I just realized that I have several blogs in "draft" status on the Blogger console. These are blogs that I started and never finished or published because they were either too stupid, too boring, or too incriminating to publish in a public forum. Me and Britta on Fat Tuesday, a business dinner with my Father, me and a stripper or two, etc. You start writing and then after a few paragraphs realize that no one's going to give a shit. So I stop. I think I'll go through and publish them as they are for shits and giggles.

I slept on my couch last night. Again. I fell asleep at 9:30 after eating a bowl of cereal for dinner. I was effing exhausted.

Well, my lunch burrito is finished. Back to work.

goochout.

Here's a snapshot (to borrow from the last blog): I'm in bed, it's 4am, and I really just want to go to sleep. Dammit.

Dammit.

gooch:awake

I'm in such a happy place right now. Sometimes, I like to take a snapshot of a place and time and post it on this blog. I'm in my freshly made bed. A double shot of Family Guy has just come on. I've got almost a (if not a full) bottle of wine in my gut. My first job tomorrow is at 10am. I'm gonna sleep now.

Read the blog below and make a comment as to what you'd do in that situation. Good night.

True Portland Stories
As retold by Gooch.

A man and woman go out on a first date. Drinks, dinner, a stroll - it was a perfect evening. So perfect that the man invited the woman over to his house and she stayed the night.

The next morning she awoke. The man was getting dressed and she started to get up and do the same.

"Oh... don't worry - sleep in if you want" the man offered. "Stay as long as you want, make yourself some coffee, there's breakfast stuff in the fridge, make yourself at home. The door will lock itself when you leave."

So she did. She slept in and when she got up she went to the bathroom to take [as was told to me] a "major shit." She did so and when she flushed the toilet it clogged and started to overflow. She couldn't find a plunger anywhere so she stuck her hand into a tall kitchen bag and reached in to clear the offensive obstacle. She inverted the bag and placed that bag of excrement into another bag, tied it up and set it aside so that she could throw it out in a public dumpster outside.

She meticulously went through the bathroom to make sure that it looked as though she hadn't even used it. She washed up and walked out to the kitchen where she saw that the man left a note saying that he'd had a wonderful time and looked forward to seeing her again. She too, had a great time and was indeed eager to go out with the man again. She wrote a response saying so. Then, as it was time for her to leave, she grabbed her things and hurried out the door. The door that locked behind her, automatically as she'd been told.

She'd forgotten one thing. The bag of shit that she'd set aside. The bag of shit that she'd set aside on the kitchen counter. The bag of shit that she'd set aside on the kitchen counter next to the note. She panicked, but couldn't figure out what to do. So, she left.

He hasn't called her.

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Wow... zipped past 40,000 hits sometime today. I've got to redo this page. I want to go home and take a shower. I need to get a copy of the departed. Wrapped up a good week of work. Why or how does the microwave change the direction in which it rotates the plate each time you start it? I actually spent one second staring at the microwave with that thought in my mind. I think I'm starting to like girls again. I mean, be interested in relationships as opposed to trying to find the path of least resistance to getting laid. Not that that's happened in quite a while. I just don't know how I ended up being such a pussy. I'm the most social socialphobic ever. I still stammer when I ... forget it. This is too pathetic to even write about. I need to get out of town. I really need a vacation from a life that some consider a vacation. I live like Kramer but I look like George. Do I really need to ... I don't know what I was going to finish that sentence with; I just started typing it. Holyfuckingshit is Fergie really making a career out of this... She's such a ripoff of Gwen Stefani, among others. I saw her video for "Glamorous," which reminded me a lot of Gwen Stefani's "Luxurious," since the subject matter was about the same... and Fergie's backup dancers have about the same two or three moves and they're used in all of her videos. It's bad when I notice something like choreography.

Valentine's Day Column:2007

Relationships and dating are extremely confusing and people spend a lot of time trying to figure them out. Fortunately I've spent a good chunk of the last few years focusing on what matters most in a relationship:

Me.

I matter. My happiness is my primary concern and priority. Nothing makes me happier than waking up in the morning and not knowing what I'm going to do for the day. Hell, nothing makes me happier than waking up in the morning and not knowing what I did the night before. I wake up, watch Sopranos or Entourage On Demand, work out, eat breakfast, go to work, go out to dinner (or microwave up something awful), watch To Catch a Predator, and fall asleep. I need for nothing else. What's a relationship going to do for me? If I want female companionship I can merely hang out with one of my hot chick friends. If I want sex I can go back to work at the strip club. If I want to be left alone, I'll lock the deadbolt.

You know what men want? Food, sex, silence.
That's it. Food, sex, silence. Feed me, fuck me, shut the fuck up!
Our goals seem very attainable, don't they?
-Chris Rock

My emotional needs are so simple at this point. Pure bliss would be achieved if I could somehow simultaneously eat prime rib, drink a Jack Daniels and Diet Coke, watch Dateline NBC: To Catch a Predator, and receive oral sex. This is it. You people can keep your marriages, the birth of your children, your imminent divorces and subsequent broken homes. I'll take red meat, booze, a 42" plasma, and a hummer any goddammed day of the week.

Most everyone else doesn't see it my way; they don't share in my cynicism. This is fine. You guys can go out, buy roses, candy, rent a romantic comedy and cuddle on a couch. Before I became Darth Vader, I used to do the same thing. Shit... I love a love story. I don't buy into them or see them as a template that I could apply in my world. I like them though. Look at Jerry Maguire:

We live in a cynical world. A cynical world. And we work in a business of tough competitors. I love you. You... complete me. - Jerry Maguire (Tom Cruise) in Jerry Maguire, 1996

One of the most memorable quotes in movie history and it doesn't make sense to me. How weak does my emotional constitution need to be to need someone else to "complete me." What girl (besides one that looks like Renee Zellweger getting hit on by Tom Cruise) wants a man that feels "incomplete" without a particular female companion. I don't need to be completed. I am, in fact, a whole.

An "ass-whole" you might have wittily quipped as you read this. Good... feed into my cynicism.

You see, there will never be a sequel to Jerry Maguire. There will never be a sequel to any romantic movie. They all end with the couple getting together. Romantic movies always end with the beginning of a relationship. That's because no one in the movie viewing public wants to see the goings on after the bliss of the genesis of coupledom. No one wants to see the fights over going out too much. No one wants to see an argument over someone hanging out with an ex. No one wants reality when it comes to romance and relationships in movies. We watch to see an idealistically impossible, and therefore fantasy world. These movies should not be seen as "romantic comedies." They should be classified as "science fiction."

The standard system of dating is flawed. I see no difference in dating at this point than, say, handing out $50 gift certificates for dinner to random hot girls and hoping that one will sleep with me. The time I'd save alone would be so beneficial. Why risk a Saturday night on someone you don't really know that well when you're guaranteed to have a great fucking time with your friends? Chronological real estate is an extremely valuable commodity that I'm not willing to part with so readily.

Perhaps I'm a bit jaded. Perhaps I'm just not ready to allow my emotional well being to be held hostage by someone I met over drinks at a bar some Tuesday night. Someday I'll slip up, but for now I'll focus on completing myself.


Dedicated to my friend Britta.