Saturday, February 07, 2004

One Monkey Don't Stop No Show

So tonight at work, I decided to quit my job. Well, I act like tonight was somehow different than any and every other night that I work. Tonight, I actually typed up my letter of resignation. Here is a copy of it.


In two weeks, you will have a position to fill. Thanks for the job. I had rent to pay. It almost covered it. Now, I am living with my mom again. Thanks for that too. I do not have rent now. Therefore, I have no need to subject myself to this job anymore.

Thanks again,

I am keeping a copy of it in my locker at work. Basically, I am all gung-hoe about doing something like, oh, I don't know, quitting my job until I sit my ass down for a minute and calm down. Typing the letter again and again tonight calmed me. Needlesstosay, I still have my position in the chain gang. At least now I have a hard copy of my resignation. Next time I get disgruntled at work, I can go and get it and take it to my boss. No typing means no time to grow calm and rational.

Oh and to the night shift girl, which is going to be your name now as I am sure you will at some point be reading this, when I say I am quitting you are supposed to say, "No, don't go you pharmaceutical god you. Please stay. My life will be incomplete without you." You are NOT supposed to say, "Let me know if you do. I want your shift." See, the first one is GOOD. The second, BAAAD. I'll expect you to rub my nipples when I see you at work again.

Sorry that turned into a bit of an email did it not.

Well, after a night from the fifth ring of hell, I went to the gas station to buy beer. I wanted wine, but in this part of the country, they believe that everyone has to get up at the buttcrack of dawn to milk a cow or fuck a sheep. Since everyone is going to be getting up early, they must be heading to bed early. If they are going to bed early, they don't need alcohol after 9 or 10 o'clock at night. Since beer is like a fucked up soft drink to most of these people, they can still sell it. I am glad they can though. I needed some magic happy juice.

Why do I always remove myself from Southerners as though I am not a country boy. I grew up in the heart of tabacco chewing, goat screwing, cow tipping, banjo picking, "colored" boy lynching, sister fucking, knee slapping, hoe down country. That is probably why I remove myself from it. I despise it so much. What was I talking about again?

Oh yea, so I get home and find a package for me. I am always excited to find parcels for me. Even if someone sent me like Anthrax or something, I'd be excited. Even after opening it. It means someone is thinking of me. Even if they are thinking I should be dead, they are still thinking of me. Makes me happy. The only ones I never got excited about were those bastard packages that BMG used to send every month. I mean, why the hell do they send you a cd if you didn't order one. Call me a cheap lazy fucker, but I never sent back the reply card saying I didn't want the featured artists cd. I felt and still do feel that it is a waste of a perfectly good stamp. They'd send some shit like "Jordache and the Seaweed Thongs" and I'd always write, "Refused: Return to Sender." They sent me a letter about that too. They were so pissy about it. I told them if I don't order the shit, don't send me the shit. Seemed like common sense to me. That'd be like if I went to have gas put in my car, and the people changed my car's tires while they were at it. Then expected me to pay them to take the tires back off and put my tires back on. Well, it is sorta the same damn thing. Anyway, stuff like that really pisses me off. Where was I again? Cheetos? Beer? Rednecks? Oh yea, my parcel!!!

So I open it up and what do I find?! This guy Dillon from New Orleans has sent me a cd. Not just any cd. He burned me a cd with Big Maybelle, Hadda Brooks, Josephine Baker, Laverne Baker, Georgia White, Dinah Washington, Candye Kane, and Lil Green on it. I damn near lost continence I was so excited. Well, I wasn't quite THAT excited, but I was still pretty damn syked. Listening to it now. Other than Candye Kane, who is obviously on the crack rock, it is an awesome cd.

What else is going on? I feel like this entry is so boring. Maybe it is because I have been drinking. I'll pretend that that is the reason.

Lil Green is singing a song now called "I gotta Have It." The Chorus is "I gotta have it/ Gotta have it/ Morning, noon, and night/ I've gotta have it/ No, I just can't do without it/ I've just gotta have it all the time." Isn't that a pretty song. I remember growing up as a boy...Wait I hate that term. I never grew up as a girl. Therefore, I have no memories of growing up as a girl, and, therefore, by default, I must only have memories of growing up as a boy. So I should and could simply say I have memories from when I was growing up. What the hell am I talking about. I was going to say something, too. And I remember what it was, but after that crap, it has been ruined. I am going to go and drink more now. Prolly smoke too. Definitely have a Twinkie.

Friday, February 06, 2004

It Must Be Love...I'm Pregnant

"Smitten" is such a southern sounding word. Earlier this week, while I was rambling on and on about military boy at work, the girl who works nightshift during my work week asked me if I am "smitten." I told her that I suppose I am. It just sounds so weird to me...smitten. It sounds like a word used to refer to baby gas. "Awwwwwww...did wittle baby wose his manners? Him must be smitten. Is him smitten? Yes, him is. Him IS smitten! Yes him is. Yes him is!" Smitten...I mean, what the hell.

"Swooning" THERE is a word. I love that word. To swoon. It just sounds exactly like what it means. Swooning. I want to meet the person who came up with that word. It is the most perfect word ever. EVER! And yes I am swooning.

He is great. Granted, he is out of town and all due to his work and they do not allow him to use a phone, but still, he is great. I wish he would hurry up and return to Hell so I can see him. Apparently, the gods did not like for me to refer to the South as Hell. As soon as I typed that, there was a huge roll of thunder and a flash of light. Probably lightning. Then again, it could, in all fairness, be my smitten neighbors lighting their lost manners on fire. God bless the drunken rednecks. And also, God, while I am talking to you, keep them away from me. Still not in the mood to squeal like a pig.

Enough about all that. I have decided that the hospital where I am working has a problem with the blind. I decided this a couple of weeks ago. I was about to get onto the elevator on one of the floors, when I noticed a sign hanging on the wall near the elevator's buttons. It read, "In case of fire use Emergency Stairs." Below this, in Braille, was written the same thing. Well, I assume the same thing was written. I must assume as I do not actually read Braille. Feel Braille? Do you read Braille or feel it? I don't know. At any rate, I assume it also read/felt/said to take the stairs.

So my first problem with this is the fact that they even have the Braille there. Surely in a hospital, if a fire were to actually break out, the hospital employees would not leave the poor blind bastard rubbing all over the walls in search of his or her salvation. It would be like a sick game of extreme pin the tail on the donkey where if you win, you live. Fail to find the donkey's beloved ass and you barbeque. I mean what is that?! Seriously, would you leave him or her to wander around baking while deep tissue massaging the walls? I think not. Well, I wouldn't anyway. Maybe I am a more sensitive person than most. I said more sensitive. I said nothing about being more pc.

My next problem with the whole thing is this. Okay, so let's just say Blind Bill (that is the hypothetical blind bastard's name) actually makes his way to the sign in one piece. He reads the Braille. He knows to go and find the Emergency Stairs if he ever wants to see the light of day again (and I swear I tried to think of another way to put it). Well, now he is forced to search the walls even more. He got his hopes up upon finding the Braille just to be crushed like a person who gets trapped in an automated phone call for five hours always feeling like he is on the verge of speaking to a live operator. He thought he had found salvation, but nope, not Bill. So he searches...And he searches...And he rubs...And he feels...And he rubs some more...and he feels some more... He does this until he is nothing but a pile of ash. He thought he found the Emergency Exit stairs Braille a couple of times, but the lumpy cinderblock walls were just taunting him. No, Blind Bill never finds the Emergency Exit stairs. Know why? Because the fucking geniuses who decided that putting Braille on the sign which reads, "In case of fire use Emergency Stairs," felt it was less important to have Braille on the actual fucking Emergency Stairs. Oh, there is a sign that reads "Emergency Stairs" on the emergency stairs, but there is no Braille to be found. Nada. None. Zip. Zilch. What in the shit hell kind of fucked up cruel joke is that? Basically, the hospital is saying, "Hey ya blind bastard! We realize that you are trapped in a pitchblack blazing inferno. And we DO want you to know that there IS, in fact, a way out. However, your survival is not our top priority. This is our little way of weeding out the 'gimps' and saying, 'Fuck you very much and have a nice day!'"

It just bothers me. I have complained to several people about it too. APPARENTLY, no one sees an obvious "fuck off and die" that we are sending out to our blind brethren as an important issue.

Hospitals are so warm and inviting.

Tuesday, February 03, 2004

Apparent Lepper

I am HIV +. It kind of sucks having the "hiv," but what can ya do? It is not something that I obsess over. I just felt like writing about it tonight.

We call it "the hiv." "We" being my friends and I. My family and I refer to it as being "sick." As in, "Preston, how are you doing? I mean, with being 'sick' and all?" It is kind of annoying. Although, if you have read any of my entries thusfar, you will probably have noticed that I am annoyed by many things. I hate calling it "sick" because it makes it sound like I have a headcold. A little TheraFlu and warm Vodka to clear it up. Not that I want it to be made into a big deal, because I do not see it as a big deal. At the same time I hate having it turned into a Biblebelt, swept under the rug thing. I don't know how to accurately describe how I feel about the whole issue. I do not want it to be turned into a big deal but I do not want to be viewed as the family lepper at the same time. I don't know. I am impossible I guess.

I recently met this 19 year old cute boy. He was the type who stands for all that I am against. Yet, in a moment of hormone driven retardation, I began to throw myself at him. We went through the whole, "You're cute!" "You're cuter!" "Stop it! *blush*" "No, you stop it! *blush*" bullshit.

Well, he knew he was a cute kid. He had that season one Justin from QAF aire about him. Fucking obnoxious. So anyway, we spoke the next day. I was less horny and trying desperately to drag any sort of a personality out of him. I asked his favorite music, movies, actor, actress, food, animal, haircolor, smell, color, rock, tree, basically everything. I was desperate for anything that I could possibly use to get to know him. His response was always the same generic ass answer, "I don't know. There are alot. Remember I am a blond. Teehee." I DID say it was a hormone driven moment that I met him in. So after establishing that he was/is not in any way my type, I decided to get rid of him.

"So I am HIV +. I'll pick you up tomorrow night at 7." Silence. Well, no response anyway. "Are you serious?" he finally managed to mutter. "Yea. So 7 o'clock Thursday night. Dress nice because we are going to a nice restaurant."
"Oh, I just remembered, tomorrow night I have something I have to do."
"That's fine. Friday, then."
"Yea, ummmm, Friday is bad too."
"Well, I am off for a week, so you pick a day."
"Ya know what, Little Man, I don't think I am going to be able to take you out."

The little fucker did not even have the balls to tell me the real reason why he was all of a sudden "busy." I have little tolerance for that. He did at some point say, "But I am only 19." "I contracted it at 19, so what is your point." The thing is, I did understand his point. I would be lying if I said I am not jealous of him on some level, but at the same time, I still despise him. I loathe him and all that he stands for. Not him in particular, but HIM. You all know HIM. His type.

The world is beautiful, I am beautiful, everything is moonbeams and lollipops and a ray of the purest sunshine is radiating from my sphincter.

Yea. HIM. I take every opportunity to fuck his world up that I am given. Anything to dim that damned beam of light just a little.

You might be wondering how I contracted the "hiv". If so, you'll have to wait.

That is another story for another night.
Just Talking

Today has been a lazy ass day. Not only have I done absolutely nothing, but I have eaten my weight in oatmeal, cheesedip, hotdogs, and Twinkies (yes it is as appetizing as it sounds). I was supposed to start my "I don't want to become a fat bastard so No More Food For Me!!!" diet plan today. Didn't quite work out. Sat on my rotund ass and played Tony Hawk's Underground for about 6 hours. Damn I am a fat slob.

I need to get in shape for Mr. Military. Not that he minds what shape I am in, but he has pictures of all his ex's all over his apartment and they are all these hardbodied military boys. When I say I am fat, I actually mean I am like a lump of fleshy gelatin. Not fat just Jell-Oey. Why the hell could I not have grown up a jock. Then I would already have the body I am trying to obtain. Guess that is just me being lazy again. I really do not know what to talk about right now.

I'll go and smoke I suppose. I am sure I'll be writing more later in the evening.

Monday, February 02, 2004

Cleaning Pipes

I recently moved back to my mom's house. She lives deep in the heart of Deliverance country. Not that where I was living before was a booming metropolis by any means, but here, I fear everyday that I will be forced to squeal.

Here at my mom's house, I basically have an entire wing to myself. If it were not for the fact that I live an hour away from anything at all, this would be the perfect living situation for me. I get so bored here. I have also noticed that I am beginning to lose my mind.

Example, I fought with my shower's drain for two days trying to get it to drain. The bathroom I am using now is my little sister's old one. I have decided that she sheds more than a chinchilla. The tub would empty, but by the time I had finished taking a shower, I could sit down for a bath. It was rather disgusting. I decided that since my grandfather was a plumber, I was, surely, born with some natural skills in the hole penetrating arts. I pulled out the plunger and began trying my hand at being Mr. Fix-It. After plunging and plunging for what seemed like hours (in all reality it was probably three minutes, tops), I decided to go and buy some Drano...Professional Strength. I am afterall, thanks in large part to my lineage, a professional at this sort of thing.

So I bought the three bottles of Drano...Professional Strength, went home, and began to tap into my roots. Only half the bottle went down the drain. EGHAD!! What the hell! It says perfectly clear on the back of the bottle, "Pour ENTIRE contents down drain." What was I to do? And what the HELL had my sister been shoving down the shower drain? I was pissed. Then again, I am very easily irritated.

Eight hours and three bottles later, I decided to call the 800 number on the Drano bottle. Just in case I was missing something in its complex directions. "Pour. Wait. Rinse." The extremely friendly lady told me that if three bottles didn't work I'd have to call a plumber. Does she not realize who my grandfather is?! He was doing this shit before Mario and Luigi were even a concept. Anyway, she gave me a refund on the Drano, which was nice but not necessary. I told her to have a great day and hung up.

Well, my parents returned from Vegas on Saturday. When I got off work, I told my stepdad about the drain. I thought maybe something in his hetero genes might allow him to figure out what the hell was wrong. This morning, he fixed it.

Basically, there is this little switch that one flips up or down in the bathtub to control whether the drain is open or closed. Apparently, for the past week, it has been halfway closed.

All I can say is thank the gods for heterosexual men. Or at least for people with brains.

Remember that time we went camping and your hat was stolen by that pygmie sunbear? That was awesome, huh?

So what do I have to say now for my third damned entry in less than an hour? How about God bless Hostess for making Twinkies.

I have reached an all time low. I am in the process of turning myself into one of those hard bodied, brainless sexqueens that I so loathe. Until tonight, I have been starving weight off. Lost 20 pounds so far. now at 150 pounds. Time to start working out four times a day. Oh and I have a picture of myself posted on In it I am topless and in a cowboy hat. Not only am I in a cowboy hat, but I am also wearing a matching necklace. Shoot me please before I forget who the hell I am. At the rate I am going, by this time next year, I will not be literate enough to even read any of this garbled rambling that I am currently typing.

I think I need a pickle and a cigarette.

Tired of bitching for one night.
Jaded Mandarin

So I am completely new to the online journal thing. I have been reading them and decided that I will try my hand at one. I could just post one on my website, but I am pretty sure this gets more traffic.

Well, I am sitting here listening to the Italia music channel on Dish Network. I have become ever so slightly obsessed with it in the past month or so. I mean, I have always loved Etta James, Ella Fitzgerald, and Billy Holiday, but they are not exactly in the category of "Italia" I suppose. Actually the only link between them and this is Frank Sinatra, and that is really stretching it.

Listening to "Get Out of Town" by Lena Horne led me to start an online journal. It made perfect sense to me. You do not have to follow my chain of reasoning. I cannot expect anyone to. By the first chorus, I knew I needed a journal. I am kind of awkward in that sense. Well not awkward. That is not the word I need. I'll go with "random," I suppose. Although that is an overused word as well. I am just weird. Wait, lost my point. Oh well, moving on.

About homosexuals, I have decided that I need to be a stereotypical fashion-addict in a turquoise tubetop, fucking everything in my path. They are annoying as hell, but at least they seem content. I mean, I have really high standards. When I meet someone, I would like him to be physically attractive. I would be lying if I said I wanted to get with Quasimodo. Physical attraction is a plus, but I need someone who has a sense of humor and has at least the intelligence of a jar of mayonaise. Someone who is not all about sex. Someone who I can sit and talk to for 26 hours straight and never get bored. Is that too much to ask? Probably. Well, here, in the South, it is anyway. I do realize that I am young and do not have to settle down right now, but I long for that companionship. I wish I did not, but I do. What can I say.

I am tired of these hard bodied, "how big's your cock/dong/dick/schlong/penis/peter/tallypeter/teeter/it/thing?", cracked out, X'ed up fairies. That is why I have decided that I am straight curious. I mean, why not. I have found several girls with whom I could spend the rest of my life. Granted, we would never consummate the relationship, but hey, it is just sex. I mean, I handled that for about ten years on my own. I can handle it now.

So I met a guy who is military. He is great and we have more in common than I ever thought I would find with another individual outside of a mirror or my other personalities. A lady I work with told me to remember my chastity belt. I did for our first couple of meetings, but forgot it the last time I saw/spoke to him. The hell was I thinking? Honestly, it was totally unlike me to get so caught up in the moment. Now, I have not heard from him. Annoyed? Pretty much. Maybe I should move to New Orleans and become a prostitute. At least then I would be getting paid. Not that I run around screwing every hole I see, but it just seems to make sense to me right now. Prostitution, that is.

I just do not have casual sex. Maybe, I should just not care, lower my standards, and start doing the dirty-dirty with every Tom's Hairy Dick that I come across. I could not do that. It is just frustrating. Am I the only sane queer left in the world?! I wonder most days.
Bonjour Mon Singe

So I am Preston. Basically, I am a 22 year old, random ass gay guy stuck in the southern US. I hate it, but what can ya do. So basically, I just wanted to say, "Hello and welcome to my rant."