Joel F

Corn Logs

At Christmas Eve dinner my Grandpa Smoke told me I had an admirer. He had showed one of his granddaughters pictures of me and said she wanted to meet me. My biological grandfather died before I was born and my grandma married Smoke years later. His granddaughter told him it was hard to find nice guys and that she might want to hang out with me. I did my best to ignore the conversation this sparked between my family members and focused on my delicious bottle of Red Stripe. My sister said "you can't go out if you have the same grandpa." Maybe I should get a girlfriend so my grandparents won't try to hook me up with people in my family tree. They probably deserve to see me at least pretend there is a woman in my life who makes me happy.

I'm finally posting the story I worked on the last month of this semester. It's called Masturbate . The second half was written in about a day and is still in a very early phase so it sucks ass compared to the rest of it, but this is the version I turned in as the final piece for my fiction class. I don't really want to post this on here, because it will almost certainly make anyone who reads it think less of me, but I feel I have to as part of my whole unfiltered honesty blogstyle. It's a story of sexual adventure and fifty percent of it is based off of my own life. I basically played mad libs with the names of the characters - which means I haven't figured out how to link a character with a name in a significant creative way.

A lot of reading is done this time of year as people are stuck at home with their families. Friends are either on vacation or similarly imprisoned indoors. Reading this could help you kill a good twenty minutes while you are serving time.

Check out the gift my dad bought himself:

RHCP are going to beat out JT at the Grammy’s for album of the year. You pretty much gotta do the double disc thing these days.

Protect my Wandy

This morning I had another dream where I trip over my legs, land hard on my mouth, and chip my two front teeth. Fucking up my teeth is perhaps my greatest fear. When I shatter my chompers in the dream I tell myself I'm actually sleeping and still have the same orthodonticly arranged smile. The misery of disfiguration, the snaggly result of my face's transformation, overwhelms my ability to know better and throws me into an identity crisis.

I have horrible memories of teeth being cracked on the blacktop of Swanson Elementary School. My friend and I were making fun of hop-scotch by jumping through the squares like wild idiots. He got a little out of control and fell on his face after he landed in the last square. He screamed like a wet girl and laid face down on the asphalt with both hands over his mouth. I thought he was trying to be hilarious. I walked over to him and spotted a sizable shard of one of his canines lying on the ground. I picked up the plaquey slime pebble and dropped it in one of his hands.

On another day, Mike Yesterday had just become a fifth grade brace face. He got caught up in an intense game of kickball and got beamed in the side of his mouth. One of his brackets busted through the skin just above his lip. It was goddamn freaky. Like a hooked human.

So, yea, messing with teeth freaks me out. You would think my mouth had once lived like a caged animal or something, aka braces.

I'm driving home on Tuesday and Wednesday. Now I must attend to another round of brandy shits. When they drop in the water it fizzes like opening a two liter bottle of Coke.

From Chaos

Finals week has hit hard. As a result I have been struggling for survival now that the mighty current of WT posts has subsided. This site, a few different email accounts, and Facebook are my primary life sources. I call upon them, read, refresh, comment, refresh, and linger for new material. Nothing makes a robot sadder than completing a refresh command only to find an absence of updates.

It is the time of year where everyone is scattering to prepare for finals while I'm busy stumbling into stoner sessions and stranding myself in my own madness. Madness, for me, is like studying. It's my time to absorb and analyze, so when the time comes, I can write life.

This semester's life subject was going to be Facebook, but now has come together as a first person fiction story - a fifty percent factual account of my personal history of porn usage, as well as an examination of the emerging field of cyberdildonics. The final draft isn't going to be as raunchy of most of the stuff I've been writing this semester, it will be more heart breaking. Chris Kaiser and Eric Kazaki both make appearances.

A few weeks ago I told Rob I didn't understand how someone comes to the point where they decide to say to someone "okay, I want you to be my girlfriend." The idea of picking the right person doesn't bother me; I'm more curious about the idea of choosing to lock yourself into that kind of relationship, where you can only move so far to the left or right. I think the reason people do this is so they don't have to be alone with all of their most personal thoughts. But everyone knows the real reason people do this is to update their Facebook status.

This Morning's Shit

I just took my first shit of this hangover Wednesday morning. Tuesday night is cheap pitcher night for Emory nerds. My poop had the slimy consistency you would expect of beer shits. Sometimes after I have finished the first phase of wiping my ass my cat attacks the poopy tissue in my hands and knocks it on the floor. This wouldn't be a problem for the crazies out there who wipe while sitting down. Though I am a big believer in using as much of each tp square I can, I usually wipe then fold what I have left in half and wipe again, then check one more time to see if there is room for another fold and wipe, when the tissue hits the floor, even if it has only picked up one wipe's worth of shit, I tell myself "if you mess with this you are going to end up with poopy fingers," so I pick up a clean corner and flush it. Here, once again, the cat interferes. Putting dirty toilet paper in the toilet has turned into a competitive game of basketball. The tp is the ball, the shit hole is the hoop, and my cat is a speedy defender, completely capable of denying a score. Moxie is too good at this game, actually, so I cheat a lot by picking him up and moving him aside. After I take the first shit of the morning, a bigger broader shit breaks free and budges its way down the asshole tunnel, and usually arrives within the hour. If I played badly in my first game of dirty tp toilet bball and left a lot of shit smudges on my bathroom floor then I have another chance to prove to myself that I can take a shit without making a mess.

While I was doing the actual shitting I thought about the fact that this semester has come to an end. Next semester some of my best friends will be going abroad and this place will change once again. I also thought about New Years. Last year I nailed my first ever midnight kiss. I can't have any idea where I'll be on December 31st this year or who I will be with. Some people already know that stuff. Is it sadder to know or to not know, or does it make a difference. Is knowing safer than not knowing, but therefore less spontaneous likely not as exciting? No, knowing doesn't matter. All that matters is the ability to score when scoring is a must. Otherwise all you are left with is shit.

What Up December

For those who haven't noticed Taylor Townsend has gotten pretty hot. I think she had a nose job and maybe some other stuff fixed because her face seems to have pretty perfect features. In this weeks episode of the OC she does a million different things to get Ryan to bone her. I would be way turned on if someone tried that hard to get with me. Like actually came to my apartment and woke me up in the morning with a lovely smelling cup of coffee. I think maybe that's how I ended up with a cat. But I didn't score with that skeeze. She was a fan, which was good until she busted out her collection of massive zodiac books and lectured me about how we were connected. Something about that told me it was time to run. But damnit, if I didn't think chicks were completely psycho I would get a lot more ass.

I'm trying to deal with the fact that chicks aren't going to get any less psycho. My original strategy was to find the most psycho chick possible and see if I could handle the situation. An experience like this would surely be great training for the future. So I tried to get my teacher from last year to hang out with me. She's 32 so it was kind of a crazy challenge. But it worked, sort of, once. We went to a museum and had coffee and talked about art. We also talked about therapy and family members dying. Then she told me about how she had a date the next night with a chick, who she invited over for scotch at 7:30. At the end of the museum date I mustered up the courage to give her a hug. It made her really happy, and she said we should come back the next week. Now, after she has postponed hanging out with me for about a week, twice in a row, I think that the crazy connection is coughing and wheezing so I think I have to put a lid on it until she makes some kind of effort, which I'm not really expecting. But she is the one who told me "lets build shields." I think what I have learned from this is that in maybe 2 or 3 years time I will have no problem scoring with 30 year old women.

I spent the few weeks before Thanksgiving beefing up my all-star porn collection, but have recently stopped watching those awesome videos because they mess with my game. They put me on a level that is way too animal. The tricks that work in porn don't work in real life. Plus, when you beat off all the time you aren't even thinking about wanting to bang chicks, but wanting to beat off. And according to energy theory, masturbating is more likely to drain you mentally and physically than playing with a friend because you can use their warmness to reach spurtation instead of doing all of the work by yourself.

I've been listening to a shit load of Incubus and 311 lately. I'm drawn to Incubus' song Here In My Room. The lyrics are really cheesy, but I watched it on the band's Red Rocks DVD over break, and was mega ripped, so the performance has stuck with me. The singing is pretty good and there is a fucking crazy guitar solo in the middle.

Huskers tonight. Gotta do it. Gotta run.