NOTE: If you are easily offended by offensive things then please go somewhere else. I suggest or, you wuss!


Friday, January 31, 2003

Going out tonight, come Hell or high water.

MOOD: nervousscaredexcited

BACKGROUND: Groovie Ghoulies "Travels with my Amp"

I want to go out, I want to have a smoke, I want to go say high to all my freaks and sing me some stupid, slow, sad songs of longing and drink some soda, some coffee, hit on all the girls, talk to my boys, and simply be there to see what fireworks go off. And I will not let anyone stop me, especially someone who cares so little of me that she seems to be collecting my broken hearts.

Sure, Col and the Big HIM might be there, which makes me both nervous and full of don't give a shit-juice.

Here goes.

I think my main problem is that I'm just too optomistic, too expecting the happy Disney enging to come my way instead of looking at things as they really are - cold, smelly, and run by white people.

MOOD: blownawaybutvaguelycontent

BACKGROUND: Smackdown (you got a problem with that?)

I mustered up the courage to call her again a few days ago. I came up with some false front about asking her about whatever, but I knew why I was calling her. No more bullshit. No more cute Steve-O being hurt like this. Just straight out ask her what's going on. I mean, you do not break up with Reverend Steve by just shutting off all contact with him and hope he goes away. No, fuck all that. I wanted an answer and I was going to get one.

You kiss me, you love to me, you let me into your heart, your life, your family. You tell me how you want to spend the rest of your life with me. You say you want to be with me, you want to spend eternity with me, you want to move away from all this and have it just be you and I happy. Then you just close your eyes and shut your ears and pretend that I'm not there.

What I wanted was for her to break up with me, which is obviously what she's trying to do by NOT breaking up with me (damm, Steve, can this get any more Jerry Springerian you ask, to which I answer just you wait, my young padawan learner). Just do it, you know? You know you want to, so just get the balls to do it, right now, you're either in love with me or you're playing me for a goddamn fool. So just do it and do it now and that's it.

And of course, she wasn't there.

I leave a message saying to call me back as soon as she gets back. And who calls me? The Big HIM, her ex-husband. I tell him about my brother getting into an almost life-threatening bar fight and ask if he'll be at the bar so that I can talk about it. And he says, yeah, we'll be there. The wording just sent a brick right into my stomache, the way it was phrased and delivered, the words we'll be there just instantly sending me the painful message that I had been waiting by the telephone for over a week to hear. The whole truth. The big news. The no-spin zone. The bullshit pain in my chest.

And that's what was waiting for me at the bar - my love and the Big HIM holding hands, staring into each other's eyes, kissing, in love with each other once again.

And that was that.

And for all intensive purposes I should be crying and drinking my depression away right now, all quiet, moody, sad, depressed little Steve who has once again been to optomistic to see things for how they really are. And I am doing all that, but in my own way. I'm not drinking, still, which is some sort of miracle, what with the love of my life getting back together with her ex (just like Bobbie did a few weeks ago - I seem to be a Latino send 'em back to their ex-boyfriends machine - maybe that's my mutant power) and my brother, you know, almost dying and all that. But somehow I'm still sober, not that I want to be. I want to drink all my pain away and be left with nothing by the cold, icy numbness of a drunken haze and not have to worry about how I'm going to bounce back from getting my heart ripped again.

But somehow, for reasons that if I knew how I would be a best-selling self help writer right now (can you tell I'm a manager at a bookstore yet), I am happy. Not really happy. I mean, I'm not skipping and singing songs from Cats over here. But Im not drunk and I'm not crying. I'm just quiet sort of content inside. Sure, i'm depressed as all living fuck but somehow I have this unnamed feeling of quiet content cool mixed in with my sadness and it's that that's waking me up every morning and sending me to work and making me go on with my life.

Well, that AND the fact that Stone Cold might be coming back.

Hey, I never said that I was the smartest guy in the world.

And on a final note, no one ever calls my cell phone. Well, shit, no one ever reads this damm blog thingey either, but that's way beside the point. So, anyways, my cell phone number is (916) 548-2037. Call me. Leave me a message. Say hello. Tell me your thoughts regarding America's role as a world power, or, about Hulk Hogan. Whatever.

And more than likely, Col and the Big HIM are reading this. Maybe they aren't. I don't really care. But if they are, I just want to say one thing. I love you both. With that in mind, fuck the both of you assholes.

See you.

Tuesday, January 28, 2003

Just talked to somebody on the phone.

MOOD: angrysad

BACKGROUND: Audiovent "Dirty Sexy Knights in Paris"

Called figuring that, just like what's happened the past ten times I've called in the past week, that I'd get no answer or I'd get the answering machine. Instead, I got a girl who apparently didn't recognize my voice because I snuck through their security and talked to her.

I swear, when she realized that it was me on the phone, she acted like I had just told her that her mother died. I mean, what did I do other than cheer her up and make her smile and tell her how great she was, huh? How come I'm the nicest, kindest, and most single man on earth? Maybe this is my bitterness talking, but women are attracted to power, to money, to security, and to assholes and not to quiet, sensitive guys like me.

It's not like I was a player to her or an asshole to her and I'm definitely not stalker boy. I just wanted to talk to her, to see how she was doing, especially after Joe told me that he saw her and The Big HIM together at the bar last night. I mean, I love this woman, but, fuck, if I'm going to have her break my heart into a million pieces again, I would like to have it happen like a band-aid ripping off instead of this shit where I spend days just waiting by the phone, you know?

Well, she forced about three or four sentances out. Ok, I'm supposed to believe that she's just been trying to get her head together and stuff. Yeah, right. That's "chick" language for "I don't want to be around you anymore." Then she made up some excuse to get off the phone and that was it. A good minute conversation. And that was it. It was just a week ago that we went to Denny's and had food and held hands and laughed and cuddled and had fun. And then out of nowhere, she just cuts off all contact with me and starts hanging out with her ex again.

Man, white people are fucked up.

Someone has been avoiding me.

MOOD: saddepressedwithahintofpissedoff


Just sitting here, alone, no one in the house but me and my vague recollections of times past, me and this beautiful film and my Melatonin and my St. John's Wart and my soda and my hamburger cooking on the stove. On any normal day, based on the past month I've had, I would be out right now, maybe at a concert, maybe getting some coffee, or maybe just playing with my girls. And now here I am sitting here watching the greatest and simultaneously most depressing documentary of all time and wishing my cell would ring, knowing that it won't.

I've been trying to make myself believe that it's because of her schooling and her learning and her homework and her trying to get a job and become so independant. Mental picture of her at school being so busy that she just hasn'y been able to call me. I know inside, sort of subconsciously, that it's not that, that more than likely it's exactly what I'm fearing.

Anyone wanna have sex?

Friday, January 24, 2003

Why the fuck is my page here all long like this, or is it just my old, slow, pornified laptop?

MOOD: just kind of takenbackquietstunned

BACKGROUND: The Grindcore Poppies

I appear to be having some temporary blogging problems that causes my blog to become about nine miles horizontally in a neat but annoying as all fuck sort of way.

On the negative side, my blog is all longified in a way that makes it hard to read. On the positive side, I mean, yeah, sure, I have over 3,000 followers of the religion I created in 1996 and yeah I've been on Mark and Brian and Mancow and mentioned on Howard Stern and all that, but, I mean, come on, like anyone actually reads this shit. I mean, Hitler buttraped my mother and shit in my dead grandmother's puss-ridden occular cavities - could I say that if anyone actually read this crap? So this blog could be nine feel long horizontally with nude pictured of Neil Diamond for all I fucking care, just as long as I still get a podium to write in.

Oh, and speaking of no one reading this, here's a tip for you. And this goes doubly so when you're sober, ok? It might seem like a fun time to waste away your boredom, looking half-assed on the internet for old friends and old flames, but, hey, just don't, okay? Just don't. Not that it's not fun. It's just a tit bit spooky, you know? Trust me. I know what I'm talking about.

My life is a lot better than I give it credit for, you know? It's this whole not drinking/not smoking thing which, in retrospect, is the stupident fucking thing I've ever thought up. Sobriety is turning me into a stick up my ass little prick, an anal retentive asshole, a short tempered, easily offended, no fun at all loser. A Christian republican, basically (ladies and gentlemen, the extent of my political humor, GOOD NIGHT!).

The drunk Steve-O was much more fun. he never gave a shit about anything. I mean, sure he destroyed things with his ex-fiance, but that would have happened eventually, I mean, who are we kidding? All I'm saying is that, no, I'm not seeing myself drinking anytime soon. All I'm saying is that I can see Drunk Steve-O doing a pay-per-view match a few months from now, maybe when my friend Jason gets out of prison or something.

That's be something to see.

Wednesday, January 22, 2003

I have to be bipolar or something like that.

MOOD: sadintrospectivelonely

BACKGROUND: Pink Floyd "Momentary Lapse" concert video

And it's not that I'm exactly lonely and sad right now. I'm just quiet. That's the best way I can describe it. I'm really quiet and slow. Sitting here, drinking this piss ass non-alcaholic beer stuff, listening to Floyd, "Dogs of War," and the sound of the raindrops against the window. Taking my St. Johns and my Valerian Root and my Melatonin. Thinking about how my life's going and thinking about where my life was a year ago.

Year ago I was in Phoenix, Arizona. Vague, non-specific memories pop up right around there about how hot it always was. Always hot. And even the cold cannot be compared to the cold I feel now. I still sometimes find myself looking at the weather in Phoenix for no real reason. The one thing I always seem to note is that the low in Phoenix is usually the high in Sacramento. Now that I'm living in Californication, I seem to be enjoying this rush of creative energy and a love for music and the local music scene and art, writing, painting, everything. But I would give it all up just to feel that heat I took for granted, man, shit.

Year ago, I was with this woman. Spare the details, which, I must continue to remind myself now that I have hindsight, were mostly good. But it ended and now I'm here in this place, this city, and I still wonder just how the hell I ended up in this cold, green city. But the thing is, it's getting closer and closer to the year mark. In a couple of weeks, less than a month, I'll have been here for a year.

Not sure how to feel about that. And the memory of that seems to creep up on me at the most inopportune times.

Like today when I was visiting my girls. And these feelings aren't a stupid sort of emo punk longing of a better time and the woman that broke my heart. No, fuck all that. What I guess I'm trying to say is that it's been almost a year that I've been here and I think that I should be happy right now. And I am, most of the time. Just that sometimes I'll be happy and this sort of bullet goes through my brain and infects me with this quiet sad remembrance of the heat and the bars and the friends and the comfort I had and the easy life I led and the woman I dated and the woman with the glasses I had the mad-on crush for and all this turns me into this doubting, pouting asshole guy.

I should be happy right now. I mean, I'm making nine an hour to do absolutely nothing. I'm healthy and sober. I have a car. And there seems to be this good, healthy, steady sort of relationship thing that seems to be slowly starting to grow between me and Collyne. The only problem is the angry ex who has anger issues that keep me up late at night and makes me look over my shoulder. But things are good. Things are great. Sitting here reading my comics and downloading porn and listening to Pink Floyd. I should be estatic.

Fuck Phoenix.

Monday, January 20, 2003

mental note: visit my girls tomorrow
Feeling in high spirits - not sure if it's the St. John's Wart or actual emotional happiness.

MOOD: happysleepyexcited

BACKGROUND: fear factor

That's just like me to be debating the validity of my own happiness. I really suck when I'm sober.

And speaking of sobriety, my sexual energy, my sexual frustration, is so high, so strong right now that I feel like I'm about to just explode at any second. A massive latino jizz explosion in the middle of Barnes and Noble. It feels like how Magneto must feel when he's doing some sort of mutant magnetic thing, you know? That's how I feel now that I'm sober and horny.

Day fiftysomething, by the way.

This past weekend, I went to see socialburn, ra, and seether live in concert at the Boardwalk in Sacramento, well, in Orangevale, actually, and had an incredible, fun, exciting, alcahol-free time listening to the greatest bands out there. I loved seether already and they sure as hell didn't dissappoint, and I eagerly await social burn's new album, but the band ra completely blew me away. Incredible Egyptian rock, an amazing singing voice, and an incredible stage presense. Totally won over now by them. Their album From One is well worth it.

Got to go. Wrestling's almost on. I'm a simple man with simple needs.

Friday, January 17, 2003

Here's why I did not go and see punk band The Used last night.

MOOD: nervoussadtired

BACKGROUND: The Get Up Kids "On a Wire"

See! Already in your head you're saying "The Used? Oh, wait, they're that band from The Osbournes."

Now, I bought their debut self-titled album a handful of months ago, a while ago. I bought it on sale at my local Dimple records after I had heard their song "Buried Myself Alive" on a CD collection that a friend had bought me. Grest song, great voice, honest lyrics. Really dug the song and decided to go for the whole album.

So I went out and bought the sucker and instantly fell in love with it. Went on the internet, went on their web page, learned about them, and got to a point where I could say with happiness and no fear of retribution that I called myself a fan on the band. And when I heard about three, four weeks ago that they were coming to concert at the Boar dwalk, my favorite small, dank, smokey concert place two hours away in Orangevale, I got very excited and said to everyone I knew that I was going to go see them.

I called the box office to see how their tickets were moving. Guy says no need to grab tickets. They weren't going anywhere and I get all excited. Gonna see the Used. Gonna see the Used. This is gonna kick so much ass.

Then everything went down the fucking toilet. It started with the lead singer, Bert, dating fucking Kelly Osbourne, the girl from the cover of YM magazing and fucking Girl Beat. So then, it started going around the talkative wheel, people who had never even fucking heard of the fucking band all of a sudden talking about them. I heard about it first when I was talking to my middle aged, white, SUV-driving, un-hip, white bread, stick-up-his-ass, Cosby sweater-wearing manager about how I needed thursday off for the Used concert and he just vomits up ...


That really pissed the shit out of me. Suddenly this fucking loser middle aged fucking honky is talking about the Used like he's a fucking fan. He never heard the songs "The Taste of Ink" and "A Box Full of Sharp Objects" and read the lyrics in the liner notes along with the songs to try and see what they are really trying to go for emotionally. No. Fuck that. He knows that the lead singer's dating Kelly Osbourne.

Starch my fucking shorts, right?

Then, and this was the last straw, the final fucking straw in the whole situation, was the entire episode of the show the Osbournes dedicated to fucking Kelly and Bert. Kelly and Bert. Kelly, Miss My Album Sucks Ass But It's Okay Because I'm Ozzy's Daughter and this Bert guy. A whole episode of the show dedicated to fucking Kelly and Bert.

And why does this piss me off?

I was a fan. I was a fucking fan of the Used. I did the perfect fan thing, accidentally stumbled on them and fell in love with them. And they were mine, me and all the other small collective of fans who liked them for their music and their talent. We, the fucking fans. And now the entire collective is being anally raped by all these fucking posers who call themselves fans because of the wrong fucking reasons.

Teeny bopping little girls who don't know shit about music, don't know shit about punk, don't know shit about life, who think that just because they used daddy's money to go to the mall and buy an $80 black goth ensemble (WITH Avril tie) at the local Hot Topic that they're fucking punk. These bastards are now fellow Used fans. And that pisses the shit out of me. People who know jack shit about the Used beyond the fact that the lead singer was on an episode of the Osbournes are now Used fans.

Yesterday, I saw a picture of Kelly and Burt in fucking People magazine, fucking Kelly and Bert in People magazine. The other day, I saw them playing fucking TRL. TRL?!? So now they are in the same status as all the other artists that have played TRL - Mariah Carey, Hootie and the Blowfish, Usher, Vanessa Carlton, and fucking Kelly's Bert fron the fucking Used.

You don't know who they are? You know, they're that one band from The Osbournes.

So I sucked up my musical pride and convinced myself that I should go to the show anyway, right? I mean, they're still an amazing band and that should matter above all else. Their album still kicks ass and that should take precedence above who's a fan and who's not. So I sucked up my pride and went out there, drove the two hours, and went to the box office to get me some tickets.

Same guy I called is there at the place and says to me oh, Used tickets? They're sold out now. Oh yeah. They sold out right after they were on the Osbournes.

So fuck Bert and fuck the Used and more importantly fuck their new poser fans. Once Kelly and Bert break up and all the posers leave, maybe I'll speak differently, but right now I'm fucking pissed and rightfully so.

Can you believe this?

I hate music.

Wednesday, January 15, 2003

Haven't gone out for about a week, maybe more, and I haven't felt better.

MOOD: headachesneezyhappy

BACKGROUND: Sewing with Nancy "Fake Girl"

Been going to work and all that, doing my work,my manager thing, being happy Steve, cheering everyone up and all that good stuff that gets me my paychecks. But when work is done, I get my ass home and stay home, read comic books, watch television, work out, talk on the phone. Staying in for a change. Invited to some big rave on the bay where my boy Nate was going to be spinning and I just stayed home. Invited to some big house party in Elk Grove and I just stayed home. Invited to hang out with and drool around those Papa Roach boys and stayed home instead.

Different sort of feeling, holding all that public appearance partying inside and just staying home watching television. I mean, I haven't really stayed in for a while. I'm not a staying home sort of guy. Even without drinking and smoking (and I'm somewhere around day 48 of my sobriety now, thank you) I've been a pretty popular guy around this town.

But now I'm just staying in and feeling much better about myself. For starters I really have a lot of monies in my wallet right now, all the money I've been saving, making my fragile male ego feel much better.

Tell you, too, my relationship with my mother has really evolved. Thinking back, it seems like a really sad sort of thing, me and Joe leaving our poor mother alone in this house almost every night while we went out and got in a plethora of wacky adventures. Now that it's been the two of us hanging out and watching television together, we've become really good friends together in a way that I never thought we'd be ever.

Where's my brother in all this?

Well, his sobriety lasted about two, three weeks and now he's back to his lecherous drunken bastard self, which is good because the words Joe and sober don't really match in a perfect universe. And me and Tere haven't really been seeing him escape the cavernous shell of his side of the house lately. He's the house sasquatch. Looks like him and his girlfriend of over a year have broken up again, then gotten back together, then broken up, all within this past week.

I love my brother but I'm slowly going beyond the bounds of giving a damm. Sorry.

Speaking of fragile male ego, Bobbie got back together with her old boyfriend. Like no one in the world expected that to happen, right? I mean, come on. It's my theory that five-foot-nine natural blonde twenty-three year olds with a winning personality and DD tits eventually get back together with their old boyfriends no matter what the situation and that's the way it is, especially for me, not that I ever really expected anything romancewise with this woman. We were just really good friends that occasionally smoked out.

Am I usually this negative regarding women? Am I even being negative at all?

I don't know. It's just that I don't think that I'm necessarily negative towards women insomuch as I'm extremely negative in regards to my chances with women.

Not that that's any of my business right now. I'm in love with a young girl. Her name is Isis. I'm falling heaad over heels with this woman. Go over and see her whenever I can. We dance together. We play games with each other. Most of the times though we just sit on the couch and watch television, arms around each other, cuddling. And when she looks into my eyes and smiles, I can see somewhere in that beautiful head of hers that she really does love me back.

Okay, she's only about two, three years old, but my feelings remain the same. Her mom's a nice piece of ass, too. But it's an incredibly surreal feeling for me, subconscious feelings almost fatherly towards Collyne's little baby everytime I come over and see her face light up. I love this woman, this little Isis, the new woman in my life. And sometimes when we're playing and laughing and having fun, she'll give me her blanket to hold. She doesn't do that to anyone but me.

And sometimes off the corner of my eyes I'll catch Collyne smiling, almost crying, so happy.

My two girls.

Think I'll go and see the two of them today. It's wednesday, and you know what that means ... the new comic books are in! Mondays (Raw), Wednesdays (new comic books), Thursdays (Smackdown), and Fridays (payday) are my favorite days of the week. Absolutely stunning. And while I'm here, the worst days are Sundays (jesus) and Saturdays (real reason).

But wednesdays, day off wednesdays, are the bestest most super days of all.

Wednesdays mean I take a shower, hop in my Caddy, and drive around to my two comic book hook ups, maybe stop by at Weinetschitzabadbutcheapkraut foodtypeplace and get me some good food, maybe go to Borders and buy a cheap DVD and a coffee, then stare at the one cute chick that works there with the huge tits. Maybe stop at the record store or the toy store. Maybe stop at the Video Clearance Center where I get all my videos or maybe stop at the Tower Books where I get my porn.

Then I get to go down to Marconi and play with my girls. Nothing better than that.

Sunday, January 12, 2003

The guys from Papa Roach, well, they're nice and cool and all that, but I'm starting to get sick of all this strange bullshit that comes with this crap.

MOOD: angryhappy

BACKGROUND: South Park Season 1 DVD

This is the best way that I can describe all this ...

When I was growing up, we always used to hang out at Metrocenter Mall in Phoenix. Metro was the coolest place in the mid-eighties. It was radical with a huge arcade and a movie theater and an ice skating rink all in the mall and it was two stories and it was the absolute alpha and omega of malls. The coolest mall ever and I spent all my time there.

Then they decided to film a movie inside the mall. It was Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure and all the mall stuff with Socrates and Billy the Kid and Beethoven and all that, that was my mall. And after they filmed it, everyone had their story about Bill and Ted's that they would say to make people think that they were cool.

Like, I remembered David, my friend David, would talk your ear off about how he was walking down the mall and went into an Oshman's sporting goods store and while he was in there the movie people came in and grabbed him and told him that he was perfect for an extra, that if you squinted you could see him in the background of one of the scenes of the movie. Always talking about being in a film. Always talking. Always talking about it. Talking and talking over and over non-stop about how cool it was to be an extra in a film and meeting the cast and all that.

I mean, it was all bullshit. Complete, total, absolute bullshit. But everyone believed it.

Probably because everyone else had a fucking story, too. Jessica said that she was dating the guy who played the lifeguard at the waterpark and that he met Keanu Reeves and that he was cute and he hit on her. Matt said that he was walking down the mall and they stopped him because he looked perfect for a role and that they filmed it and it got cut. That my sister's friend's brother had partied with George Carlin, that my brother's sister's brother was going to introduce me with whomever the fuck that blonde guy was.

Everybody had a fucking Bill and Ted's story and everybody was fucking lying out of their ass.

And sure that was when I was, what, about 11, 12 years old, roundabouts, so everybody was just acting their age, right? Well, now that my local bar (and I am still clean and sober, so why do I still go there? Great question) has become the cool place for the band Papa Roach to hang out at, everyone is slowly starting to have Papa Roach stories, just like when I was a kid and everyone had fucking Bill and Ted stories.

It's total crap.

Oh yeah. Sure. Ricky is going to get a record contract. Yeah, right. I completely believe that. I do. That's great. Good for you, Ricky. Oh, and the drummer wanted to go home with Dawn. With Dawn, all two hundred thirty lbs. of her. Yeah, I believe that. Great. Super. That's amazing. And you're going to get backstage. Great. Amazing. And you're going to start singing in a band and they're going to help you out, get you a big record deal. Wow. So wonderful.

The actual guys, the actual band, they're cool. Great to hang out with. Fun.

It's just everybody else that are assholes.

Thursday, January 9, 2003

Past couple of days I've been partying with the band Papa Roach, literally, and I don't expect you to believe me, but I'll tell you anyway.

MOOD: sadangryquietmoodypeacefull


It's sober day 42 for me and it's dead cold out there. Overcast to the point where it almost looks like midnight out there. We're feeding the squirrels - yeah, we're saps for a sob story. You can see them freezing their little brown squirrel asses out there, thanking us for the food so they can survive the freezing cold winter here in Sactown. Hope I survive this winter, too, me with my desert skin.

Bit of good news, though. Seether, my new favorite band in the world (next to the genius of, is coming to concert next week and Ra is opening for them, and their debut album rocks ass, so it's fucking double trouble, and I'm going to get backstage for free because I'm friends with Papa Roach now.

Let me paint the picture for you.

It was this past tuesday and I was closing the bookstore that night. I was planning on going to the bar, trying their new Coors Non-alcaholic, and saying hello to all the old friends. And also because of Collyne. The semi-old flame. She had called me earlier in the evening. Looks like her divorce had gone through and she was planning on going to the bar and drinking it up in celebration.

I would be remiss if I didn't say that a large part of me arriving at the bar was for her. We had our little flingy-type relationship those handfull of months ago and some really serious emotions were born there and still remain between us. I do have very strong feelings for this woman and on more than one occasion, more so now that I'm sober, I have found myself at the small, dark, dank, white trash-infested kareoke dive bar known as the Maple Room just to be able to look at her.

Well, when I got there she was shit-faced. Ripped off her ass. And being a little too physical for my tastes. What's worse is that the big Him, her now EX-husband, was there, and call me crazy, but having a woman rtub your crotch and suck on your neck is all good, but in front of your known to be violent-prone ex-husband isn't kosher.

Most of the rest of the night was pretty moody for me. Sitting in my back corner, writing my poetry, my songs, and drinking my coffee and soda, looking at the big Him crying and shooting my death stares while her ex-wife who has the hots for me goes around drunk like a rock star when she's not sucking on my neck or begging me to take her home with me.

I mean, I really do love the woman. I have such feelings for this woman that I'm almost scared. It's just that ever since my bender and my proceeding sobriety I've had a very low tolerance for drunk people. For alcahol in general, even having it around me. I'm all about eating semi-healthy and working out right now, no smoking, no cigarettes, and I still go to that bar to sing my songs and hang out with my friends and fellow Woodites.

I love this woman, this Col, this little mamacita of mine. It's just that the drinking isn't my forte anymore.

She went to pray to the porcelain god and I, in typical Sober Steve fashion, got very sad and depressed and started to wonder where my life went wrong until the band Pappa Roach walked in.

They were there with a woman named Charmain, a very beautiful young girl that works at the Red Lobster near my work. All the Red Lobster women are frighteningly attractive and they are all flirts and they are always at the Maple Room getting drunk, another reason why I love to go there. Many of them have adopted for almost a year now sort of adopted me as their cute little Steve that they can joke with and dance with and talk to.

Great. I'm their gay male friend but without the gay part.

Charmain always told everyone that her boyfriend was a road manager for the band and damm if anyone ever believed her. Hell, I;m a good friend of her and even I was a bit speculative about the validity of that shit, you know? But these past two days I've been with Papa Roach, well, not the lead singer, but after hearing me sing "She Loves Me Not" at kareoke they all say jokingly that they need to get a new lead singer.

Don't expect you to believe me. Hell, I don't even believe myself. But today is my day of rest. No work. No troubles. Just comic books to read, wrestling tonight, and my thoughts of the women I've hurt. And tomorrow I party my ass of with the boys in the band.

Sober through all this, too. Neat-o trick, huh?

Thursday, January 2, 2003

Way I figure it, I made it through Christmas and New Year's without drinking a single drop and now that I've ran the gauntlet, everything is going to be downhill from here on out, save the occasional drama which seems to revolve around me like my own little galaxy.

MOOD: rock

BACKGROUND: Muted Sifl and Olly and Seether "Disclamer"

Just got a call on my cell phone (which is 916-5482037 by the way, like anyone ever calls my brown ass or reads this blog thing of mine) from Collyne. You remember her? All that drama and violence and tears and fighting between me and her and the husband, the big Him?

Well, the divorce papers are in and they are no longer living together. This woman, this Collyne, this woman I once said I loved, she knows me well. She's tempting me over with a full course home-cooked meal tonight while I watch Smackdown. She knows how to tempt me.

Looks like my brother and his girlfriend have broken up once and for all, which means that they'll be getting back together in two weeks.

As for me, I don't know how to think right now. It's obvious that Collyne is incredibly happy to be away from the big Him and wants to start spending more time with me, maybe pursue a relationship with me again, or maybe just fool around with me, screw around with me, high school relationship of playing tag with no real committment, then break up with me at whim like the last time we seriously pursued something meaningful between us. And I would be remiss if I didn't say that yes I am tempted. I love this woman. I miss being the man in her life, the glimmer in her eyes when she smiles. But I don't know what to do right now, how to act, what to say, and I am deeply unsure what the next step is for me.

Shit, all I know is that once I'm done surfing for porn I'm going to get in my caddy and go buy me some comic books. I have to remain true to myself, above all things. That is my top priority.

And be sure to see my film debut, debuting eventually at