Nothing to say.

I've been staring at this goddamn screen for over an hour trying to figure out something to write and I have come up with nothing (keep reading). I was going to share a bunch of screenshots of notes I have on my phone but then I realized I didn't want to explain why I use the word "faggot" so many times in them. (They're ideas for jokes. Not really jokes about "faggots" but for some stupidass reason I thought they sounded funnier when they had the word "faggot" in them. Yes, I need to use the word "faggot" to get cheap laughs. No, the jokes aren't any good. No, I don't dislike guys that like guys and girls that like girls. Why am I explaining myself to you? Are you really offended? I was going to call you a "faggot" but I decided not to.)

Writing jokes is really hard. I tend to come up with the same ideas over and over again and it gets boring. I'm sure you've noticed. I'm short. I have a pathetic penis. I can't figure out why girls don't like me. (If I took the first two self-degrading comments I made seriously, I would have probably figured it out by now). White people are corny. I hate everyone. I hate myself. Boohoo. Blah blah blah. Nobody cares.

I actually hate people that say they hate people. Because I'm arrogant enough to think: "You have no idea." What a fucking idiot I am. And what a lame ass thing to think. "I hate more people than you!" I wonder how many people hate me on first sight. Who am I kidding? Nobody gives any fucks about me. And that's not a self-loathing, head-in-my-hands comment. It's a fact. Why would you people care? How arrogant am I, to think people actually have an opinion of me when they see me?

Today one of my dogs threw up in the elevator.

It smelled like diarrhea.

Fun.

I'm Tired Of It.

Don't think I don't notice how much I talk about myself. Whether it's preaching about dreams or sharing my tale of asking a girl out through Facebook, I'm completely aware of how pathetically self-absorbed I am. Sometimes I read through my tweets and sigh at all the I's I come across. And most of them are self-deprecating. If I think I'm so goddamn terrible then why do I keep thinking about myself and sharing my pathetic personal experiences with you people? I guess it's because I have nothing else to talk about.

What is the opposite of a God complex? I think I have that.

So let's stop wasting time and let's talk about me.

Over the weekend I spent a lot of time thinking about how much easier it would be to be good-looking. And don't think I'm sitting here with my head in my hands feeling sorry for myself because of my pathetic penis and my height (that was yesterday). I mean, life is actually easier for people who are good-looking.

Good-looking person's schedule:

• 12pm: Wake up. (Waking up in the AM is for ugly people that have to have jobs to get money.)
• 12:01pm-Whenever the party ends. (Get treated like royalty, people go out of their way to help you, laugh at your jokes even when you haven't told one, and give you free desserts, toys, money, and blowjobs.)

The rest of us have to work really hard at our jobs to get ahead and be taken seriously. When we're done with our miserable jobs, where we spend all day bending over backwards for the lookers, we go home every night and self-improve. We have to take piano lessons, or we have to plan trips so we can backpack across a foreign land, or we have to read books, or we have to try to learn a new language, or we have to learn how to cook well. If we're not doing that, then we spend our time catering to good-looking people just so we can be around them and torture ourselves with aspirations of having their amazing lives. It never ends. And although many of these things can be enriching and a great deal of fun, they take up so much goddamn time.

Yes, that is what I am concerned about.

I'm not depressed about not being good-looking because I give a shit about my looks, but because I'm fucking lazy. I would like to come home and not do shit. Why can't I come home and sit in front of the TV and watch Seinfeld reruns? Why can't I just not own books? Why can't I just sit back and listen to a conversation at a dinner party and still come out on top, instead of constantly having to ask questions I don't really care to know the answers to? Why do I have to balance what I say to make sure I sound interesting but not sound like a Know-It-All? Why can't I have 0 hobbies and interests but know there is a pretty gosh darn good blowjob waiting for me just around the corner? Why do I have to do anything? Why is being not good-looking so much goddamn work? 

I met this lady at the dog park a few weeks ago. Over several different conversations on several different days I became more and more attracted to her. I think it's because she is incredible looking and she is completely weird. Those seem to be the two things I really care about. Is that shallow? See, since I'm not good-looking I have to worry about petty shit like sounding shallow. Anyways, after a few very different conversations, I found myself wondering what my life would be like with a woman like her. Then I realized I didn't really know much about her. So I had to ask a ton of questions. And eventually made it a point ask her her name. She told me. I went home and Googled her name and two other tidbits of information she shared with me in previous conversations, where she went to college and what she did for a living.

My creepy search formula = Name + College + Job

And let me point out, it was only her first name. Google is amazing. The second link was her. It was a Wikipedia article. I decided to not read it because I didn't want to ruin the fantasy. So I just looked at her picture (yep). Would we get along? Where would we go on vacations? Would the weirdness get annoying? Would I ever even have a chance with a woman that looked like her? Would it be different if I was good-looking (which is one (of two) of the real reasons I'm writing this)? And then I realized I was wasting my time because I was ignoring the most important question: Does she have a boyfriend? So I read her Wikipedia page (which was obviously written by her) and I got my answer. She does. And he's in a famous band.

Look at that. Really look at it. Being good-looking in this case probably wouldn't have changed the outcome of this. But since I'm not good-looking I have to constantly look for ways to distract myself from my terribly mediocre life. I had to make sure to get to that specific dog park at a certain time, I had to approach her in a way that wasn't overwhelming, I had to say pleasant things about her dog, I had to give an overly dramatic story about the rescued dog I was walking, I had to figure out what she did for a living, I had to ask her how she got into that, I had to ask her about her background, I had to figure out her name, I had to ask the right questions, I had to pay attention to her answers, on and on and on. I had to create and dwell on this entire fantasy that I constructed over weeks. WEEKS! 

Then I did what needed to be done. I clicked on a picture of her boyfriend and realized he wasn't really all that good-looking. He was just good at the guitar and touring with a famous band. She was the one getting away with being good-looking. She was skating by in our conversations because she didn't need to fill her good-looking head with ridiculous plots and fantasies. She had it easy, but what did that have to do with me?

I'm tired from all of the fantasizing about this and that. I'm tired of thinking myself in circles. So I guess I'm right where I started. Exhausted. Exhausted from wasting so much mental energy on wondering what it would be like to be good-looking.

I'm lazy, but I have so much self-improvement left to do. Maybe I'll start with some guitar lessons.

Dopplegangster: Zhang Zhen Yue

Everyone in China is laughing at me.

Genuinely Offended.

Apparently there are a lot of things in this world to be "genuinely offended" by. I hear it all the time. "I am genuinely offended that everyone on the cast of Jersey Shore isn't really Italian." "I am genuinely offended they only have the McRib several weeks out of the year." "I am genuinely offended there aren't any brown people in Girls." "I am genuinely offended by everything RiFF RAFF." "I am genuinely offended by rape jokes." "I am genuinely offended my dad didn't play catch with me as much as my neighbor's dad did." I'm not offended by that. My dad bothered the shit out of me all the time about playing catch.

Bill Clinton shows that sunglasses are a must.

There are a lot of things I do not like about people. The way they look. The talking. The breathing. The LOL'ing. The taking themselves too serious. The Puerto Ricans. But the thing that I do not like the most is hearing someone talk about how "offended" they are by something. This isn't me trying to be offensive. I don't think anybody thinks anything I do is offensive because I'm not arrogant enough to think anybody thinks about me. And that's great. No, seriously. I'm not offended. I don't think about any of you (specifically) either.

If you are over the age of 10 and you are genuinely offended by something, you are most likely wrong and an asshole. There is no other way to put it. Are people genuinely offended by global warming, income inequality, women trafficking, or the fact that the bars and restaurants in Manhattan are full of 25 year-olds at 2pm on Tuesdays? Don't you fucking people have jobs? I guess some people are genuinely offended about those things, but not nearly enough. More people spend their time sighing and scoffing at Miley Cyrus' latest haircut, Army generals' affairs, or the way the guy sitting across from them was a little too obvious when taking a picture. Get over the picture creepshow, in 20 years you'll be flattered by a guy like him not-so subtly taking your picture. (This time it won't be me. I won't be alive in 20 years.)

It's true. We are a nation of fat crybabies. "But Rush Limbaugh said all those racist, sexist, faggy comments about the Jews and the blacks!" Oh. Fucking. Well. And it's not just Americans. It's everyone. Open up your newspaper and you'll see millions of people around the world being "genuinely offended." It's the Arabs' fault. No! It's the Jews' fault. Well maybe it's the terrorists' fault. Nah, it's the Chinese communists' fault. It's religion's fault. It's atheists' fault. Blame Canada! I don't know, I'm pretty sure it's rich people's fault! Everybody is killing everybody over some shit they're offended by. It's your fault for being offended.

Don't be offended if I wear this shirt while I masturbate to my most awesome Tweets.

I'm not saying that you shouldn't be offended by anything. If someone killed my wife and bragged about it when they were on trial, I would probably be genuinely offended.

And you should be offended that I just constructed a hypothetical that consists of a woman that is married to me. Sorry. I meant no offense.

Be more selective of what you're offended by. Leave the rest alone.

Fiona Apple and her dog.

Here's a nice break from all things insecure. I thought this was pretty.

It's 6pm on Friday,and I'm writing to a few thousand friends I have not met yet.
I am writing to ask them to change our plans and meet a little while later.
Here's the thing.
I have a dog Janet, and she's been ill for almost two years now, as a tumor has been idling in her chest, growing ever so slowly. She's almost 14 years old now.I got her when she was 4 months old. I was 21 then ,an adult offi

cially - and she was my child.

She is a pitbull, and was found in Echo Park, with a rope around her neck, and bites all over her ears and face.

She was the one the dogfighters use to puff up the confidence of the contenders.

She's almost 14 and I've never seen her start a fight ,or bite, or even growl, so I can understand why they chose her for that awful role. She's a pacifist.

Janet has been the most consistent relationship of my adult life, and that is just a fact.

We've lived in numerous houses, and jumped a few make shift families, but it's always really been the two of us.

She slept in bed with me, her head on the pillow, and she accepted my hysterical, tearful face into her chest, with her paws around me, every time I was heartbroken, or spirit-broken, or just lost, and as years went by, she let me take the role of her child, as I fell asleep, with her chin resting above my head.

She was under the piano when I wrote songs, barked any time I tried to record anything, and she was in the studio with me all the time we recorded the last album.

The last time I came back from tour, she was spry as ever, and she's used to me being gone for a few weeks every 6 or 7 years.

She has Addison's Disease, which makes it dangerous for her to travel since she needs regular injections of Cortisol, because she reacts to stress and to excitement without the physiological tools which keep most of us from literally panicking to death.

Despite all of this, she’s effortlessly joyful and playful, and only stopped acting like a puppy about 3 years ago.

She's my best friend and my mother and my daughter, my benefactor, and she's the one who taught me what love is.

I can't come to South America. Not now.

When I got back from the last leg of the US tour, there was a big, big difference.

She doesn't even want to go for walks anymore.

I know that she's not sad about aging or dying. Animals have a survival instinct, but a sense of mortality and vanity, they do not. That’s why they are so much more present than people.

But I know that she is coming close to point where she will stop being a dog, and instead, be part of everything. She’ll be in the wind, and in the soil, and the snow, and in me, wherever I go.

I just can't leave her now, please understand.

If I go away again, I’m afraid she'll die and I won't have the honor of singing her to sleep, of escorting her out.

Sometimes it takes me 20 minutes to pick which socks to wear to bed.

But this decision is instant.

These are the choices we make, which define us.

I will not be the woman who puts her career ahead of love and friendship.

I am the woman who stays home and bakes Tilapia for my dearest, oldest friend.

And helps her be comfortable, and comforted, and safe, and important.

Many of us these days, we dread the death of a loved one. It is the ugly truth of Life, that keeps us feeling terrified and alone.

I wish we could also appreciate the time that lies right beside the end of time.

I know that I will feel the most overwhelming knowledge of her, and of her life and of my love for her, in the last moments.

I need to do my damnedest to be there for that.

Because it will be the most beautiful, the most intense, the most enriching experience of life I've ever known.

When she dies.

So I am staying home, and I am listening to her snore and wheeze, and reveling in the swampiest, most awful breath that ever emanated from an angel.

And I am asking for your blessing.

I'll be seeing you.

Love, Fiona

Back to me writing about my penis tomorrow.

Dreams Not From My Father.

If my child ever says his dream is to be a businessman I'm going to punch him, his mother, and his father directly in the dicks. When I caddied I often worked with kids 10 years younger than me. Sometimes I would ask them, "What do you want to be when you're an adult? What are your dreams?" And the most popular answer was, "Uh, I don't know, some sort of businessman...why are you still caddying at the age of 25?" Prickheads.

I dreamed of being Michael Jordan. I shaved my head. I stuck my tongue out. I worked on my jumpshot. I worked on my vertical. I became a mysognist (because if you're going to commit to something you have to be All In). And then I realized I was kidding myself. A chubby gookish looking dickhead kid couldn't be Michael Jordan. I was predisposed to breakdancing, giggling, maybe being a lady-boy, rooting for Manny Pacquiao, and hanging out exclusively with people with pug noses and bad haircuts. (Thankfully, only one of those things became a reality.) So then I dreamed of being an architect, but was talked out of it by an old rich country club lady. "Architects don't make any money." Really? Neither do substiute teachers for children with autism, caterers, census takers, comedy club workers, sales associates at Macy's or Uniqlo, etc. Then I wanted to be an artist but soon read about this guy. No thanks. And after all this, now, I dream to be David Beckham's penis.

So in order for my dream to become a reality a huge number of things would have to fall my way, including David Beckham's actual penis.

1. Beckham would, for some reason, need a new penis. So that means it would have to either be chopped off (that's so 90's), fall off (I don't think the saying grandmothers tell their grandsons, "If ya keep playin' with it, it's going to fall off!" is actually true. Believe me, I've played), or maybe sucked off (actually the most realisitc of the three, he's David fucking Beckham). And not only would it have to be removed from his body, it'd have to be kicked under a car and unusable. It's not like the girl who just sucked it off after receiving her gift from the Make-A-Wish foundation would be able to get it bronzed and hung over the fireplace. He'd surely ask for it back and have it sewed back on. (I just want to point out that if the girl actually had it bronzed and hung over the fireplace...and then died...that would be a crazy memento for the rest of the family to remember her by. Just saying.) He wouldn't just look around the crowd and pick the first balding 27 year-old he sees. "He'll do."
2. The gun from Honey I Shrunk the Kids would have to be involved. You couldn't sew a 5'6" human onto a ballsack and call it a penis (actually, I think I just defined the term "frat brother"). And more difficult, the actor who knew how to use the Honey I Shrunk The Kids gun would have to be found and convinced to take this role on. And when's the last time you saw that guy?
3. He would have to agree for me to let me keep the glasses. I want to see what/who I'm getting myself into. That's the whole point.

I have a ways to go.

Kids dreaming of being businessmen. Where have we gone wrong? Businessmen sit around and think of really boring (oftentimes evil) shit and sometimes ruin people's lives and spend long days at the office and end up hating their families and turn towards prositutes for advice. Out of all of the things in the world you could do, how is being a businessman your dream? Is it the money? Then isn't your actual dream to be rich? Shouldn't you be dreaming to win the lottery. I'm cutting it down even more. The only reason I'd want to have a lot of money is to be able to have sex with the women David Beckham surely has sex with. Why not cut out all those dates/bribes? Why not just attach myself to the source itself?

Dreams change as you get older. And for men, it almost always turns sexual. I've yet to meet a 45 year-old that is dreaming to change the world, unless changing the world involves getting those twins from that Hooters calendar into your bedroom for some creepshow goodness. It's why we're miserable as adults. It's not that we haven't achieved our dreams. It's that our dreams have changed into something pathetic and boring. And the real tragedy is that dreams are dying at a younger age. Dreaming to be a businessman isn't a dream. It's a travesty. So instead of telling your kids to dream big, start telling them that a dream can be anything. Look at me. I'm still dreaming.

Actually, if your dream is to be someone's small Asian penis, just forget it. Go back to school and take some business administration classes. Dreams are all in your head.

I just spent my entire Saturday evening making this. I do it for all of you.

Boy Friends.

How did I get all these boy friends? When I survey my frienship landscape, I often wonder how so many boys got all the front row seats to my unexceptional life. If you've read more than 4 sentences anywhere on this blog, you know that I firmly believe women really don't like me. (You know that, and you also know that I'm short, love D-Rose, and think my penis is "The Great American Tragedy", for many reasons.) Somehow I focused all of this female rejection into an unbelievable exuberance of boy-charm that's left my circle of friends looking a lot like an MDNA concert, if an MDNA concert was held in West Virginia.

I don't know what it is. I guess I just understand boys.

The other night, my brother and cousin were in town and we ended our evening of drinking at The Meatball Shop. One of my favorite places to eat meatballs, and (what I just recently realized) talk to boys. The seating situation is a lot like a dressed up high school cafeteria with less fat lunch ladies, better meatballs, and an equal amount of attractive ladies that won't give me the time of day, then or now. When we took our seats, we were squeezed in between respectable white people that blended into the background. They told the usual stories of "work" and "dinner parties" and "brunch" and "wedding season" and all sorts of other topics of conversation I never want to be a part of but love making fun of. As the 3 of us discussed our multi-billion dollar idea of a Chicago food truck for the 40th time of the evening, a few seats next to us opened up and a group of nice looking brown people sat down besides us. As they sat down, one of them made his way to the bathroom. Now I'm pretty sure it was a coincidence that I had to go to the bathroom too, but after thinking about this and looking at the evidence, it could have been the boy-charm spreading its wings and looking for its next victim/friend. As we waited in line together we formed an instant bond. Since I was too drunk, but really not that drunk, to remember exactly how the conversation started, I'll just say that we locked eyes and instantly knew each other. I actually think I asked him how he knew the girl and the good-looking clean-cut guy he was sitting with. Translation: "Why are you hanging out with those pretty people? You're a little brown guy like me. Shouldn't you be off crying and/or masturbating in a corner all by yourself somewhere?" The girl was his girlfriend. The guy was her brother. So for the next few minutes we came up with some unbelievable story about how we knew each other so when we got back from peeing (at separate times) we could play pretend and confuse the shit out of everyone. Then we realized everyone noticed our bathroom line conversation and our little brown guy tag team story was squashed. Oh well. As we took our seats, I talked some shit and we had a pleasant time. All the while thinking: How did this dude get himself one of those things I only see in magazines, and on the bus, and walking around, and everywhere else in NYC? A pretty girl. (I was really thinking "Who is going to call him Aziz first?" Winner: Zack.)

I have very few girl friends. You knew that. Most guys keep girls they want to have sex with around and call them "friends" but are really just waiting for these "friend" bitches to dump the asshole boyfriend or slip on a banana peel, right onto a penis, preferably one attached to their own ballbag. I can't even do that. Girls with boyfriends don't even want to be my friend, probably because they can see it in my eyes. "It" being molestation, duh.  Instead girls tap me on the shoulder and say, "Excuse me!" not as if they are going to say something in excitement, but to tell me to get out of the goddamn way. And I do. I get out of the way and go cry and masturbate in the corner somewhere. Anywhere.

But this doesn't happen with boys. When I'm talking to a new boy, I'm engaged, I'm spontaneous, I'm funny, I'm...myself. So when I was talking to this little brown boy in the bathroom line at The Meatball Shop, I was comfortable, confident. And what do they say in GQ and other magazines that really don't offer any insight into a better life because everyone giving advice in their pages is some combination of rich and good-looking, what do they say? They say, "BE CONFIDENT!" And I was. As we were wrapping up a nice conversation and some good ol' shit talking, the conversation slowed and the night came to a satisfied end. But as we were leaving, I ripped off a piece of napkin and wrote the 10-digits I usually save for the beautiful imaginary girl in my dreams, my motherfuckin' phone number.

When I woke up the following day, I laughed, then I grew anxious. Did he think I was gay? Was it too much to give my phone number? Is he going to call? Did I ruin what could have been? No. I was being silly. How could it have turned into something if I didn't make an attempt to hold onto those moments? Was I expected to broaden my Craigslist missed connections search from "w4m" to "m4m"? It was too much to think about. But I thought. A lot. And then the text message came a day later.

Even as a cigarette, I only talk to boys.

It's been over a week since we exchanged text messages. I actually texted him last Friday to see if he had any plans I could tag along to so I could stare at his girlfriend. Not 100% in a creepy way (not 0% either) but more in a, "How the fuck did you accomplish this? TEACH ME YOUR WAYS!"-way. I never got a reply and then I broke my phone. 

I don't know what I want out of all of this. Maybe that's a part of the problem. I also don't know what to learn from all of this. That's another part of the problem. But I recognize these things, and I think that that in itself is important. I'm aware that I'm amazing at talking to boys. Am I supposed to be dating boys? No thank you. Girls taste better. I'm sure of it. Maybe I should just accept this as a gift. Nah. I'm not ready for that. Not yet. For now I'm just ready for my phone to be fixed. 

To see if that little brown boy called.