YOLO

I never understood how to talk to people. I mean, people in general. There are some sort of people that I can talk to and everything’s cool and dandy. But there are the other kind of people, the one that loves getting drunk every weekend, that are proud of not reading. The kind that think that Swag was created by Bieber. Susan was one of those.

Once upon a time, when I was single and desperate (a couple of tales of that time are written here, quite more to come yet), I got hold of a guitar at a friend’s house and tried to learn the basic. This gave me an urge of actually buying one, of going to classes and try to learn about songs and stuff (well, my intentions were pretty broad, I know). And, we all know, girls dig the musician.

"Heeeey, sexy ladieees... change, please, I haven't eaten in weeks"

I found a teacher living two blocks from my house, and he made an offer I couldn’t refuse: a 20% discount on an old guitar he had lying around, if I took his classes for a year. Sounded actually fair, so I said what the fuck, let’s do it. At first it was hard, since my fingers are used to type shit and play videogames, but they hate the idea of a guitar. They despise it. They really fucking hate it. My fingers feel like they are tortured, like they are trying to get a confession out of them. After one hour of playing, I felt that they were in Guantanamo Bay, and some asshole CIA official was trying to get them reveal the location of some shitty terrorist hidden in Fuckingstan or someplace like that. They really hurt.

Eventually, I got better. Not Jimi Hendrix level, of course. More like Jim Kendricks, the guy who plays at the subway station every Sunday night and only knows two songs (and one of them is Wonderwall). But I started to get my money worth, and the teacher was really cool and funny. Everything was getting better. Right up to the time he came and said:

Teacher: Hey, dude, next class I’m getting some more students

Ghondar: …allright, cool. What for?

T: The idea is that you can play with others and start to learn some confidence in your style.

G: Cool, sounds great. Who are they?

T: Well, most of them are small children that are just starting. But there is one girl who might be great for you.

Now, the guy was talking about musical styles, but I was thinking something else. I suddenly started to visualize her in my head. Redhead, tall, thin, huge breasts and a great ass. Glasses, a couple of smalls tattoos (but nothing big or intimidating), maybe a piercing on her lip. A little too shy for her own good, but searching for true love and a nice guy who can take care of her, who can keep her safe from all the evilness that the world has. A guy who she can experiment and enjoy the intricate road of open sexuality.

And in slow-mo, obviously.

You know, normal stuff.

The day came (like your mom last night!) and we met. I’m going to be honest, she was pretty. And had a tattoo, true. But the rest? Well, both her ass and her breasts had an I.O.U. signed by God, and only under the correct lighting her hair could possibly be described as a really dark shade of red. All right, she was a brunette. Fuck your technicalities. But had a beautiful smile, and long fingers. And in my mind, that was more than enough to have a crush. Just a normal, regular crush. If I had to put it on a scale from 1 to 10, it would be a 6: Not soul changing, but not completely easy to ignore.

The teacher told us to play together one song (I can’t even remember the name of it) and we started learning the basic, while he was trying to keep calm the little shits that were with us. This gave us a window of chance, and we started joking around. We found that we had a lot of things in common, right up she said something like this:

Susan: Nah, I have an older boyfriend

G: *trying to keep calm and steady* Really? For how long?

S: For three weeks.

G: Oh, so it’s recent then.

S: Yeah, but YOLO.

G:… what?

S: You know, YOLO. You only live once.

G: Oh, I thought it was Ye Old Lovely Ostrich.

S: What?

G: …sorry… So, how old is he?

S: Oh, he’s 45. People look us funny since, well, I’m 15, but you know, YOLO! LOL.

G: Wait. So you are telling me he’s 30 years older than you?

S: Yup. Any problem with that?

G: No, nothing. I just find it weird that when he was watching the fall of the Berlin Wall, you didn’t even exist in your father’s balls.

S: Not following you.

G: The guy saw entire countries rise and fall. He watched live on television how the USSR went from being one single big fucker to hundred little small fuckers. And even then, he watched, again, live, how those small fuckers ended up dividing into even smaller fuckers, which names that are completely really hard to pronounce unless you cut your tongue in two.

S: So? YOLO!

G: …forget I said anything.

I really want Don Pardo to read this.

And that was it. The girl that I liked was dating someone older than her. So old, in fact, that he saw around 6 big wars (and five of them involved the US in some form) in his lifetime. And let’s not mention the fact that he was, well, kind of a pedophile. Well, not “kind”, he was an outright kiddie fucker.

She left the class a couple of months later, and we lost contact, like always. I found her on facebook the other day, and saw that she got pregnant a couple of months after I met her, and the guy obviously disappeared like Batman at night.

Oh, and she has a YOLO tattoo on her neck.

I never thought people could love an ostrich that much.

The Shit

I'm back. Somewhat. Dunno, I feel like I have some free time lately and been aching to write about stuff and people.

First of all, the Pokemon run probably wont continue since I.. eh... well, lost that phone. And the one replacing that. And the next one fell into the toilet. But the new one is looking good so far!. With that phone, there were the savegames and the screenshots I took, so now I see those posts and think "what could have been if I'vent been a dipshit?". Oh well, perhaps one day I will continue them with another game, or just forget about it entirely and that's it.

Yes, this blog has been as dead as your sex life (buuuuurn). It's been a rough couple of months. Well, more like a year. Ok, make that year and a half. Jeez, guys, don't be like that. The idea is that with this revival, I will try to write more. Or at least, look at past posts and laugh like an idiot (seriously, I forgot what I already wrote, and I just fucking laughed out loud with the last post I wrote here).

So let me tell you a story. A story about pills and gases. About the connection my body has to the deepest bowels of Hell. Let me tell you about...

THE SHIT

I had a minor surgery a few months ago (just a normal, regular kidney transplant, you know, common stuff), and they gave me pills to stay healthy. It's not that bad, I mean, it's 10-15 pills a day, but at least I'm not, you know, dead. So I have that going on for me, which is nice.

These pills have the tendency of making me gassy. And I don't mean just a little small fart that doesn't have any smell or do any sound. No, I'm talking about huge, ear and asshole ripping farts. The kind that can be heard from three miles away. The kind that scares cats and leave dogs deaf. Those who, when they come out, are holding a huge sign that says "HEY, GUYS, THIS GUY JUST FARTED, C'MON, SMELL IT, IT LOOKS LIKE HE ATE SOME SPACE RACCOON SHIT WITH YOGURT THAT'S HAS SEEN BETTER DAYS IN 1976". That kind.

My current work has me sitting for 8 hours in front of a computer, making the gasses accumulate inside my body, like some Nazi experiment. And I feel them. I feel them inside me, moving from side to side, trying to reach into the nearest hole. Sometimes they convert and transforms into normal and more socially acceptable burps, but not every time. I know that if I don't expel them soon enough, my body will be like a huge balloon full of dead smell.

Goku died for your smells.

The problem is that I don't like taking a shit at work. Or at any public bathroom for that matter. Not that they aren't clean, they are (or as clean as a public bathroom can actually be). But I feel judged by everyone, and if I know that someone is in the bathroom with me, I can't possibly unleash the shit Kraken with the pleasure and respect the beast deserves. I feel that if I do it and someone hears it, it will become gossip in the office, and I will forever be known as the Shit Maker (the Shit Beast Tamer would be far more awesome and adequate).

So, no, I don't take a shit at work. But my ass has a huge shit at the door, a shit who thinks that its time to meet the rest of the world and perhaps make friends along the way. So what do I do?

I hold it like a champ (hence the "Tamer" part of my absolutely perfect and awesome nickname)

I normally take two hours to get from work to home, where I can shit normally and without any complain (except for my family, but we are a huge family of shitters and farters, so it's in our genes). But on the bus and subway, the shit evolves. It starts gaining conscience. It becomes self aware. He (because I know it's a He, every single time) proceeds to fill my body with his tentacles and reach my brain, making me some kind of a Shit Mazinger. Since I have to take one floor of stairs to reach my home, every single step becomes a complete and a total pain in the ass.

...c'mon, you had to see that one coming!

Like some Shit Pavlov, as I get closer to the door (and, of course, the bathroom), the Shit Beast tries harder and harder to reach out. It becomes a chest buster. He knows I'm closer and closer. He just knows. It's Shawshank Redemption inside my body, and my intestines are Morgan Freeman. And then I reach the toilet.

And it all turns brown.

A HUGE explosion of shit covers all the insides of the until then white toilet. The shock can be felt from a huge distance. I can feel every single muscle of my body relaxing, after hours and hours of trying to tame it. The Beast is gone and I feel at peace.

Right until the next day when all starts again.

Perhaps it is my destiny. Perhaps it's my mutant power. It is my curse.  It is my blessing.

No, wait, it is a fucking curse. Can you possible imagine what this smells like? It feels like my asshole becomes an inter dimensional vortex that connects our plane of reality to some unholy, Elder Gods like place where this kind of smells are created and send over the unsuspecting people, using guys like me as the nexus. That's the only possible explanation that I can think of, since all of the rest involves me eating healthier and fuck that shit.

I said shit so much time it lost it's charm.

Shit.