Oh thou hypocrite...

My desire for some iota of personal nobility is challenged at every turn. Sometimes I don't want to fight anymore. Sometimes I want to fight as though my very life depends on it, and sometimes I think it might.
The me I want, and the me I am are seperated by uncrossable chasms of reality. I often know what I should do in order to become my better self, and find that making that decision though would ultimately lead me on a path of personal discovery, I can't do it. I don't have it. I like to believe that love is the answer. That every action based out of a premise of love will always lead to a truer...higher...better personal reality. However, I'm quickly learning that there is such thing as love, and selfish love. I wish I would have made that distinction years ago. I wish I was still a teeneager, and knew all the things I knew then. I wish I had the ability to meet the ideals, that my idealistic self desires. I don't. Plain and simple.

Frustration

So I finally get my home computer up and running and it seems to be systematically falling apart. I think the new home phone I got is interfering with the wireless mouse I already have, cause now I can't use it. I have to use my corded mouse, which is fine, but doesn't have the rolley knob in the middle, and I really love my rolley knob. *Sigh*. Oh well. I've been (Trying) to work out again, so I'm sore all over. I guess it's a good sore, that's what they say, but damn I hurt everywhere. Work is a huge stress...but hey, at least I'm working I guess. The apartment complex I'm at has fucked up so I gotta go talk to the landlord. Of course she's only open when I'm at work so that's gonna be fun to figure out. *Sigh* I desperately want something I can NEVER possibly have. *Sigh* Crap.
All right, so I'm bitching a lot I guess. Maybe tomorrow I will have written something that is actually worth taking the time to read. For tonight...it's simply frustration.

A return

So I've been away from bitchcake for a while. I'm sorry about that. To me mostly. I got lazy, and complacent, making stupid myspace my primary blogspot. Don't get me wrong, I'll still blog there, but no more copy and paste bullshit. Different blogs, for different thoughts, for different reasons. It's all for me. It's all born out of my own selfishness. I don't mind that you all read whatever crap it is I decide to put down at the end of the days...but ulitmately, it's all about me. As it should be.
So I'm back, for what it's worth. To me quite a bit, but ahhhhfuckit.
So yeah...here, myspace, my fiction blog, my evil blog...it's time to resurrect them all I think. You see, once again a story is cooking in that tiny little gray spot up in my head, and this time I HAVE to do something about it. I bitch too much not too, and all these little places help my fingers remember how to move. They help my brain remember how to put words together. So for now, that's all...here. I have a few other places I need to post tonight...a return so to speak to all my little thought spots. I don't know if I was missed, but regardless...it's good to be back.

my little god complex

My little god complex
So a few years back while going to college I worked in a roadhouse theatre. It was fun. Different acts, and shows would come through just about every weekend. Something new and interesting happened all the time. One of the acts to come through was Herman's Hermits. They put on a fun show singing a bunch of tunes that were popular at proms 20 years before I was born.
During the load in it fell on me to go pick up the drummer from the hotel they were staying at and bring him to the theatre. I felt bad, because forty years ago this bloke was getting blowjobs in the back of limosines before performing to sold out crowds in major stadiums in big cities. Now, I'm driving him around in my old beater car to a small theatre in Logan Utah. Time's they are a changin.
When he gets into my car, we naturally make the requisite introductions. I tell him my name is JayC, and without missing a beat he replies in that cute clipped british dialect..."Jesus Christ. I've never met you before."
2000 years ago this guy lived in Jerusalem. Told people, relax, hang out, be groovy, love each other, stop judging each other, and it's okay to eat pork. Since then humanity has based a religion around this guy that tells people to judge everybody, hate everyone who thinks different than you, and be incredibly uptight about everything. And it's true, that dude, and myself have the same initials. So when the Herman's Hermit pointed that out it of course wasn't the first time it had been brought to my attention. It was however the first time an aging washed up old british rock star actually called me Jesus. This did absolutely nothing to diminish my already enormous God complex.
The problem with having a God complex is that every so often I get the urge to prove it to myself, and this is a bit difficult. Although I've told people otherwise, the truth is I've yet to turn water into wine, or walk on water, or rise up from the dead, or any of that other nifty shit that Criss Angel does on his t.v. show. Plus, if I went around telling people to relax, hang out, be groovy, love each other, stop judging each other, and it's okay to eat pork...well I'd have fundamentalist Christians, hippies, feminists, and vegetarians all over my ass...ready to nail me to a cross or something. So I keep my mouth shut and refuse to perform miracles.
One of the things I really enjoy about the "faithful" is there ability to see things. Make shit up that justifies their faith. Someone looks at a rag with what looks like a face, and all of a sudden Jesus is on the shroud of turin. Or the Virgin Mary on a piece of toast. To me this the equivalent of looking at a cloud and seeing an elephant, but millions of people believe this crap and call it a miracle. AWESOME. Hey man, whatever you need in order to justify believing the crazy shit you believe...well...in all honesty it's fine with me. Whatever gets you through the night and all that jazz.
So the other night after Prince I'm hanging out in the breakroom with a friend of mine. For the sake of Annonimity I'll call her Natalya. We're chillin. Relaxing, being groovy and passing judgement on Crazy Andy...(in this case it's justified...Andy is seriously crazy) when she all of a sudden points at her leg and says "Do you see that?" I look where she's pointing...near her ankle and see a wierd little design. You know how when you lean against something and it leaves an imprint in your skin? It was something like that...a strange little design, and I'm looking at it from a completely different agle than she is so I don't immediately see what she sees. As she points it out...the image clearly forms in my mind, and I do indeed see exactly what she's pointing to. There...on her leg, for absolutely no reason whatsoever...are the letters J A Y C. I swear to god I'm not making this shit up. It's a little bit mindboggling. I've just performed my first miracle. Not intentionally of course. I wasn't using my amazing brain power to do this...or concentrating real hard or anything...it just sort of happened. There's no other explanation. There was nothing, anywhere nearby, that could have caused this imprint on her leg. AWESOME. It must have been me, cause seriously, I love this girl more than smoked ham (which if you know me, you know this to be quite a bit) so why not?
The irony of having this kind of god complex...is that you think that...well...being a god and all, I'd find some way to overcome all my stupid, anxious, awkward, wyoming farmboy shyness that keeps me from functioning in any real way in any type of social situation.
I wonder if Jesus was shy. Seriously...maybe that's why he turned water to wine, and walked on water. None of that shit was necessary...but it is a damn cool way to break the ice, get the girls to notice you, and give your friends a few chucks.
Ahh who cares. Seeing my name on her leg was the coolest thing to happen in weeks, and you know what? Maybe it is a little like seeing an elephant in the clouds, but even that is its own form of magic. That's why we do it for god's sake.

Who loves ya baby?

Candles don't last long enough. Another simple reminder that everything is temporary. It's a shame too, because the good ones are really damned expensive. Relatively of course, I mean twenty bucks isn't all that much, but on the other hand it's twenty bucks for a big ball of wax. Granted it smells good, but still.
I like candles. I like the way my apartment looks by candlelight, and I like the way they make it smell nice. I know that's pretty gay, but...I like a lot of things that straight men aren't supposed to like.
Candles. Scented soap. All that pretty smelly shit at bed bath and beyond. Shakespeare. Clean hands and fingernails.
I'm also not all that fond of things that straight men are supposed to love. I hate beer. Most sports. NAASCAR. Auto mechanics. Tools. Loud noise. Fart humor.
I was actually having this conversation with a friend at work the other night. I used to think it was my fondness of boobies that gave me a free pass on my heterosexuality. Then of course I realized that a lot of the gay guys I know also have a fondness of boobies. She pointed out of course that so do most women. Boobies seem to be pretty universal in their appeal. And honestly, why shouldn't they? They're FUCKIN AWESOME.
So I guess ulitmately I have to fall back on the simple fact that I'm just not sexually aroused by men in any way at all. Although, even there...Brad Pitt is gorgeous. Honestly, the man is a God. I mean I wouldn't have sex with him or anything...or...you know...where was I? Lost my train of thought there for a minute.
I guess my Y chromosome is a little stunted. Perhaps a bit smaller in the Y part than it should be, so it's sort of part Y part X.
Oh yeah and...I love...I mean absolutely LOVE....women. I do. I can't help it. Ya'all are amazing in every way. I don't understand a thing about any of you, and you all drive me fuckin batshit half the time, but god save me...I love every last one of ya.
Some more than others.
You the most.

Pornstar Redux

She came to me in a dream again. She invited me to go with her to Disneyland. Beyond sex, I'm not sure of her motives, but I am sure she has them, and they aren't good.
To call her a pornstar is not quite right. It paints an entirely wrong picture. I don't know what else to call her, she hasn't told me her name, and pornstar is what she responds to.
I don't have recurring dreams, but I do have recurring themes and cast of characters. Also in my dreams I can't fly, but I can slam dunk a basketball like no one else. I can also breathe underwater.
Years ago I wrote a cute little ten minute play. T.J. directed it in a student produced event we did at USU. I had workshopped the play in a writers group we had put together up there. It seems there was a time we were much more ambitious. We actually got some really great stuff out of that group. Plus it was a shitload of fun.
I gave that play the ridiculous title of
The Paramount Reality of Sensations
The play topped off at 18 pages. It was neat. Tidy. I actually really enjoyed it. The title was awful, yet somehow fitting.
The thing is, I've come to realize that every story I have locked away in my head, every character, every location, every event, takes place in that Paramount universe. Some characters are quite verbose. They never shut up. Others a complete mystery. One fascinating chatacter hasn't even told me his name yet. He teases me with it.
I've also come to realize that the pornstar fits in there somewhere. She's part of it. I think that's why she's been so persistent lately. She needs me to know she exists. She's also been very forthcoming with the fact that she too has a secret. Everyone in my Paramount Universe does. Hers is not a nice one.
I have these crazy dreams see. They don't happen often. In fact to have two in a row is something of an anomoly. I know that ultimately dreams are just dreams. Nothing of substance or importance, but some of these are just interesting enough that when I wake up I can create entire stories around them, and all of these stories have a running through line for me. They're all part of a greater whole. They also make my heart beat a little bit faster. Some of them are downright frightening.
I guess in the end, all I can say is...Don't worry about me. The voices in my head never tell me to kill myself.

Pornstar dreams

So a pornstar has a crush on me. It's true, she told me so herself. Granted we were underwater at the time in my souped up skymark 3 submarine rocket, but I could tell she really meant it. Unfortunately, I had to break her heart. I'm just not interested in a relationship at this point in my life, and I could tell she wanted to be more than fuckbuddies.
I remember when I was a very young child my father told me that I shouldn't drink milk right before I go to bed because it would give me nightmares. I know now as an adult that this is an absolutely ridiculous notion, but it stuck with me for a very long time. I know for certain that it's not true now because the forementioned dream was not so bad at all.
Besides, when I woke up, I had to absolutely convince myself that it was in fact a dream, because the memory of it was so real. I'm still pretty convinced she does have a crush on me. But then again, who doesn't.
So, to sum up...it's okay to crush on me, just know that if you're looking for something serious keep looking. If you're going to have a glass of milk before bedtime, make sure that you don't for any reason leave it unguarded with a cat in the house, and finally...although I should be writing something with a bit more substance, I will, no matter how hard I try, never become a ninja, my weight fluctuates like the national economy, and there are actually very, very few things in the world I'm really good at...I am a sudoku MASTER.