Falling on my Face

I have been thinking. Recently I was standing around a camp fire (Yes in February) thinking about things that most people think about when they are out at a random spot in the woods at night, things that scare them. Most people do this, thinking, that is, and it’s the people that don’t that I fear the most. Crazy ass, close minded, conservatives. People who think that they have a world view because they watch cable news, and read fear mongers columns.

Breaking News: Some Bullshit Happening Somewhere

Now I am not the most enlightened person, nor the most intelligent, or traveled, but at least I know it. When it comes down to it most people know what they are good at. There are always competitions (Olympics are prime example) to see who is the best at doing a thing, awards for great thinkers and every other grand recognition, thus if you’re the best you, and everyone else knows it. I on the other hand have a great knowledge in what I am the worst at, not just bad at, but far and beyond, the worst.

When I was going the third grade the small private school I was going to closed. It was my first year in public school. My class room was in the basement of a large brick building that could have been an old mental institution. My teacher was old school, she was a tight ass bitch as well, who was retiring and so really dident give a shit about anything. She was planning on moving to South America as soon as school was out. On the last day kids were crying because they knew that she was going to be leaving and I remember yelling to them all "Why are you crying? She sucks! And I know you hate her!". Well the exact wording escapes me now but I digress. She loved times tables, and each day or maybe it was only once a week, she would give us timed tests, and if you did not finish in time you would have to spend lunch inside doing them all over and over again. I always stayed in. It was me and the tragically poverty stricken boy, who would say curse words just to get in trouble. Even the mentally handicapped kid went outside, but in my defense I think that he was exempt. Thus I learned I was the worst at math. In one of the most recent event I was out at a karaoke club, with almost nothing to drink (I had been on a bender the two previous nights) I got up to sing Last Night by the Stokes. In the middle of it I realized that the girl that I went to up sing with was not really around, unable to really pay attention to this fact due to my focus on reading the words, I forged on. By the time I was done, and back at my table I realized that everyone in the bar had looked away from me, my friends who had come up to dance/watch had tried to run away only hindered by doubling over in laughter. My partner had done the same, had put down the mic and was off to the side of the stage in a fit of breathless laughter. I am the worst singer, even in a karaoke bar, where literally everyone sucks. Years earlier in middle school (a newer building then elementary, but maybe more shitty, and akin to a jail rather than a mental institution) I was the only kid in the mandatory spelling bee to not even get the first letter correct! I have never liked giraffes after that. In 8th grade as a response to a challenge/joke I joined the football team. As the smallest member of the team the coach always had me do a sumo wrestler style work out with line backers, I only won once, by falling down and having the other guy run himself out of bounds, I lost every day but that one. Once, while on kick off team, I was running down the field, the ball returner was running straight at me. It was my big chance, I would have the tackle of my carrier, maybe go on to start, and begin my life as a star football player. I pulled my right arm back and threw myself into the lunge. It should be said that my jersey was MUCH too big for me in the act of lunging my arm went inside my jersey, the force of my extending arm twisting my pads around me, at which point I stepped in a slight pot hole in the field and fell over as the ball returner ran around me. At half time of each game the coach would ask "Who hasn’t played yet?" and I would be the player to raise my hand. I learned that I was the worst football player ever, even when play time was mandatory I was never put in! HA! Thank god for special teams. Through this I guess it could be said that I try hard and don’t give up. Great! The only thing that I am good at cannot be measured, is unrecognizable, and one cannot win anything with it. HA! Classic

I have broken bones, chiped teeth, made other teams baskets, cut the hell out of myself and fallen down more times than I can recount (some of them have been blocked from my memory due to various cercumstances!) I am told I am a cross between a baby and an old man of the worst kind. Yet it’s the strangest thing, when biking I am almost convinced that I could best a car (with the right leverage I think I could flip one). If I had to arm wrestle a bear I think I could win (maybe with the right wrist position). Ofcouse the logical part of my brain tells me that this is due to the amount of compounds, hormones, and steroids that my body is creating and pounding into my blood. My heart is beating out butane. It is clouding my brain, and diminishing the same logical part that conceptualized its existence.

In the sixth grade each person in my class was given a unique award. There was the best at this, that and the other thing, I honestly cant remember what people got. But I do remember what I was "awarded". I was deemed "Most Likely to Talk to Himself"! What the FUCK! Now I have never been told I was normal, but it’s amazing even at such an age I was thought to be the first one to go crazy if I was not already. Shit I am fucked. Oh well, I guess I fit in with all the other crazies out in the woods at night.

getin' wetter by the minute

Complete and utter despise for thys life. For fending off the crushing darkness in mans struggle against the world is far too much to take. This is what the forefathers of the forefathers must have thought, sitting around their campfire in the snow and wind, eating pickled beets before musing up the Holidays. Because the winter months can suck. Yet I love the Holidays, all the glitter and bliss of Christmas carols and lights. I just cant help but whistle “it’s a holly jolly Christmas”. Well that is until I realize that its winter. And I haven’t seen the sun in so long that I am turning Gollum, and every time I step outside I get shit on by the rain god Zeus on steroids, as he tries to see what will freeze off first; my balls or my thumbs. Every day when I get up its dark, I get outside and battle cars on my bike as the streets of downtown Portland turn in to river beds. The ride home is also dark and the same with the exception that I am going uphill.

Yesterday, following this same basic premise, I avoid death by inches to have wet socks all day. I am finishing up an experiment which means I have to spend hours trying to get samples ready for analysis on a machine whose basic function is to tell you what color something is. In the middle to taking mouse samples at about three o’clock I receive a text that a friend noticed my ol’ VW Vanagon has been tagged as “Abandoned” by the city of Portland and that they will tow it. FUCK! To be honest, the city was right. They have given me three tickets (not paying for parking and for parking in a “no park” church loading zone) all of which I did not pay until I was threatened with, and then slapped with a hefty fine (story of my life; try to stick it to the man and I get fucked! everyttime). Ouch. Anyway after being out 150 I decided to try to beat the system by parking my car in a neighborhood near a friend’s house. The city wised up to the situation. Missy, being at the scene, tried to move the van, only to find that the battery was dead. At this point I am frantically battling with the color teller (wiki FACS flow cytometry), finding how many cells are Aqua, Texas Red and Green, along with other colors that have names that only 8 year old girls know. After nine hours at work I have 2/3 of the samples left, I am starving, and the color teller goes A-wall. The several hundred thousand dollar machine is a finicky bitch, and you kinda have to rub its belly the right way for it to work for ya. One could say it detests me rubbing on it. Now there are not many people that know exactly how to work the fucking thing and so I had to spend an hour calling people until I got it back up and running. I almost had a heart attack every time I get a text, thinking its news that city is taking the Van to be scraped, and almost faint each time that the color detector breaks down 3 more times. At 8:50pm, after 12.8 hours at work, I run for the stairs to make the tram down the hill, realize after standing up that I have not eaten in 8 and a half hours and stumble to the elevator. I make the last tram down Marquam hill. I make it to my bike I in a daze, kick off and screeched to a halt. My rear wheel was partially disconnected! SOME FUCK-ASS TRIED TO STEAL MY WHEEL! That or I have somehow been riding on a wheel that could fall off at any moment… now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be surprised. After some in-the-gutter-of-the-street mechanics I was on my way to push the Vanagon up the hill it was at the bottom of, to push start it, in order to save the one and only from becoming a soup can. I was able to pick up a ride to the van from Tad (the all knowing roommate) where I found it in Missy’s driveway, charging! I guess winter isent so bad when my life is series of freak events day in and day out.
oh yeah i had a cinimen roll, and a bite of fish for dinner.

under control

I have a problem. It does not involve, drugs, alcohol, sex, or violence, at least the problem that I am thinking of doesn’t (the law may disagree with this statement). I have a problem with motion, as in moving, physically moving. Despite my cat-like agility I have been in many accidents, I currently owe some insurance company 500-ish greenbacks for breaking some old man’s windshield after being hit, or bumped rather, by another car (I don’t agree with their finding of it being my fault and I don’t know if I will pay). I have broken more bones than anyone else I know, along with the slew of scars and brain damage from head trauma, but this is not the moving problem that I speaking of either.
I am talking about my extreme motion sickness. Yesterday I spent seven hours on the ocean deep sea fishing. After meeting my brother and parents at Newport Oregon on Saturday night, it was concluded that we would wake up at 6-fucking-thirty in the morning head out on this journey. Don’t get me wrong, I was all for it. I had quickly forgotten about all the hours of puking/almost puking on people while on, planes, trains, roller coaster’s (not just kiddy rides), cars, the occasional tram and most critically boats. The last time I went on such a trip I think I spent a good ten minutes not barfing my guts out, swearing that I would never eat another poppy seed muffin (it was my breakfast at the time). All of this did not seem so bad while at the beach looking at the swelling abyss of the sea. Once on the open ocean all this came flooding back as I pitched from aft to port or whatever the fuck the left and right of boats are. The Captain was much too interested in my parents dog, Sadie, (how she, with 1½ inch long legs, looked like a wolverine and he concluded that she could defiantly be trained to be vicious) to even care about my blight. Among the other patrons of the craft where some hicks and a large black family, who kept me going for awhile with their banter about catching the biggest fish, that is until I puked all over the place. I was positioned at the very front of the boat for the entirety of the trip. Feet spread wide, leaning into the rail with both hands, trying to keep my eyes on the horizon. Needless to say, everyone kinda cleared to the back of the boat. By the end I had puked up my breakfast of cinnamon roll and lots of orange juice (now that I think about it may not have been such a good idea) while catching 6-ish fish. I say -ish because I was not sure what was happening the whole time.
After reaching solid ground I had to eat, not eating for hours always does me in, and throwing up what little I had for bfast made me famished. It seemed obvious at the time for me, a starving, sea sick, vegetarian to order a salmon sandwich. I was not disappointed. The restaurant was the Rouge Brew Pub, and I do not suggest taking your mother to such a place, or maybe just my mother. It started off bad, we were sat in the back, near the restroom. Obviously we had to move. There was then the water fiasco, the wine problem, food debacle, the ceiling fan embarrassment, and then she viewed the restroom itself. Disaster. And so we left. My salmon sandwich lunch almost went the way of my breakfast on the drive home. Almost. I followed the advice that any alcoholic (you know the ones with the real problems) would tell you on the situation 'the only sure fire way to *hick* beat the upchuck is *hick* to pass out'.

Something is happing RIGHT NOW!

I have moved! I am in Portland, sitting in my apartment watching large cotton ball clouds float past the skyscrapers just outside my window (what a fucking clichéd description, but its true, so go fuck yourself). Moving is without a doubt a bitch. My furniture consists of chairs, lots of chairs, which really breaks my balls because you really can’t sleep on chairs when you don’t have a bed. Because I cant sleep on a bed, or the chairs I have to sleep on the floor and because the carpet still smells like cleaner which has lead to a sore throat. This very concerning medical condition may have been produced by the copious amounts of substance abuse that I have been forcibly subjected to as of late. In other injury news I did something to a muscle under my left clavicle, it was really bad two days ago, it has sense dissipated but I am thinking that a relapse is highly likely.

I have been driving to and from Eugene and Portland for the better part of a month looking for and moving to what is a sweet place. Or so I had thought until two nights ago. My cousin, Sierra and I were sitting at the sweet corner bar, Ringlers Annex, just two blocks from my place enjoying some wine (well I was having wine I don’t know what she was drinking) and talking to a very nice bartender. When all of a sudden we heard pop pop pop, just like that, but there were six-ish of them and not three. Immediately after the sound I loudly announced to Sierra, the bartender and the rest of the bar that they were without a doubt not gun shots. I based this conclusion on the fact that out of all the guns that I have fired (not that it is a large amount but as an eagle scout you kind of have to have some knowledge about guns) none had been so quite or sounded so popy. Anyway just after I had told everyone what I thought, the block was flooded with cop cars. I, being sloshed to a good degree, was thrilled, and discussed the matter with Officer Bob, or Bill or some other equally simple and forgettable name. He was a straight up douche of an off duty cop, white cowboy hat, blue jeans, and some kind of collared shirt un-buttoned to reveal his necklace of Native American-like fake beads. He told me about something or other that I instantly forgot because it was just too interesting at the time, but we did talk about it for a while. After escaping the discussion to run to the curb and watch the goings on, make some phone calls, I returned to the bar to watch the street get shut off, and lit up by police.

The bartender then told me about how officer Bob, Phil, or whatever-the-F-his-face-was, was some kind of sex freak and was not really allowed in bars due to his habit of giving girls naked pictures of himself. Thank the sick god he worships that I forgot what he said, because it was obviously crap. It mostly pisses me off because he wanted to shake my hand and I did, and less that he was some pig rappist. I stumbled around the police barricade after briefly discussing how to do so with an officer blocking the walk.

Here is a link that gives no useful information: http://www.kptv.com/news/20888261/detail.html

more to come on me smiling and laughing to a degree that makes my boss want to fire me on my first day of work AND leaving my car all over Portland in an attempt to evade parking-nazi-fucking-fuckasses

Keep an eye above

THE SKY IS FALLING! At anytime a disaster could wipe us all out, or at least several people. Durring one recent parioniod evening I stumbled across an astroid, Apophis, also known as astroid 99942, that may hit the Earth on Friday the 13th, 2029 or swing back and hit us sometime in 2036.

http://www.strangecosmos.com/content/item/113502.html

http://www.livescience.com/environment/050106_odds_of_dying.html

I’d rather pee in the pool

After I wake up every day, while taking my morning shit, I am posed with the question; Why are fish so smart? Except the last two mornings. These mornings, my shits have been void of silly fish questions and contemplation of the silly fish answers (fish are so smart because they live in schools). This question (and, Why is it so easy to weigh a fish?) is presented to me by little fish cartoons that repeatedly pop out at me as I am trying to pop one out. But not for the last 2 mornings, because these silly, curiously ill-timed-question asking fish where on the shower curtain, which Missy took when she moved out of the house.

Bathrooms, as a rule, must be awkward, filled with pointless, stupid knickknacky things. Like grandamas house, whose bathroom has pictures of naked babies coming out of eggs, sitting in sinks and wearing little dress up bonnets (note how none of these babies are of any relation to the family). Some people’s bathrooms have too much popurie, which must mean that they have the foulest shits of all time.

Public restrooms have only one decoration, graffiti. Bars and the science library have exceptionally large amounts of graffiti. While studying chemistry I always have to read about ‘bob’ and how he will give you a BJ in the next stall over at 3 everyday, which is etched into the door. Public restrooms are always awkward, there is always the person who tries to strike up a conversation, or talking on their phone (I will admit this has been me on several occasions). My phone has always been trouble in the restroom. When I am not worrying that it will somehow fly out of my pocket and land in the urinal, leading to a disgusting sequence of events, I am freaked out about it ringing. This may not be so bad for some people, but you must understand that my ring tone is not exactly calming or quite. It is me screaming that my phone is ringing, on repeat. Which, when it rings while reliving myself, just sounds like my Johnson is screaming at me, causing strange looks from the neighbors intently staring at the cracks in the wall. I then have to recover with some kind of comment, fish jokes never go well.

dysfunctional

my brain is missing something... beer, late nights filled with, yelling, slurring, and swearing like a sailor. Am I growing old? No I cant be... the other day I had a long conversation about how some fat people have a front butt. And if they have to buy pants for that. I have just gotten off the trail of the crazy band wagon for a reality check and then it up back in to the driver seat for the horizon. Or some shit like that.

Spending so much time by myself has made me feel a little cuckoo. You know, you start feeling like an old person. The ones that talk for inappropriately long amounts of time when they get half a chance. I might find myself keeping the mail man from doing his job and think back later to how I ended up telling him how, as a child, my favorite color was a mix of green and purple, and how this later.... well I won’t go into it because I can’t become an old-person-esk social retard.

To fight this 'old' thing I have been doing several things. One; googleing words. When googleing the word bannana (my first attempt at spelling banana) I got 47,000 hits. You may be surprised at the number of people who made this same 'simple' error. I, on the other hand, was surprised by the lack of people thinking and writing about bannanas. Until of course I saw the 'Did you mean: banana?', damn it google, you got the best of me again. The made up word crong (I cant remember what I was trying to spell) got 18,800 hits. Urban dictionary states that Crong has four meanings; crap-wrong hybrid, meth bong, crazy strong, and boner. How the last one ties in beats me but I decided to use all four in a sentence.
My buddy passed me the piece, I took a hit and leaped up yelling " Crong bong, it was a freaking crong!” immediately falling back as the effects took over, leaving me so crong that I took a brick and broke it over my giant crong.
Well anyways you should try using all of them and see how you do it.

Today I discovered that I am 9 and 1/8 inches thick at my widest point . I found this out after another activity to stave off this whole 'old' thing; running. Notice that it is not jogging, something an old person does. Running in itself is not that unusual, for me or anyone else, but it was littered with occurrences that lead to me determining my thickness. As I was running, much faster than old people do, I saw a bug, a bee of some kind to be precise, not that unusual. As we were headed for a collision I tried to dodge, but due to my high velocity, I missed. Which is unusual, noting my cat like agility. Anyway the bee, now stuck in my locks of hair, was hit by my hand’s natural reaction to wipe it away, causing the bee to sting me. I instantly collapsed in pain. It was no bee, but some kind of super mutant bee that had been designed to inflict freakish amounts of pain on the human race, making my hand swell to 9 and 1/8th inches. Well ok I guess it did not happen much like that, but the bee was a freak. Looking at my finger now I don’t see a sting so it may not have been a bee, and I guess it did really have anything to do with my width anyway, maybe unusual for bees or bee like things. When I returned from my marathon length sprint, I found the house locked. This is not unusual, Josh, always locks the door every time he leaves the house, I am constantly being locked in. Nor was it unusual that I did not have a key, some may find it surprising that I am locked out/from/in many things all the time. I shared your surprise for the situation. After walking around the house I discovered the only open window also had the screen ripped off, Hurrah what luck! Using my cat like agility, I jumped up to the window, finding only my head able to fit through the small opening. After some worm-like wriggling I squeezed the rest of my body through the hole, falling into the kitchen. Inspecting the opening with a tape measure (something an old person would never have on them) I was able to determine that it was 9 and 1/8th inches open to the crong hot weather outside, and thanking god that I didn’t have a crong preventing me from fitting through the door-crong word-window or that I fell on Molly's crong disturbed cat, I went to go take a shower and forget about the death bee.