But I Knew The Sense Of Worthlessness She'd Have To Raise Above

Feeling very guilty about getting drunk four times in twenty-four hours. I'm washing my running clothes right now, and I want to go for a run in a bit.

I'm also way, way, way baked at the moment, and have never gone running while stoned before. So doing that on a beautiful San Francisco July 4 afternoon should be interesting.

I told a few people that I planned on getting back on Facebook this weekend. So I did that today. Facebook welcomed me back by suggesting that I add Jessica as a friend. Fucking terrific. Just seeing her little micro-profile thumbnail pic was like, "Really? That wasn't what I needed, Facebook." Facebook doesn't care, though.

Craptastic. I'm already thinking about her enough as it is this weekend. This is the one year anniversary of our move, two years ago we were chilling at Dolores Park, and yesterday I asked a mutual friend to inquire about getting my share of the deposit back on our place. I knew this weekend could be rough for me -- I told my shrink as much -- but I'm a little surprised at how much it's gotten me down.

I don't think getting drunk four times in 24 hours helped, either.

And Steve McNair! What kind of bullshititude is going on with the world today?

Reminiscing, Got Me Feeling Kinda Low, I Broke Out The Everclear and Then I Drunk Some 'Mo

1:56 in the morning of July 4. This is the 4th time I've been drunk in the last 24 hours. There is some fool out on O'Farrell playing a recorder, which is the most incorrectly-named musical instrument of all time. It doesn't record fuckall, it just makes irritating noises that you want to get away from. If I was prone to beating up people on the street, that guy would be all hurty by now.

Last nite I was talking to some guy named "Dean," which I thought was amusing because I was drunk and when was the last time you talked to a guy named "Dean," especially when you're drunk? Anyhow, during our discussion about the neighborhood, I realized that the random street noise in the 'Loin really does aggravate me. It's not people coming home drunk from a bar at 1:00 in the morning that annoy me. It's the people who make loud, unnecessary noise at all hours of the day. Like some guy playing a recorder, f'r instance.

Goddamned depressed. July 3 of last year was my last day of work. July 4 was an awesome BBQ with a ton of friends, followed by karaoke at Encore. July 5, we were on the road to our new life in San Diego. I still miss her so much.

I've also never had a massage.



Also: last nite I suggested that a friend name her new kittehs Mr. and Mrs. Snugglepants.

I was laughed at. Just like Sarah Palin is laughed at every day, by everyone, because she is a clown. God, I always thought she was just a narcissistic egomaniacal weirdo, but her resignation speech is kind of a strange mess, n'est ce pas?

Anyway, Happy Birthday, America. Keep on dancing:

If I Should Die, Darlin', In Your Arms, What A Lovely Way To Go.

A good nine-and-a-half minutes to pass the time on a lazy Thursday night with a joint, a beer, and a cigarette:

We laugh together, we care for each other, we have highly proficient sex... why can't we get married?

I'm Your Girl, I See The Light, I'm Gonna Walk You Through The Tenderloin Tonight

Oh, hello there, people who might read The Tenderblog who might have clicked on the link to my blog that Tenderblogette posted. Hello especially if I actually know you but you don't know about Squalor and Despair but you do read the Tenderblog and are only now discovering that I have a new journal. (Hi, Friend Don! I was trying to find a way to tell you and Friend Magi last nite in some way other than, "Hey, I have a shitty new blog," without sounding like I a lame-o. So I didn't say anything.)

Obvs, this blog is kind of a mess, as I've been making due with one of the bland templates that Blogger provides instead of making my own (where did my HTML skills go?) It's kinda frustrating to go back and look at some entries and realize that, "Ew, that just doesn't look the way it should." Of course, I say that about myself all the time, so I shrug and forget about it.

But I should do something about.

I really don't know why I started another new blog up. I guess I just miss writing about whatever shit I feel like writing about, putting up funny photos, uselessly promoting things that I like, and occasionally finding someone who reads it and likes it. It doesn't really have a point.

You know, I think I'll use the prior paragraph in Description field for this thing.

Oh, and Happy Belated Canada Day.

And Fuck Chris Daly.

When You're Only Having Seconds, I'm A-Having Twenty-Thirds

Things I Wish Were True But I Fear Are Not:

Those little microwavable pizzas that I buy from my corner market at 11:30 at night after I'm smashed but haven't eaten dinner? I wish they were only 250 calories.

Last Dance With Mary Jane, One More Time To Kill The Pain

Important news update (via The Awl):

If you're holding Percocet or Vicodin, start hoarding (also, come sit by me): An FDA advisory panel has recommended that the pills be taken off the market because the acetaminophen in them tends to blow up your liver when taken at high doses or with alcohol. The move has been condemned by some doctors who worry that it will have an adverse impact on patients who use the pills to combat severe pain, but let's be honest: Most of you guys use it because it gives you that sweet, fucked up, itchy underwater feeling. Get ready to start lying to your friends about how you're all out while surreptitiously sneaking into the bathroom to knock one back.

Now somebody give me some. I've never had some. Really. I dislocated my kneecap in college and was in an immobilizer for like six weeks, and the strongest shit I got was Ibuprofen.

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Hey, SFist, I know one guy at KTVU who is definitely pro-sparkles and fun: Traffic Guy Sal Castaneda!

Sadly, my attempt to post this as a comment didn't work at SFist, so now I feel stupid.

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Also, my new beard has led a friend to start calling me "Fozzie Bear" and randomly saying "Wocka, Wocka, Wocka" whenever I'm around.

Another friend said I looked like a grizzled war veteran.

That's quite the dichotomy: A Muppet, and a PTSD-inflicted solider.

I told the second guy that I probably look like a grizzled veteran of the Muppets. Now I'm starting to wonder what ever happened to Fozzie Bear after the cameras finally shut down. Maybe I'll put together a VH1 special on him.

This is almost certainly completely not true, but from Fozzie's Wikipedia page:

In the late 1990's Fozzie Bear was forever immortalized when Mr. T., a popular pop culture icon from the show "The A-Team" had Fozzie's face tattooed on his right Bicep, along with the phrase "Fozzie pitys the fool!"

That is too awesome to be true. Can't find any evidence online that Mr. T does have said tattoo. Goddamn, Wikipedia, for get my hopes up like that.

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And how do you handle having a bearded lady as the maid of honor at a wedding? Well, for one, don't ask the bearded lady to be the maid of honor. Or two, you can ask Dear Abby!

No welfare Supporters, More Conscious Of The Way We Raise Our Daughters

At 3:50 on a Wednesday morning, I want:

1. Jack in the Box.
2. A cat.

3. To stop posting YouTube videos from Cutebreak.
4. To stop getting so loaded that it takes me 30 minutes to find my glasses the next morning.
5. The motivation to go to Jack in the Box.
6. Eight hours of sleep.
7. To know it will all be OK. Or better than OK.