Retainers

I've had these automated bad boy persona inducing seduction cups, since my freshman year in high school. All the ladies swooned at the sound of my lisp, as the spark of my smile pinched their pupils. I was a dark, yet sensitive, yet introspective metal ball of twine, that couldn't be unravelled, which made me all the more mysterious.

I am in a great pain as I recall my past, as I am pausing every minute or so to push my retainers down on my teeth so that they straighten my dead bones out. I am, of course, lying to myself about my past to make myself feel better about the present state of pain I am currently experiencing. In reality, kids would pour 2% milk cartons down my khakis and call me "Jizzy Pants," so wearing retainers didn't exactly help my social status.

My top retainer is red, my bottom retainer is blue (that should be the opening line of a love poem). I chose red for my love of Ohio St. football, and blue for my love of Florida Gators football (my father, Darth Vader, received a scholarship to play football at UF) . My love for each team came into conflict when each were vying for the BCS championship...since then my bottom retainer has become completely coated with white plaque so that I can barely see the blue (not an accident). 

A shirt made out of Lamb Chop's wool would be raw, can't lie

Is having straight teeth really worth the pain? Is wearing high heels worth the strut? Is shaving the lamb really worth the wool? Oh, the existential questions I can't help but ponder when my teeth glisten like a peacock's feathers. J Cole keeps his grill real for the kids and he's a celebrity (great song, for real). That takes a lot of guts and creativity to stand against what beauty standards are necessary to make it big in this country. J. Cole is a true inspiration. 

Screw caring about what my teeth look like. Now all I have to do is just save up enough money to buy that Brooks Brothers shirt so I can look fly. #TurntUp! #Spraytanmyeyes #Dontsmilefortheselfie 

Today, after work, I stopped by my girlfriend's house to visit the only other beings in this world that compete with her for my affections...her cats.

There's the big daddy, an all black, furry cat named Burgers, his twin sister, a calico, sweet syrup smelling cat named Peanut, and the newest, softest addition to the family, a grey and white striped kitty (actually she's more like a preteen now) named Trousers.

Growing up, the only pet my brother and I had t’was a frog named Frisky. Frisky jumped out of his little home after about a month and died tragically on the front lines, and so ended the pet dynasty in our household. I want a pet kitty, or two, so bad, but my parental units won't allow it, so I make due with my girlfriend's family's three little stinkers.

Her family also owns two dogs, a black beauty named Bella, who, one might say, is Aunt Jemima-esq, and Lady, who is just weird as fuck and looks like an aunt eater.

When I arrived, my girlfriend's mom was on her way out to coach her lacrosse team, so I was the lone ranger, the last line of defense for the kitties against the cold, capitalist, outside world.

Allow me to elaborate on why the outside world is the dead zone for the kitties:

During the summer, when I had first met my girlfriend (let’s just call her “Spartacus” from now on because writing “my girlfriend” is boring me), the patriarch of the kitties, King Charles, got hit by a car. Straight up no pulse. Needless to say he lost that chess battle against Death. A couple of months later, Burgers went out into the world during a snow storm and didn’t return until literally a month later when he was found in the basement of Spartacus’ neighbor's house (poor guy is still recovering from this psychologically traumatic experience. It didn’t help that he saw a marshmallow of a kitty had replaced him. He gets an extra dose of belly rubs from me whenever I’m over there). Moral of the story is that letting the cats outside is like entering your daughter into a beauty pageant…not smart.

I'm Burgers!

So of course, when I let the doggies outside to run around and sniff each other’s butts and eat grass, the little squirt-muffin, Trousers, squeaked by the closing door to embrace her inner curiosity. Since I had already fornicated myself in the b-hole, I decided to let the siblings out as well.

I was very intrigued to see how Burgers would react to being outside again after his traumatic experience. He calmly strutted a couple of feet, then assumed his mountain lion stance to perceive and listen to the chirps of birds, then strutted some more to the backyard, and stopped to the sound of the rustling of the trees. I think he decided he had experienced enough when he saw Trousers playing with Lady’s poop, which, coincidentally, was about the same time I decided I had experienced enough.

I was relieved when I got all the critters back into arena (I had to chase Trousers around for a good 15 minutes before I finally caught the little shit) and I was especially proud of Burgers, who I think made a huge step on his path to recovering psychologically.

Since then, Burgers has been knighted as Burgers the Brave by Spartacus, and the gladiator games of America continue to thrive on an under-the-radar basis. 

May only the truest of the warriors survive.

Day 2 of my Great Barrier Reef excursion:

Should have left the asshole in the ocean, Tom

I find myself in a deeply nostalgic state of mind as I feel stranded on this island of "holy fork, Wilson, why did you take me here?"(p.s-how raw would "Nostalgia by Veidt" be if it were a real life cologne?...minus the whole giant one-eyed Octopus thing).

Memories of spinning in my front yard and falling into prickled bushes, listening and being in utter awe of my neighbor's older brother, claiming he ate poop for lunch everyday, painting man-doors with dirt...oh how the enchanting innocence tickles me!

Nostalgia, however, is a spectrum of vast lightness and deep darkness, and in this state, my mind can't help but peer into the black to awaken horrors no living being should EVER experience. This terror that haunts me is none other than Jason Vales' 7lbs in 7 Days juice cleanse...which I voluntarily participated in last week with my girlfriend.

I approached the cleanse with optimism and a delicate grace: I was actually excited about the prospect of purifying my system and felt confident in the power of my mind to push away any thoughts of giving up or cheating.

My refrigerator was a rainforest. Pure, unadulterated health was packed in there. Watercress and alfalfa sprouts and ginger stalks and crispy kale (pronounced with an Old English accent) and spinach and greens and pineapple and carrots and apples made up the landscape, and I was the lion of the domain, or, if we really want to get ferocious, the territorial crow.

Days one and two were rough. Six smoothies per day was the requirement/limit. I was a tired, ornery sponge(bob) that had been left in the sun too long. Free smells (sup Jimmy J's) of bacon while I was working tore at my nostrils, but I resisted old Beelzebub.

By day three, the fruits and vegetables became living creatures in my mind's eye...I was actually murdering Granny Smith after Granny Smith. Day four I cut off my big toe to transfer the pain from my tummy to another area of my body.

When I woke up on day five, my girlfriend and I knew it was over. We played along with the cleanse and made our smoothies and didn't drink any coffee like well behaved children, but come midnight it was the celebration of Macaroni and Cheese Fest 07. The first serving we rubbed all over our bodies, the next we actually consumed the gooey goodness.

Since then I have added five pounds from my original weight before I took on the cleanse.

If there's one thing I learned from this cleanse, I would say that I think that kid was lying to me about eating poop for lunch everyday.

Well, I suppose I should start by introducing myself: Oh, the numerous nicknames that have been bestowed upon me, and the many more which I have bestowed upon myself. Let's see, there's Dirt Waters, Doctor Waters, T Dirt, T Hull, Shma, Gengar, Dirt, Queef City, James Brown, and Cat Stevens to name a few.

My credentials include a degree from Ohio St. University (and yes, I purposefully left out the THE before stating the university name, despite that being the official title, because I prefer not be an ignoramus, proud baboon) in film studies...so no, I am not a crack-head kingpin, which I am sure you assumed I was from my collage of sophisticated nicknames.

My current life status is, one might say, the personification of the American Dream: I live with my parents, sleeping in my old bedroom with my stuffed animals to protect me from the red-eyed monster, and work as a waiter in a fish market where I am referred to as "trout-sniffer"or even "Trout Sniffer Jones" on special occasions.

As pathetic as I might seem at this point, I do have a wonderfully sexy (on the outside and, most especially, the inside) girlfriend, who is thankfully just as weird as me so I don't have to do much explaining.

So how about my dreams and aspirations? A kid brother like me must have some definitive goal, right? Well, that's where to true monkey wrench in my life is lodged into.

Up till yesterday, my dream was to become the greatest filmmaker alive. I dreamed of changing people's lives with my filmography on top of my vain illusions of being loved and rewarded for my efforts. I was going to save up money and move out to Los Angeles, leaving behind all expectations of who I should be.

It was a selfish dream, which I told myself was okay because I'm young and am supposed to be naive and idealistic and driven by may vanities. But I came to the realization that my dream wasn't about changing the world, it was about feeling like I was doing what I really wanted. I wanted to feel like I was choosing my own fate, but really, I was being governed by my fear of growing up, and I was blocking out all the consequences.

So I am here in this world now with not much of an idea of what to tell myself to work toward or how to move forward. I am lost and scared for my current state of limbo, but I am also grateful for knowing and realizing the psychology behind my dreams and fears, and feeling clear-minded.

Join me from the conception of my newly lost mind and soul, and let me write to you about this adventure I am about to undertake.