Sexhead’s Garden of Earthly Delights

I started off with a bang, and then, as is my custom, immediately fizzled.

That said, I would like to state for the record that I want a do-over. Life really fucking sucks lately. For the first time in about ever, I am having a really hard time focusing on even one positive thing to, you know, keep from thinking about all the shitty things that are going on.

So, yeah. Work sucks (the company is going under - 25% paycuts and the mass exodous of generally awesome people can suck my ass.) Home doesn't quite suck. It's just probably going to change very quickly very soon, and that sucks. And family likewise doesn't suck (well, my mom doesn't, but my brother probably will at some point in the near future) it just sucks what's happening to my mom. Lung cancer can go fuck itself up its stupid little ass. And I'm not looking forward to dealing with all of that and my brother. He really needs to fucking get his shit together already, and I am going to have a very very hard time refraining from harping on it when and if shit really starts to hit the fan.

I would like to be anywhere that isn't here in my body right now. I would like to be someone else, thankyouverymuch. Preferably someone rich, while you're at it. Barring that, I'll take some drugs-with-a-capital-D, 'kay? Thanks!

But blogs are weird.

The idea appeals to me. My own personal soapbox from which I can rant any ole thing I want. But they're tricky too, because you never know who is reading it. People might know or recognize me, so I can't talk about the cute fetus with the pretty eyes that I have an ever-so-slight crush on. Because what if he has a crush back and tracked down my blog? You know, I'm not smart. My moniker is a handle I've been using on the nets for damn near a decade now. I'm pretty trackable by anyone with half a brain and access to MySpace. It's sad, really. And I could never date him anyway. He's a fetus, after all. Or even worse, what if he thought I was a weirdo (who am I kidding? I am a weirdo!) and tracked me down so he could avoid me and found out? Holy awkward, batman! So, definitely no talking about the cute, pretty-eyed fetus or any slight crushdom upon him.

And then there are the people you DO know who read it. Which, well, at this point anyway, is probably only Megs. And even though I don't have anything to talk about that I wouldn't tell her anyway, it's still weird. Like, I feel as though some things shouldn't be learned via blog. F'rinstance, like when Nathan finally does break down and take my anal cherry... I mean, that's news that warrants at least a phone call (I would say a face-to-face conversation, but that's somewhat hard given that she's 3000 miles away and all.) Or other life-altering events - I have to consider how my audience will react. Remembering your audience is very important as a writer.

So, with these self-imposed restrictions, that doesn't leave me a whole lot to talk about, really. The weather, music, food, bowel movements.

I'm constipated. There you go.

Well, no, not really. Vox sort of beat me to that punch. Yet another reminder that I am not allowed to have nice things.

I am Sexhead.

<--------- Those are my boobs. They get motorboated a lot.

That's it for now.