smoked gouda and limburger [explicit lyrics enclosed] with a side of belly button lint

Let’s see, today I cried twelve times, wrote sixteen pages in my journal about how miserable and lonely I am, ate six Sonic Cheeseburger, and purged thirty-four times. Hold on a second. That’s not true. Oh, I remember now, I got up early, worked out, ate some bad sushi, gave a massage, played with my dogs, and began writing my book. I even shook my ass to “Man-eater” (just in case you might have forgotten I was a faggot). No tears, no angst, no waiting for the phone to ring. Has a corner been turned? I think so! Course I guess corners are capable of turning back around, but let’s not think of that. Be positive people. Positive!!! Goodness, your negativity is exhausting! I get on here and blog and blog about happy things and joy and butterflies and all I hear is people whining about how the boy they love doesn’t give a shit about them. Sigh, get over it! He don’t care, he ain’t gonna, and neither is that other boy you like, so move on. There you go, that was your pep talk. Feel better? Or are you just confused? Well, get ready…
Speaking of cheese, I really did start my book today. I have been in the planning stages for a few weeks, so today was the big day. I wrote for over three hours. Guess how much I got done. Here is a hint, on my last writing project, about my life, I could have written about fifteen pages in less than that amount of time. Today, I wrote a whopping one and a half pages. Apparently, it is much more time consuming to write into existence fictional characters and give them spunk than it is to vomit all there is to know about me onto a page. The pages are fucking good though. I may stop there, call that a book, and call publishers tomorrow. Who needs plots, story lines, conflict? Just a great introduction is all we really need. Seriously, wouldn’t you have loved War and Peace much more if all it was was the introduction instead of going on for ten zillion pages (because I have read War and Peace—you know, somewhere between Garfield, Archie, and some gay erotic novel).
Did someone erotic? Well, have I got a story for you… Dolan (my youngest) is now four months old. Evidently, this equates to sexual maturity. (And I thought I was early at eight years old, guess not) Let’s just say, you notice a lot more when the dog’s hair is short. I will never complain about having to brush Dunkyn every day again. We have to wait two more months before things can be snipped. Hurry up February 27th!!! For the love of Pete—I had a massage client/friend over and he was scratching Dolan’s tummy and then BAM! Is this what parents feel when they realize that their offspring are becoming sexually mature? I don’t want kids. Of course, I guess I could have them spaded or neutered. Can’t miss what you ain’t got. Plus, I would get bonus points from Bob Barker. Maybe then I can get him to publish my nearly two page manuscript.
I have tried to keep this very low profile, both in my blog and in my life, but {quiet voice} ‘I like boys’, well, not boys, men, at least twenty-five years old (under thirty six [I like long walks on the beach, tattoos—non-skeletal, home cooked meals, diamond rings, constant adoration and sacrifices made in my name, looks and body must be quaffed to perfection and there should be NO body hair, including eyebrows and lashes, if you meet this criteria call me: 555.boy.crzy]. I have decided to come out of the closet, much to everyone’s shock. I will have to send back all the gifts I received for my up-coming wedding to Mandy Moore—well, all but the My Little Pony Dream Castle. How have I come out of the closet you ask? (trust me, you asked) Well, I bought five, count ‘em, five Paris Hilton songs for my IPod today. I can’t stand that girl, nothing about her. Nothing. However, because I am gay (aka, faggot, queer, Hell-bait. . . well, you get the idea), I can put aside all my moral and inner feelings because of a good beat. So, not only did I shake my ever-expanding ass to “Man-eater,” but also to three different versions of “Stars are Blind.” I’d be ashamed if I had morals, but luckily, that option was not available when I chose the super-gay deluxe life model form “Choices Magazine Unlimited—best prices of sin anywhere.” Well, it was an option, honestly, but it was back-ordered, and I didn’t wanna wait the extra five minutes.
So, you see, that is why cats are evil. Well, maybe not evil. However, many of them did kill lots of my chickens when I was growing up, and being close to them makes me stop breathing, my eyes swell shut, and brings on fits of coughing—proving, once and for all, that just because someone can cough does not mean they can breathe. They also tempted the Egyptians into crowning them with the title of gods. Therefore, they lead an entire civilization into breaking the commandment of worshiping false gods. Yes, yes that is sin, just like you praying to your Brittney Spears poster. Oh, wait, that’s me… sorry. So see, just like being gay, cats will lead you to hell. Of course, worshiping cats seems like a much more clear cut case of choosing a life structure. However, there may be a DNA code for Cat Deityization in our blood somewhere. Who am I to judge? Cats also present as this adorable bundle of fur that purrs and craves your affection, then grows into a creature that treats you with distain and claws your furniture—just like what happens to Gremlins—only less water copulation. (which is fun, if you don’t have fur—so I hear) So, you’re right, the verdict is truly that cats are evil.
Glad that is settled.