BACKGROUND: Authority Zero "Andiamo" (ass kicking album)
My daughter is watching the Powerpuff Girls Movie. My girlfriend is getting ready to go to her other job. Long story. And there's a new cat in my life that's scratching my feet to a bloody pulp as I type this. And there's some strange things going on in my life, small, annoying little things that are almost on the verge of pissing me off and bringing undue drama into my life.
No way. I refuse to let that happen. Positivity and happiness isn't something that you wait to come to you like sitting and waiting for a bus. It's something that comes to you via being proactive and optomistic and refusing to let all that pent up bullshit drama anger bickering get under your skin.
Which Sifl & Olly Show Character Are You?
Like my stupid piece of crap Hitleresque German car that has decided to engage its own anti-theft system. So the ignition is locked and the only way to unlock it is to use the SECOND ignition key that I don't have. I believe that my parents have it but they don't really talk to me and I have no way of getting hold of them. They live in Phoenix somewhere and I don't know where they live or what their phone number is. Sure they call my older brother about once a week but I haven't had any contact with them since Mother's Day.
Then there's my shy loneliness that I go through on a fairly daily basis. Sure, I'm the founder of my own religion and I have over 3,000 followers worlwide and all that, but in the real world I'm a shy, scared sort of guy and I can get really nervous and freaked out when I'm around new people that I don't know very well. That almost seems like a contradiction but sometimes I'm a walking contradiction.
I'm a loudmouth, angry, fast, wild, silly punk guy who's also quiet and shy and emo and nervous and easily panicked.
That and I don't really have too many friends either. I have a lot of aquaintances and a lot of people that I know but I don't really have anyone that I can call and go to the movies with, you know? I guess this also comes partially with being a father but I don't really have too much of a life out of my job and my religion and my family.
Then there's the fact that I've really been spending most of my time either at work or babysitting the baby while my girlfriend works. Her other job is something I can't really talk about. It never really bothered me until about the third night in a row that I spend alone with the baby watching old Space Ghost episodes and falling asleep on the couch alone. If I wasn't the nice, kind person that I am, I would swear that she was cheating on me or developing feelings for some other man but I know that she would never do that or do anything to hurt me or betray my heart's eternal, undying feelings for her and only her.
And then there's this cat. The cat. The fucking cat. My daughter's cat, the one that helped her cry-free through her cast, the one that she got from bouncing up and down on her cousin's bed. I said we couldn't have a pet. I said that I was allergic. I said that we could not get one and that I could not live with one, and that everyone who lived in this house could never ever in any way purchase or even think about purchasing a cat, THE cat, the feline who is presently trying to digest my ankles. That makes me feel like what I say doesn't matter, that I have no voice, that no one cares what I think.
But what pisses me off the most is that the cat is cute and cuddly and so amazingly beautiful that I don't want to get rid of it. Therefore it stays here in this house as a constant reminder that I had loud, strong feelings that were ignored.
So here's my big literary money shot. I went to last week's opening of the entertaining yet ostentatious punk rock fashion show Hot Topic-fest that is the Sacramento Trash Film Orgy. It's worth the money and it's incredibly fun to hang out with good friends and watch some strange films on the big Crest theater screen. I love it and I never miss it. But with widespread popularity sometimes comes widespread negativity. There's a lot of drunken negativity and loudmouthed anger assocciated with the shows lately. There's a fog of attitude, too, of teenage-to-twentysomething punk elitist attitude that hangs around the entire event and it can be tough for someone that's quiet and shy and positive with normal hair and has never paid $70 for a fucking steel punk belt and the goddamn mall.
So I was there with flyers for my religion. Now, I'm shy and easily frightened and eternally scared, so walking up to complete and total strangers handing out flyers for Woodism is actually a tough thing for me to do. Before the intermission, I was in the bathroom freaking out. I was dizzy and out of breath and I was puffing my inhaler like I was taking hits from a bong at a Cypress Hill concert on April 20th. I was really losing it.
So when Mr. Lobo of television's Cinema Insomnia told me that he would help me pass out flyers, I felt really good. It was like someone actually cared about me and wanted to help me and it almost made me cry, I was moned that much. Mad props to Lobo for that one.
The flyer passing out experience was both good and bad. It was good in that two-thirds of the people I passed out flyers to and talked to were open and friendly and took the flyer with actual positive feelings. It helped that I was wearing an old school WCW Diamond Dallas Page t-shirt that a ton of men, even punk rock looking skinny black eyeshadow AFI-looking mofo's responded to. That was positive. There was even a woman there who had already been to my website and wanted me to baptize her right there, which I did.
What hurt was the asshole elitist punk people who denied a flyer, the people with the $300 outfit that they bought at Hot Topic, the people who look punk just to piss off their parents, the people who think that just because they look punk that they're better than everyone else who ISN'T punk. The people who laughed at me, who looked past me, who scoffed and gave me a wave to go away because they couldn't spare two seconds to take a flyer. The looks of these Rocky Horror Picture Show rejects thinking that I was someone who they couldn't be bothered with, well, it hurts the innards of a shy guy like me.
And lately, especially tonight as I face another night alone as my woman does her other job, I try not to think about my broken car or my missing parents or my cat or the looks on those Magenta and Dr. Frank-looking motherfuckers at The Crest who laughed at me.
Float on, man. Float on.
So me and Emerald are going to take a bubblebath and listen to Modest Mouse now. See ya.