By now, most of you have learned the lesson that all of my friends learned long ago: That I am an asshole and you can't trust a word I say.
"No, I haven't seen your soccer camp t-shirt. And no, I will not take off my sweatshirt to show you what I'm wearing underneath. Fuck you. I don't have to prove anything to you."
"Sure, I'll be blogging again next week! I've just been busy!"
"I absolutely did not imagine your clothes coming off when you and your sister were wrestling on the ground. Come on now. You two are sisters. That would be wrong."
So here I am, really and truly preparing to start posting again soon, but it seems that I now have a rapidly-dwindling audience consisting of people possessing minimal patience and R-rated thesauri. I suspect that a few of you may have a drinking problem as well - although, really, that's probably why you still come here. For healing.
It would seem, then, that in order to prove -- or at least vaguely reinforce the theoretical existence of -- my good intentions, I must give you something to keep the fires burning. After all, I hardly want to start posting again only to find that I'm speaking to three people whose roommates told them about "some site that used to be cool, before the guy writing it became a lazy jerkoff."
Therefore, here are three emails that I sent to various friends of mine a few years ago. Normally, I wouldn't post correspondance like this; it's a violation of privacy, for one, and it reeks of vanity. But I've already made these particular emails semi-public amongst my various circles, for the same reason I'm posting them here - they still make me laugh, and I am incapable of entertaining the notion that other people don't find the same things funny that I do.
If you've ever wondered what it's like to be my friend (insert image of those who actually are my friends frantically waving you toward a better path, Jacob Marley-style, imploring you to avoid their fate), imagine receiving emails and phone calls and occasional drunken visits that roughly conform to the overall pattern of the following:
"...Forty ounces of Dew. Ha. What a fucking amateur I was.
Just for the record, I need to condemn the practice of drinking 40 ounces of mountain dew at 11 PM. I have been wired for hours with no end in sight. I have been IMing people like mad, trying to channel my energy into a conversation with someone, anyone. I ended up having discussions with five people at once on completely different topics, but managed to keep up with all of them just the same. This is madness. I even talked to _____ for...Jesus Christ, for two hours. And, looking back on the conversation, it could possibly be thought by someone who didn't know better that I was flirting with her. My God. I really didn't mean to give that appearance...I wasn't really paying much attention to anyone; at least, I wasn't looking into any deep meanings behind any of my words. Ug. This kind of thing could drive a man to drink.
It's a strange world we live in Jillian, populated by people who are weird in the extreme. Protect yourself from those people, and avoid hooligans at all cost. Better yet, just avoid everyone and stick to your own kind. You'll be much safer that way and probably a lot happier. Lord knows I would be. I mean, really, who can get enough of cynical bastards who are convinced they are always right and have the annoying habit of thinking themselves writers, a conceit they indulge by rattling off dark and demented screeds which anyone in their right mind would burn before getting half way through? The hubris of it all is just sickening.
Faf. It would seem that caffeine and computer monitor radiation are the perfect combination for anyone who can't stand to go a single day without their eyes throbbing like miniature jellied discos. I find myself in the unenviable position of not knowing who to hate more, the quack who first discovered that hated stimulant, or the soulless con man who thought to put it into soft drinks. I think I shall split the difference and hope that both their heads adorn pikes in the front lawn of hell.
Fuck this. I'm going to bed. Perhaps I can teach myself some kind of bastardized yoga relaxation technique to help me fall asleep. At this point, I'll need all the help I can get; even so, I am resigned to the almost certain fact that I will be the Angriest Person on Earth at 5:30 am, when I will have to wake up to feed and inject the dog. The thought of doubling his insulin dose to knock him into a coma is much more appealing than it should be, and will undoubtedly be even more so when the mangy bastard decides to take his newly discovered place at the end of my bed, forcing me to curl up into a small ball in order to not be scratched by his damn claws when he stretches in his sleep.
Take care of yourself, and, if you believe in the power of such things, say a prayer for my dog, for he is going to need it come morning.
"So yeah. Staring at the screen here is doing nothing for my eyes, which have been throbbing since I woke up this morning in a fetal position on Jay's floor, an empty Corona in one hand and a sock on the other. Why that sock was not on my left foot, where it began the evening, I do not know. Perhaps it just liked the scenery better upstairs, which is understandable; a sock's life is undoubtedly very hard and thankless, devoid of any real excitement or opportunity, so they must take what they can get when they can get it.That one is obviously from when I was living in Chicago. I miss Chicago a lot.
I started to sit up, so that I could decide whether it was worth it to travel the fifteen feet to the refrigerator for some ice water, but I had barely moved when I suddenly found myself flopping right back down, my head suddenly hurting, and what sounded like an small explosion above me. It was then that I realized I was underneath the coffee table, and trying to sit up got me nothing but a sharp blow to the head. As I lay cradling my head and admiring the solid oak construction of the table above me, I suddenly had a vision of myself arguing with the sock on my hand about the questionable right of Republicans to call themselves human, and forming a strategic alliance with it to browbeat Jay's roommate into admitting that every GOP President from Nixon on was either evil, a fool, or a lunatic (except for Reagan, who was all three). Ug. It's an evil morning that brings memories of oneself having to beg a sock puppet for help in making a logical argument. I'm also pretty sure that I threatened to eat a girl's soul if she used the term 'bleeding-heart liberal' one more time. 'Didn't Jesus raise you right?' I asked, thinking that was the most clever thing I'd said all night.
I pride myself on never having blacked out from drink, and last night was no exception. However, some memories are a tad hazier than others; two thirty on is kind of an impressionistic blur. I remember having a long discussion with a bartender about how there was no way in hell I had ordered this martini because I have an incredible aversion to gin. In the end, it turned out that one of the girls we were out with had bought it for me. Being the polite sort, I had to drink it, but I was afraid, because she kept giving me funny looks for the rest of the evening. She wasn't a bad sort, but she had the sulfurous reek of psycho band girl about her, which I have learned to recognize and avoid.
Of being violated on the dance floor by a smug girl who looked like Serena Altschul. 'I don't care how hot you are, that is not yours and I want it back!' was probably one of the stranger things the DJ heard yelled that night. Couldn't be helped; it was the first thing that came to mind.
Of declaring myself a sovereign and independent state and if that dirty German son of a bitch got me killed because he thought he could drive that tank of a jeep drunk, my people would declare eternal blood feud and wouldn't rest until all of his kin were dragged out into the street and shot like dogs.
Of grinding in the hall of Jay's building to no music with the nice lesbian couple that lives next door to him. Cute in a punky kind of way, they were coming in at the same time we were, and were nearly as drunk. Wishing they would get their hands off my goddamn hair - it's hard enough to keep it in order without strangers pawing it just because it's curly. Ah, the joys of living in Boys Town.
Hmm. Grim memories to contemplate while sipping ice water and trying to decide which of the three ruffians sleeping on the couch to blame if the police suddenly break in and start asking uncomfortable questions about the three ounces of weed sitting on the table next to the hookah. Three ounces is enough to put your ass in Statesville, and it is said that ugly things happen to pretty people in there. Maybe I'll just pin it all on the naked girl in the next room. "After all, officer, she doesn't have the sense to even pull up the sheet when she sleeps in the nude. Stupid, stupid, stupid. These men in here with me are animals, and it is only through the miracle combination of marijuana, frozen pizza, and pay-per-view porn that she was saved from a cheap and degrading fate. Given that, it's easy to see why she would be hauling around such large quantities of the stuff. I myself have always preferred to just say no. What? Oh, certainly! I'll gladly take a drug test! Of course, you have to understand that, because I didn't want to drive home drunk, I had to stay here, and they were all smoking that devil weed despite my pleas to stop, so, naturally, I'll probably test positive. From the second-hand smoke, of course. Um? you know, I'd really love to stay and discuss it but I promised my mother (who contributes annually to the Fraternal Order of Police's charity ball, and the Police Officer's Widow's fund) that I would be home two hours ago, and she worries terribly, so I really must be off..."
Ah, strange days, behind and ahead of us. I'm going to lay down now, because I hurt, inside my head and out. I'm not drinking ever again, at least not 'till next week. I am making that promise to myself, and I intend to keep it; after all, the line must be drawn somewhere, and it is important to build and maintain trust with oneself, otherwise you become one of those people.
"Time is running out and my patience grows thin. I think that up to this point I have done a remarkable job of being kind and pleasant to you, but my willingness to tolerate small strawberry blonde girls and their irresponsible whining is dwindling.It is perhaps necessary to point out that the recipients of these emails were very good friends, quite used to this kind of shit from me. I would never be so stupid as to actually threaten someone via email. I mean, shit, those things can be traced.
I am a good man, Jill, but don't fuck with me or I'll break your legs. I've done worse.
You only think you know me. Where was I and what was I doing for the eighteen years before I met you, eh? Ever thought about that one? It never occurred to you that I might have been mixed up in some wicked and devious shit, the kind of stuff that they make Joe Pesci movies about. No, I haven't a drop of Italian blood in me, but since when are the Italians the best at running criminal organizations? It seems to me that those sloppy bastards are the worst, because they got caught. Besides, that kind of thing only happens in the movies. The real criminal element, the people you don't hear about in the news, the sons of bitches who are selling massive quantities of low grade coke out of their apartments to high school kids, are the ones who know what they're talking about. No silly Hollywood bullshit for them, uh uh. Out there on the fringes you have to know your shit or you are dead, dead, dead. People like that don't go to jail; they are killed in "shootouts" or "standoffs" with police, and nobody ever thinks too hard about the fact that their guns are not always clutched in their dominant hand.
These people, they are the real experts, not some tweed-wearing ex-beatnik who thinks that just because his name is followed by a phD he knows all about the lower elements of society, even though he has never fired a gun and wouldn't know coke if it were injected into his aorta. They are the real thing, these boys, and they say that the real power, underneath the ugliness of street punks who rob and steal and murder, are the Lithuanians. Yes, the goddamn Lithuanians, come to haunt us again in our time of plenty. And no, even they aren't sure whether their country still exists. They don't even care.
And why should they? They are making money hand over fist in this place. This, sweetheart, is the land of opportunity, and they have seized that concept by the balls and squeezed.
These are smart and violent men with an unclear concept of personal hygiene, and I worked for them for a period of three years. The first, I spent as an errand boy, the second as muscle for a small time loan shark, and the third as a bounty hunter, taking the beaten bodies of rival gang members to the local police station and claiming whatever reward they had out on them. It sounds harsh, I know, but inter-organizational squealing is an old friend to such types. Besides, they were stupid for getting caught. Fuck ?em. They deserve what they get.
I, on the other hand, never got caught. What I did get was lots and lots of experience playing a brand of hardball you will never even know exists. I know a place on your leg where a slight touch with one finger will split your femur into three pieces of approximately equal length, and let me tell you, people with their leg broken in three walk awful funny for an awful long time. Not the best way to meet people on a new campus.
So. Please. I'm begging you. Don't make me hurt you. Respond to my emails, quickly. I am willing to be reasonable, but there's a line. Time's running out. Save yourself. Do it now.
To sum up, once again: VVH is not dead, it is undergoing various changes, and I will be updating again soon. Gracias to those of you who still bother to show up; your faith in me, while inexplicable and almost assuredly misplaced, is not unappreciated. A good day to you all.