Issue number 1: Fuck the streetcar. It should have stayed dead. Putting a giant slingshot at Lee Circle that just fired people in the general direction of their destination would be a more constructive form of public transportation. If I can beat the streetcar (on FOOT) to Jackson & St. Charles from Napoleon and St. Charles, then what's the fucking point. So now I like to wear headphones and walk deliberately in the path of the streetcar so it gets stuck BEHIND ME. Ha! Take that you rusty fucking disney ride. You know...we had this technology at the turn of the fucking century...it's time to hang it up. Seriously. And if I ever make it to San Francisco, I'll say the same fucking thing. Tag it and bag it.
Issue number 2: Hippie chicks. Just what exactly does this accomplish? I know it's really novel of you to buy all your clothes from the salvation army, wear purposely ugly dresses, vintage purses that hang down your shoulder like a gym bag, and not manage your hair to set yourself apart from the plastic fake crowd of girls....but c'mon. A lot of you are potentially very fucking hot. Why do you insist of fucking this is up? It's simple, some nice form fitting jeans, a bit of makeup, and a desire to do more than just bum weed off your friends. I have to say, I really should have heeded that warning that Chattanoogah (that can't be spelled right) was a hippie town. Good fucking christ. Do you know what kind of plot I'd have to hatch to get in with those kind of girls. I'd have to pretend to enjoy their shitty music, pretend that I enjoy getting stoned with a crew of losers who collect checks from either a coffee shop, music store, or their parents, and pretend I share their outlook on life as a spontaneous one-with-nature existence. I'm sorry. That's way too much fucking work. Can't I just get you drunk? Please?
Issue number 3: Stores that can't fucking restock. Yesterday I picked up a half gallon of milk because I've got a giant bag of home cooked cookies my mom brought me last week. I want fucking milk and cookies. That's all. So on the way home from the gym, I got half gallon of 2% reduced fat milk. Shame on my for not checking the date. I thought for sure I would not have to worry about these fucking things. It's like checking your eggs at the grocery store to make sure they're not already broken. THAT ISN'T YOUR GOD DAMN JOB. Those fucking hippes from my previous issues are stumbling around your local grocery store breaking down boxes at a snail's pace. They can check the fucking milk. They can check the fucking eggs. So now when I get home, and open the milk - take a sip - WELL HEY! THAT DOESN'T TASTE RIGHT AT ALL. Issue number 3.5: So last week I got food poisoning (and believe me, laying on my basement floor with a rotten stomach and fever, I was fully ready to let go, I had it all planned, after 2 or 3 days, someone would eventually need to collect money from me - hence try to find me - and my bloated carcass would be discovered in the basement - I really really really just wanted to die) and now the forces of evil tainted my milk in a second assasination attempt. Thank god I didn't pour that shit on fruity pebbles or something. I might have just walked outside with a baseball bat and Barry Bonds'd a puppy.
Issue number 4: The weather needs to make up its fucking mind. Yeah I know New Orleans is the 'northern most carribbean (I know that is spelled wrong too) city' or whatever, but its fucking december and 100 miles in any direction the weather is normal. If it wants to be cold, stay cold. I have no climate control to speak of in my apartment. So if the temperature outside keeps carouseling around, there's about 20 minutes in a given 3 days where it is actually comfortable in my bedroom. And please...please don't tell my to just call my landlord. I can't. If he enters my apartment I'm fucked because I broke the door in a drunken rage - there's garbage everywhere - and that 'you need to replace the AC filter once a month' speech is SOOOOOO boring. So my discomfort has been blamed on mother nature instead. It's your fault, cunt.(was "cunt" too much? Eh.)
Issue number 5: Why I am actually writing this blog? Am I really that bored, or even that presumptuous that people would want to read this in between bites from a ham sandwich or finger dives into a bag of cheetos? Has my life sunk that far? I really only walked down to Loyola's library to check my mail and burn some AC/DC on to a cd. Little did I know that they were updating all their computer systems, completely fucking me out of my plan. Which is fine, I understand - any excuse to simply get out of the house and delay the streetcar (or Retard Rail) is good in my book. Buy here I am exiled to using their shitty Macs and typing away. I can't burn a cd, and all I have really left to do is go to park, have a meal, shower, and...uhh...drink? Why should I drink? I drank last night. Oh yeah....BECAUSE NOTHING ON THIS FUCKING PLANET MAKES ANY GOD DAMN SENSE - EVERYONE'S A PIECE OF SHIT - AND I CAN'T BUY A SINGLE PIECE OF FOOD NOW WITHOUT WORRYING THAT SOMEHOW IT'S GOING TO KILL ME.
You know what?