1. At any given time, I can learn the name of an obscure Battlestar Galactica actor, while simultaneously debating that actor with someone halfway around the world.

2. I can end the above debate by calling my opponent a “fag-humper”, and speaking ill of his mother.

3. From my debate, I can go to Twitter and post about my “strong” victory in the constant nerd-war of obscure Battlestar Galactica actors.

4. I can celebrate my victory by clicking on a link and seeing a 600-pound German woman getting fisted by three Albino midgets.

God, I love the Internet.

I’ve been depressed lately. I’d like to think that it’s the inner writer in me coming to the surface, bringing enough emotion to write the next big thing. But, the reality is that I’m just fucking sick of my life. I hate where I am right now, but I can’t afford to bring change. I can’t do shit about it, but sit here and take it, hoping something goes my way in the future.

I’ve never truly thought about suicide. I know that’s not an answer. But, I can see myself heading down that path, if things continue as they have. So, in the interest of safety, I’ve composed a suicide list. It’s similar to a bucket list, but the latter implies old age. Nah, this list is comprised of things I intend to do in my life, and I won’t pop myself in the head until I’ve accomplished them.

It’s for safety’s sake…

1. I want to travel the country. I’ve lived an incredibly sheltered life. I need to change that. I’ve never been the West Coast. I’ve never been out of the country. I spent a few days in New York City about a month ago, and that’s the first time in about a year that I’ve even left my fucking state. Before I drink poison, I want to visit all four corners of the country and see at least the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone.

2. I want to travel the world. As mentioned above, I’ve never been out of this country. That needs to change. Before I hang myself, I want to backpack through Europe, drink cheap tequila in Mexico and, even, take a stop in Canada and butcher the French language.

3. I want to write a book that will immortalize me. If I’m going to slit my wrists, I want to be sure I’m leaving behind a legacy, something to state that I made my mark on this world.

4. I want to have said book featured on Oprah’s book club and when she invites me on TV, I’ll wear a belly shirt and refuse to sit on the couch, lest I catch the “Tom Cruises”. Before I throw myself off a cliff, I want that to happen.

5. I want to have 1,000,000 followers on Twitter, so I can fulfill my lifelong dream of telling 1,000,000 people “fuck you” at the exact same time. If this happens, I can happily overdose on whatever different medicines I have in the cabinet at that given time.

I understand these five things are quite lofty goals, but that’s kind of the point. As long as I haven’t checked off these five things, I will always have something to live for. And that? That’s just insurance, baby.

Sometimes, when I think about how I want to die, I imagine a scene at sunset, myself lying on the roof of some skyscraper, in some random city. I can’t even think straight, my mind shot from countless amounts of booze. And as I turn to my right, I see a girl in my arms–a girl who’s more gorgeous than I remember from the previous night. She looks me in the eyes and says “You don’t deserve me,” and I know she’s right.

Resigning myself to a perfect experience, I close my eyes and shift into darkness.

I’m done.

Fuck it all.

I’m tired. Of everything.

On this day, June 18th, in the U.S. vs. Slovenija World Cup soccer game, a ref robbed us and took off with our pants.

I call for an immediate bombing of Mali, the ref’s country of origin.

I got dumped a few months ago. By now, I’ve gotten over it. But, I was pretty devastated at the time. I’m not even sure why. It’s not as if I hadn’t seen the end of a relationship before. But, this time, it knocked me down and kicked me in the gut.

I feel sorry for my friends most of all. They had to put up with me moping around for a few weeks, bitching about this and that. I’m sorry, guys. You shouldn’t have had to deal with that shit.

I think the problem was that I got way too invested in the relationship. I had spent the first 27 years of my life without any real aspirations to settle down. I liked being single, and I still had decades to find that special someone. I was in no hurry. But, last summer, that changed. Something broke inside of me and I decided that I’m ready. I wasn’t about to just go out and ask the first girl I saw to marry me. Though, thinking back, that would have been awesome. I was just ready to stop messing around in relationships and start examining each one to see if there’s a future.

This last relationship was the first I had been in since that decision. And I honestly thought there was a future there. We loved to talk to each other, and even three months in, we could still lose track of time and end up embroiled deep in conversation well into the early morning hours. I thought that was what you looked for, so I gripped onto that friendship-first concept and pushed it forward.

I truly thought she might be the one.

Up until that point, I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. And even after she dumped me, I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t actually in love with her. But, looking back, I think that was bullshit. Clearly, I felt something for this girl beyond the normal “dating” shit that had existed within all of my previous relationships. I think it was actually ‘love’.

I could be wrong, though. Hell, I don’t know.

So, when it ended, it hit me really, really hard. And I think I ended up feeling pretty foolish, looking back on it. Of course, they say that love makes you do foolish things. And I think that described me to a ‘T’.

I remember talking to my mother about it, not long after it ended. We were eating Mexican food–a sort of tradition when my dad’s out of town–and I was talking about the break-up. I was convinced that this girl was going to change her mind. I was convinced that it was only a matter of time and we would be back together.

God, I was an idiot. Needless to say, she never changed her mind. We aren’t together now. We said we would end it amicably and still “stay in contact”. But, I think we both knew how stupid that was as well. Aside from a couple of birthday texts, I’ve barely talked to her–and she to me.

I’ve long since gotten over her and I like to think I’ve returned to my normal self. But, I don’t think I have. I don’t think you can go through that and come out the other side the same person you were. I think something changes inside of you–and I think something’s changed inside of me. Nothing major–I mean, I don’t walk around cutting myself or anything. But, there’s definitely something different in my outlook on relationships.

I haven’t given up on finding ‘the one’. Though, the first time I asked a girl out, after the breakup, was probably even harder than the first time I even asked a girl out. She said ‘no’, by the way. She was married, apparently. Or gay. I don’t know. One of the two.

I don’t know why I’m writing all of this. I don’t really have an overarching point to this post. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about lately. This is the first time I’ve really talked about it since it happened. I wish I could say that I’ve learned from the experience, but I don’t think I have.

I think it’s just something that everyone has to experience every now and then.

I’d like to say that next time it happens, I’ll be able to anticipate it, but I don’t I will. So, I apologize for any future whiny posts about broken relationships and shit like that.

After all, I haven’t found her yet. But, I never will, if I don’t keep looking. And failure is just a part of that…

Does my face hurt?
No, why?
Because it’s killing you!!

For the past two days, my iPod has been stuck on Sam’s Town by The Killers. I don’t even know why. But, there are some pretty tight grooves on this album. And the melody lines are dang catchy.

I’ve figured it out…
The meaning of life…
And I’m not talking about some hippie bull about being happy with yourself.
Screw that.
I’m talking about the actual meaning of life.
Are you ready?
You ready?
You ready?
Okay, here goes…

The meaning of life is–Ouch, CHARLEY HORSE!!

Her leg brushed up against mine, sending shivers down my spine. My arm jumped. She glanced at it, then back at me, a questioning look on her face.

“Nervous tic,” I said, grinning helplessly. She laughed.

–

Six years later, we’re married. It’s a good marriage. We’re both happy. At least, I thought we were both happy. Then, I walked in on her fucking him. That won’t do at all.

I grab a knife out of the kitchen drawer and head to the bedroom. As I bring the knife down, blood sprays around and their screams are delicious. She looks at me, her eyes wide. I can see the look within them–questioning, searching… wondering if this breath is her last. “Why?” She squeaks.

“Nervous tic,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders. I bring the knife down one final time.