, since it’s kind of my thing. But I was turned off, thrown off, and not getting off. It was somewhere around this time when I realized, I had turned into a vagina and wasn’t just trying to bang her. I told K I hated her sarcastically, but I think it might have been more serious than I thought. Not just because nothing was coming from my weirdo crush on her, but because she was willing to be slutty in her own way and on her own time with other dudes, but not me. I couldn’t break the easiest (!) surface she had, and it frustrated me. She was willing to give away herself and her self-worth, and that made me hate her. In my head, she was too good to be that person. And then I realized, I was also that person.

After putting all of the aforementioned together, the obvious reason for being thrown off is because I’m no longer wanting to travel the path of sluttiness. No matter how fun it has been. And since that is the problem, per my assessment, I will subtract that part of the equation and replace it with…well, I’m not sure yet. But it isn’t whoredom. I’m over it. And disease free through the entire period, no pregnancy scares, and no crazy chicks still following/stalking me. I’ve been blessed. But it’s time to move on. And in this moving on I’ve also realized that I still compare females to S. Subconsciously. Apparently she wasn’t as bad as I thought at the time. She was loyal, the complete opposite of slutty, and breaking through barriers didn’t seem like some sort of impossible challenge, it seemed like a ‘getting to know you’ process. It wasn’t this way with K. It was just impossible. Point being, my run of whoredom was stemmed from S, and ends with S.

Whoredom, it’s been fun. You’ve treated me well. You’ve never left me hanging. You’ve kept me company. A LOT of company. You’ve made me smile, kept me in shape and given me plenty of workouts, and made me aware of a life that I absolutely do not want to be a part of. At least, not anymore. I’m going back to my old fashioned roots. That’s who I really am. A small town kid who is crazy in love with his grandparents and family, and has a few close friends who enjoy a weekend of fishing just as much as a night in Tempe banging slutty females. I’ll trade a hug from my grandma over 75 sex adventures any day. No idea how I interjected thoughts about my grandma into a blog about whoredom. Weird.

Whoredom, I bid you adieu.

To be an American.

With all of the recent immigration issues such as SB1070 and the possibility of Jus soli being negated and the 14th Amendment altered, I feel that there are things being overlooked, from both sides of the debates. For the remainder of this blog entry, forget whateverthefuck is going on politically.

Forget Arizona’s attempt to correct what the federal government and President Obama would not. Forget that BP has scurried away from taking responsibility for the oil leak in the Gulf. Forget that Russell Pearce and Lindsey Graham, amongst others, are trying to alter the 14th Amendment and take away Jus soli for babies born to illegal immigrants. Forget that you have a myriad of credit card debt that is killing you financially. Forget that cities and states are cutting education funds to go toward less necessary shit. Forget that your banks just took billions and billions of dollars while hiking UP your interest rates afterward. Forget that your block has more than 5 foreclosures on it. Forget that Tiger Woods is a whore. Forget about whatever other sex scandal is flourishing in the news today. Forget that jobs in your area are scarce and that you cannot find one. Forget about whatever new diet ‘fad’ you’re trying to get into. Forget that your husband or spouse is cheating on you. Forget that life isn’t fair. Fuck all of the aforementioned, and let’s revisit the basics. Or, in this case, THE basic, singular.

You are an American. What does that mean to you? What is that supposed to mean to you? What does it mean to other people? What do other people want it to mean? Again, fuck all of that, because I’m going to tell you what it means to be an American, in the most grammatically incorrect run-on form of all time:

I’m an American- with my faults, with my glories, with my remembrances of war stories my grandpa or great grandpa told me, with my pictures from the “olden days,” with my multicultural background, with my bilingual speaking tongue, with my appreciation for cultures and foods other than my own, with my pride, with my excessive ego, with my hard earned U.S dollar bill, with my education that is far superior to any other nation’s, with my personal taste in music, with my personal sexual preference, with my own thoughts, with my own mind, with my own decisions, with my own children, with my own stories, with my freedom, with my liberty, with my freedom to choose what religion my family and I will be, with my freedom to birth as many children as I want, with my freedom to give up or abort my children, with my pursuit of happiness, with my pursuit of liberty in whatever form I may find appealing, with my right to bear arms…openly, with my right to a fair trial, with my right to enlist in the United States military, with my right to eat what I please, when I please, where I please, and with whom I please; with my own style of dress, with my tramp stamp tattoo, with my ridiculous tribal tattoo, with my vernacular and diction, with my collection of fine arts, with my collection of band tees, with my collection of beer bottles, with my collection of records, with my collection of baseball cards I’ve accumulated since I was a child, with my ability to enjoy a hotdog at a baseball game…for $12, with the freedom to drive whatever car I can afford, with my freedom to pursue financial freedom, with my dog named Jack, with my out of control stress level, with my out of control quirkiness, with my out of control hair, with my out of control smoking habit, with my out of control family-in-law, with my out of control political views which I have the freedom to broadcast, with my cowboy hat and country music, with my fishing pole and tackle box, with my space on a quiet river in Montana, with my naked pictures on the internet you weren’t supposed to see, with my overbearing family, with my overbearing husband, with my overbearing wife, with my obnoxious kids, with my amazing kids, with my stand up comedy, with my beat up jeans, with my Ford cars, with my New York City visits, with my Hawaii vacations, with my 4am hockey practices in -10 degree weather, with my snowboard, with my skateboard, with my tv and all the inane daytime drama I could ever imagine, with my social security monies, with my unemployment monies, with my shitty salary, with my six-figure salary, with my Chinese food, with my Taco Bell Mexican food, with my WalMart, with my Declaration of Independence, with my Constitution and its Amendments, with MY Bill of Rights, with my judicial system, with my justice system, with the lacking justice system, with my right to dissent or disagree with whatever and whomever i may choose, with my passion, with my drive, with my burning sensation inside telling me to BE and DO rather than watch, with my freedom of speech, with my right to work, with my right to earn a living, with my right to choose my spouse…for better or worse, with my right to get rid of that spouse…who ended up for the worst, with my WWII memories, with my triumph over the British, French, Vietnamese, Russian, German, Japanese and soon to be Mexican…fuck all of you. With my right to visit Pearl Harbor, with my right to appreciate fallen soldiers, with my right to cry for those who have allowed me to be what I am today, with my right to fight for the AMERICAN freedom for others, with my right to fight for my family, with my right to fight for my country, with my right to accept my American government with its faults and horrible policy I may not always agree with, with my right to high five a congressperson on a job well done when earned, with my right to become and remain an American citizen, with my right to carry and honor my American flag with me always, with my right to cry during the singing of the National Anthem or America the Beautiful without being mocked by others, with my right to shiver at the sight of fireworks on the 4th of July, with my right to be. Me. An American citizen.

Whether you are for SB1070 or not, whether you are in agreement with Russell Pearce and Lindsay graham or not, one thing is certain- every last fucking one of the items listed above is worth fighting for, and earning. Tell me I’m wrong and I will verbally, physically and mentally punch you in the fucking mouth. To keep access to all of the aforementioned, I will fight in my country’s honor in whatever way it deems necessary. I’m not a soldier. I’m not in the military. But I’m a fucking American and these are the freedoms and rights I live for every single day. If someone told me I was going to have to fight a tough and lengthy battle to gain access to all of these things, I would do whatever it took without thinking twice. Why is it not the same for the rest of you? And if it is, high five. I applaud you.

For those of you who believe these things should be given to you simply because you’ve asked for them or because you are a human being…fuck yourself, and get the fuck out of my country.

America, where’s your passion?

Though there’s been 234,547,109 issues to post on as of late, I’ve fallen short of my ranting blogitory duties. Yes, blogitory. It’s a word, I promise. And the definition states something to the effect of, “stop being such an anal-retentive word nazi, you anal-retentive word nazi.” Anyway, this post will be short but despite its lack of length, I feel it’s an important aspect pertaining to ALL things, and it’s missing in action as of late. Passion.

Passion is what drives all thoughts and ideas, both moving and lackadaisical. It’s what moves nations to fight for their rights and beliefs, and pushes cultures to maintain their honor and tradition through adaptation and change. Passion is that necessary substance that moves, inspires, motivates, and causes feeling for things that would otherwise be without. Passion is at an all time low in America, and it disappoints me to no end.

Recently, I watched a movie called “The Freedom Writers,” inspired by the Freedom Riders organization and movement during the Civil Rights movement era. The movie was an offshoot of the Riders, using a play-on-words as they used their writings to speak their minds and get their word out, where as the actual Freedom Riders used their physical embodyment to encourage freedom and equality. The movie itself was decent, but it inspired me to do some research on the original group. What I found was amounts of passion flowing through these people that is nowhere to be seen today. They were criticized and abused, literally, for their beliefs but it did not stop them. Throughout history there have been hundreds of thousands of people and groups who have done insurmountable things for good causes and to progress the betterment of mankind as a whole. All of these groups and persons have at least one thing in common- a passion that burns inside them that is absolutely neccesary to quench. And the only way to quench that passion, is to let it out. Today’s politicians don’t carry that lost passion. Athletes don’t carry that passion. Musicians do few and far between, but it’s a different kind of passion that could be described as mild at best, in comparison to the passion that has exploded throughout mankind’s young history. It disappoints me.

What inspires you? When you tell someone you’re passionate about something…are you talking yourself into being passionate? Or do you legitimately feel you NEED to do something with it? Where is that passion? And if you have it, where does it come from, and what do you do with it? I love …well, DID love Glenn Beck, before his recent jump onto the crazy train. But prior, when he was still an obnoxious and partially sane conservative republican voice, he had passion. It might have been misguided and conveyed in odd fashion, but it was there. And even if it was just for ratings and to get his name out…it worked. He had to at least be somewhat passionate about his voice to put himself out there. Going back to the Freedom Riders…they not only put themselves out there, but were beaten, brutally, and knew it was coming before deciding to voice their passions. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the kind of passion I want in me. That is the kind of passion that should be present in every living soul, and seen and heard and felt throughout the world. And I don’t mean that to sound lame and ridiculous, as it might, but I sincerely believe it’s necessary to continue to progress as human beings on earth. And I believe it’s what’s necessary to get through the BP crisis, and our global relations issues, and our economic issues, and our failing health care issues, and our controversial immigration issues as well. Passion is nowhere to be found. And it honestly saddens me. Lastly…I lied about this being a short post. Sue me. I’m passionate, and I have a voice that doesn’t stop on paper or text.

Without coercion.

Today’s Mother’s Day. Hundreds of thousands of you have rushed to online stores and flower shops to find last minute gifts for your mothers, not because you forgot about them, but because life has required attention elsewhere prior. That’s not just a lame excuse, right?

Jkthatsalameexcuse.

This isn’t a common occurrence with JUST Mother’s Day, it’s most holidays. And not for everyone; some of you have gifts and cards and parties planned weeks and months before the given holiday. Fuck you, you make the rest of us look bad. But seriously, Mother’s Day is one of those holidays that shouldn’t be coerced. I can appreciate that there is one day a year that is solely dedicated to mothers…just mothers. But I also feel that the role of motherhood is one that requires constant and sporadic appreciation. For those of you who are mothers reading this, you know what I’m talking about. Pat yourselves on the back. It’s ok, no one’s going to call you egoists today. Tomorrow, maybe. And for those of you reading this who are NOT mothers, you have absolutely no idea what they go through. I’m a male, so I obviously don’t either. But I was given a pretty good example of what mothers should be, for the entirety of my life. So though I have never birthed a child through my naughtybits, or raised and pretended to like the most obnoxious living organism ever created until it reached eighteen years old, or had to clean up puke and vomit from….fill in the blank, or had to wake up at 4 in the morning to drive screaming and yelling kids to hockey practice in the middle of winter with a temperature of -10, or cook, clean and slave for an ungrateful family of idiots and whiners, or had to maintain the most demanding social job, an actual career, and still find time for myself to make sure my hair hadn’t completely fallen out…I have seen all of this firsthand and can tell you that the hell that they go through deserves far more than one day of coerced appreciation. Don’t just thank them. Don’t just hug them. Don’t just tell them you love them. Don’t just stop by for dinner to catch up. SHOW them, appreciate them, adore them, and give back to them half of what they’ve given you. Make them feel your love and appreciation. Write them random letters or emails to remind them that you appreciate the amount of wrinkles they’ve acquired due to you and your annoyances. Or, write a blog in hopes of them reading it and understanding that though you’ve failed at being as great of a son or daughter as they have been a mom, you always have the intent to show or tell them all of the aforementioned, and that you’re going to stop failing at it.

No more being ambiguous. My mom is better than yours, and though you can’t see my face as it’s glued to this laptop screen, I am sticking my tongue out at you. All of you. I’m sure your moms are great, but mine exemplifies all that is motherhood.

My family wasn’t well-off when I was growing up. My mom worked retail and eventually started her own daycare and school, while my dad was at the hospital and traveling on-call constantly. Though their schedules were intensely demanding, they still made time for my sister and I. Always. No matter what. Never a single excuse. And when I was young, about 4-6 or 7ish, I would go downtown with my dad or grandma to pick my mom up from JC Pennys, and she would always show Aimee, my sister, and I off to her co-workers or random shoppers. Though I was young, it made me feel like the world’s greatest kid. Mom’s should feel that, constantly. Anyway, even after working a long and exhausting day, she would still get off work and take me shopping with her. I loved it. And today, I’m a shopaholic and I can’t help it. My bills are always paid and I have plenty of excess, but a lot of my income goes to…shopping. I realized recently that it’s not only because I love clothes and neato stuff in general, but also because it’s something I’ve acquired from my mom, and I want as much of her character in me as is humanly possible. That might just be a ridiculous excuse to continue to spend stupid amounts of money shopping, but it does keep a part of my mom with me always, even though I’m now in Arizona and she’s 1,385 miles away in Washington.

Anyway, ramble, ramble, ramble…I get sidetracked easily, especially when shopping is mentioned. The point is that my mom has suffered through a lot…more than I can put into a single blog, unless the two of you reading this want to spend the next three months discussing all of my mother’s conquerings. Long story short, she’s had cancer, had surgery to remove it, had it again, had more surgeries, and has had medical problems for the past 15 years. All the while, in pain far worse than most can understand, she’s managed to keep my extended family together, keep up my grandparent’s household as she is their caretaker. She cooks and cleans and taxis my grandparents to and from hospital appointments, educates and teaches my youngest sister, Michaela, who’s a straight A 4.0 student, while participating in tennis, volleyball, basketball and orchestra. Where do you think Michaela gets that from? She exemplifies all that is my mother. Though my sister Aimee and I have done well for ourselves, all things considered, Michaela has had the benefit of my mom’s complete attention and devotion toward her schooling and extracurricular activities. Most people, mom’s and the like, are not awake for as many hours a day as my mom is working, mending and persevering through her rigorous demands. My mom is Super Woman. Step aside, Lynda Carter.

If any of you are still reading with me, thanks. Like I said, I could keep you here hours more telling you about how amazing MY mother is. But instead, I’m going to call her and tell her, not you. You should all do the same. Not just today on Mother’s Day, but anytime she crosses your mind. Life’s all about the little details.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom.

Uploaded with ImageShack.us

O.C.D, A.D.D. and other acronyms for excuses.

It’s late Saturday night, or early Sunday morning. Whatever. Either way, I have all these thoughts in my head that I feel like getting out on…non-empirical paper. Ready, GO!

If I had more time to pretend to be funny in front of people, I’d take a stab at becoming a comedian.

How many times a day does Nancy Pelosi cringe at having to smile? And how many times a day does she frown at having to cringe about the smiles? And how much fucking money does it take to make her look that plastically miserable at all times? Yes, plastically. It’s a word now, picky.

Last night after the bars I realized that I’m a perpetual shitty friend and even shittier lay. The actual physical act of sex I’ve got down; I’m actually something like a professional. However, I’m referring to the inability to stay and talk or pretend like I’m there for any other reason than…sex. That part, I’m shitty at.

Does everyone karaoke in the mirror at some point in their life? It should be mandatory before engaging in the practice of karaoke.

I spend a lot of money on clothes. That money could have gone toward a 1968 Jaguar E-Type. And I’d get more chicks. Plus I’d look classy and sophisticated, or something neat.

Chris Cornell’s voice is audio bliss.

The words vindication, vendetta and vengeance all start with the letter ‘v’…as does the word vagina. Anatomy was trying to tell males something from the very start. We suck at listening.

I’m getting a boxer puppy in a month or two…what should I name it? And is it weird to rename one if it has a name at 6 weeks already? Would it know the difference at 6 weeks? Why is puppy breath so goddamn cute? Do I get a male or female? And if I named it Reagan, would it need to be a male or female? Which would be more fitting? I suck at dog. Yes, dog, singular. There’s only going to be one, therefore, I suck at dog.

I like words.

I don’t like discolored toenails.

My life needs more structure. My life needs far less structure. I’m not bipolar.

I have a date this Friday…an actual date. Not a “hey-are-you-busy-and/or-lonely? Wanna-come-over-late-Friday-night?” kind of date. This is new for me. Or extremely old for me. I can’t remember which, but I’m excited. I think.

More scrambled thoughts to follow at a later time, kids. Sit back in your chair.

The Beginning.

Every great movement or idea starts with just that- a movement…or an idea. Profound, right? I know. Anyway, for both of you reading this, you will be moved. You’ve been preempted. My thoughts, insights, ramblings and rants to follow will surely move you in some fashion, even if it’s just from the couch to your computer.

On a serious note, I have about 445,397,238,983 thoughts go through my head each day that are wasted as they are just that…thoughts that stay within the restrictions of my head. Moving forward, this is where those thoughts will be splattered. They will be open, honest, brash, abrasive, offensive, and will most definitely spark some thought process, for better or worse. What you do with them from there is entirely up to you.

Day 1…will be covered on day 2.