ok, also?

if you're going to have a pet dog, and then tell that dog that they can't go into a room, don't be a fucking jerk about it.

like...

here:

this dog is like, "i want to get this thing back, but you told me not to go in there, but i can't get this thing without going in there! bark bark i am frustrated!"

you have to let that be ok.  i mean.  sure, dogs aren't super smart about everything, since they're dogs.

but, like, they're fucking dogs.  they're not super smart.  if you say "never can go in here," that's like a big fucking deal to them.  they can't like, "oh, but i'll just pop in and get that thing and it's ok."  it's like "MURDER WILL GET YOU IF YOU GO IN THERE FOR ANY REASON!  MURDER MURDER DEATH DEATH DEATH!"



i guess today's point is: reassure your pets.  make sure that your pets know you love them a lot, and that if they make a mistake, you're still totally going to love them, because they're fucking awesome.

hey.

um.

this is weird.

usually i get drunk, choose a point to fight over, do a big blog post about how like, squirrels are fucking people now.

and then wake up sober and make it all go away because that's pretty much nonsense.

and we don't even fucking have squirrels here.  are they really just like super fluffy tail cats?

so today i got all drunk like usual.

as-you-do.

and then forgot the point i was going to fight about.

like.  no clue.  squirrels are cute though.  fluffy tails and all that.

i have the beatles playing, so maybe that was the thing?  not as good as mr. david bowie?  they're pretty great, though, so this is a weak point.

so hey.  sammy here.  drunk up as i do.

without a point.

let's look at the news?

ok.  that's bad, that's good, that's also bad, that's cool, that's just kind of fucking horrible.

80 fucking percent.

christ.

"Laws in many states allow the police to arrest girls as young as 13 on prostitution charges, even when they are victims of sex trafficking."  omg.


dear prosecutors (i guess?),

what the absolute fuck?  "oh, congrats on getting raped a bunch!  your reward is going to jail!  you slut!"

diaf,
love,
sammy!


so, you know, if you're confused about how much i'm kind of going with the gay side of bi, read that last bit, and tell me how you feel.  seriously.  i was going to talk about the animal thing i saw today, but this is so much more fucking depressing, it makes a rhino potentially dying of gross infections due to humans ripping off a shitty horn seem like someone dropped a popsicle.


seriously.  i've read stories about cats playing with something for a bit, then killing it and eating it.  why is that so fucking less horrifying than what people do in like a day-to-day thing?

here comes the sun?

fuck you, the 60's.

good job fucking everything up in your adult-hood.  thanks for making me and my cohort so fucked up.


i can only forgive you so much for the chords used in "because".

and now you know how to turn me on.


ok.  time to drink enough that i don't care to update this post anymore.  just.

just think about things.  think about how much you might have helped, and didn't.

i'm doing the same, so don't get all upset.  i could have murdered old people, but instead i voted for the democrats.

TOTES KIDDING!

except the democrat thing.  i mean, i don't want to murder people in their sleep.

like the republicans.

#socialism_forever

to narrow things down

old people are awful.

i will one day be old, barring active actions to prevent that possibility on my part.

but one day, i'll probably be old (or dead).

but let's consider the old one, sammy, and hey, while we're at it, maybe stop being a jerk for once!

anyway,

old people.  why do they always like, fuck young children, and hate foreigners, and think gay people cause hurricanes?

seriously, if i could make hurricanes, you'd fucking know it.  i'd be just like, "oh, is it hurricane season?"

"no, sammy, it's christmas"

"OOPS, MOTHERFUCKING HURRICANE SHITTING IN YOUR FACE, JACKASSES@!"

really.  i'd be calling down the storms on all the fuckers.  but no, we're not magic witches with super powers.  that'd seriously be super cool.  i could write stories about that for years.

ok

breathe.


so hey, did you see me fucking panic my ass off on friday night?

no?  oh, that's because i sent that all to the place no one else can see.  here's how things worked.


i had a shitty week at work.

followed by a super shitty friday.

so i went home.


and remember how months ago i told you how i outsmarted my anxiety about having dinner by putting frozen dinners i liked in my freezer?

yeah.  i decided i didn't like any of those.

"get some pizza."

i didn't want pizza.



"sammy, i'm not getting what your point is here, so"

SHUT UP!

i always like pizza.  pizza is like my best friend who never tells me i'm a drunk.  pizza and vodka.  the three of us are super tight, yo.

so me sitting in my car, thinking about food, and pizza doesn't turn me on?  this is a fucking existential challenge.  who am i if i don't want pizza?

i love a tumblr about pizza and porn.  it's like someone kissed my tears away and in doing so, made my perfect happy land.

so i'm sitting there, hating the horrors of frozen food, and also not wanting pizza.  i drive mindlessly, eventually pulling into taco bell.

taco bell, "we're sorry you're here too, but at least we have some nacho cheese.  we hope that helps."

it did.  as much as tbell can do.  you're not magic, tacos.  and quesadillas.  and those quesadilla burrito things that look like so much work i can't imagine they're not full of spit.

so, hey.  that's how my friday went, and that's why you might have seen me writing tumblr posts about drunk driving to denny's on the other side of the island.

"don't drive drunk, sammy, that's how murder happens!"

duh.  i was angry because i was so drunk i couldn't go eat food that would totally give me super shitty runs.  i may hate myself (and a lot of other people), but i'm not going to put everyone in risk of me running them over.  i'm not a monster.

what was my other point?


honestly, there was a whole rant to put here about brown food.  not like "sammy, you're gross and like scat, stop being gross."  it was about how frozen/microwave food isn't brown.  you for-realsies cook food until it's brown, so it has that "brown flavor".  so you know it's good.  that's better than what i cobble together.

which makes me sad for the days when my brain was organized enough to actually sit down and cook for myself.  i did a bit on that last vacation.  it was good and brown, and i hate that i can't get my brain to work right so much of the time.

"sammy, you should get helpers!"

so, what i need is like a 1950's wife.  someone who lives at home while i go do work shit, and makes sure we don't get bugs (too late) or live in filth (too late) and makes sure i don't run out of clean clothes (it only counts if you get caught).  i think maybe i make enough to pay people to do those things?  how much does a fake wife cost?  do you have to pay more or less if you give them hugs?


what else is on the "you should talk to a therapist sooner than next month, sammy" list?

oh!  i wrote some more.  do you all remember "spa treatment"?  no?  you should look it up from a year ago when i totally stopped writing anything on it.  i put in a third of a half of a chapter, which means i need to stop masturbating to my own stories.  also, maybe lookup pipelining on gelbooru.  i'll do a link when it's closer.  but like, check out the concept to make sure you're on board before you start reading.

it's kind of hard when you write things and rub yourself raw, and then remember that most people would be disgusted by what you come up with.  i'm sorry, everyone.  i'm super sorry people who have said nice things about me.  i wish i was a better person than i am.


i kind of wish i had a taco right now.


i'm...sorry. :(

have i told this new story?

read this first.

i'm visiting my friend again, who's now on the west coast, so it's all new and exciting to visit a new place.  but hawaii to mainland flights are scheduled at "impossible o'clock," so i get in at like 5am.

since she's super smart and loves sleep, she sends her husband to pick me up.  but at some point, he needs something from the glove box.

i legitimately can't remember what it was.  phone charger?  maybe?

whatever it was, it doesn't matter, because sitting next to the car book thing is my knife.

again.

it's super dirty, and the one rubber "stabby grip" that was always loose is gone, but when you've known a knife like i have, you'd recognize it anywhere.

"Yeah, that's it," he says as he grabs whatever it was and then the box is closed and i'm sitting there half stunned fighting jetlag as we drive home.


i kind of want to send her a note and ask that she take my knife out and drop it in the ocean.  give it to the whales to sort out.  whales are smart, right?  they'll do the right thing.