Girlfriend is working for me, just jacked off, clear head and completely disgusted with myself, and listening to marc maron interview stephen karam

I am not sure if I will still listen to wtf while I write this, I am not even sure what I want to write about.  I feel neutral in mood and disgusted in self. After watching some live cams and having to resort to a oldie but goodie to finish, I smoked a ciggie and put wtf back on.  It seems like I usually write better blogs when I have some sort of over arching or overriding feeling to steer me in a direction. 

I bought a laptop recently and returned it the next day due to it being an impulse purchase that was barely better than my 3 year old laptop I am currently writing on.  First time writing this blog not on my phone.  And I think I like writing on the phone better.  One reason is I usually do it at work and thus get paid to blog.

My therapist wants me to write daily logs of how I have been feeling, I tried doing a few in a bloggy kind of way and he wanted me to pick something bothering me or not and work it out, maybe do a rambling blog and then dissect the topics in my cognitive behavior log app/worksheet.

My ass hurts, need to call the young ass man referred to by my religious doctor with fingers like bratwurst.  I was penetrated by a Norse doctor a few months ago I think I wrote about on here, and it was the worst. 

I have stuck shit in my ass for shits and giggles, but never a foreign digit.  Had my balls cupped and coughed a few times, but that is not invasive.  Now my ass hurts and I exclusively use flushable wipes  for like 6 months.

Need new glasses, need maybe ass surgery or another rectal exam and prescription ointment that is actually covered by my insurance, and does not leave anal stains so that when I go to wrap Christ presents at my dad's house I don't have to stand the whole time to not leak ass on my dad's furniture.

Writing is hard for me to do, at least to appreciate the byproduct, and I am not happy with this blog.

I will post it for Rod Gila, might be a chuckle in there...

listening to Todd Rundgren high at work

Its almost midnight, I'm at work and tranqued out listening to Todd Rundgren.  Its considered a shitty album. His last to fulfill a long contract. He did it all by himself I think.  Solituded himself and wrote some unique music. Single from album is bang the drum. I might not even listen to that. I might put Panteras last album back on (reinventing the steel) and air drum. Work up a sweat. It calms me down.
But I accidentally dosed my self. I don't like being pilled out and i don't feel relief. I feel a deep underground river of panic and anger running deep through my veins and heart. And a dull dirty icy  crust of benzos on top slowing me down, making me artificially tired and lethargic.  Drugs i ingested are my prescription. I thought I needed to chill. So I didn't beat the shit physically out of someone, a late fifties non combat non overseas veteran who i trade out with five nights a week.

Racecar Reggie people call him.

He wears sweaty looking fingerless leather gloves he says because he's a germ nut. He has a grey mustache and the  edge of his upper lip is stained black from the shitty Pall Mall cigarettes he chain smokes. He is a nice guy and I try not to give him a reason for a nother heart attack. Smoke another bone, Reggie. I will join you.

He is the reason I am Tranquilized like a 50s house wife taking a break from vacuuming and sitting down listening to soft rock by a rich genius.  This is the only album of Rundgren  I have on my phone.

Trying to save data.

Accidentally heard bang the drum while editing this.

I do want to work and bang the drum while working and getting overtime. I like getting paid to do stuff i would usually have to pay to do, or something i don't like but if it takes up time at work, and I get paid  (to exercise for example), it's win win.

I got paid to watch one of the mormon vampire movies by taking a middle aged child molester from work. He did more activities than I did in my free time. He was developmentally disabled. 

But his molester  burrito dick wasn't.  My first few minutes on my first shift with him he made me inspect it because he said it hurt. He had been fucking between the mattress and box spring and had chafed his horse cock. Thick and fat and hard for kids. Before i got fired for taking him to house to burn some dvds for my pirate dvd business they bought him some ky. We talked about getting him a pocket pussy.  When we would go to my house for me to start the dvd burn he would look at my playboys i left lying around.  I got sick of searching his room in the group home for triggers, anything resembling kids or even animals kid like.

I figured he could put some adults in the I would say spank bank but more accurately lubed cock and mattress bank. So i let him look. I felt bad after i got fired and he told everyone i let him see the playboy's.  I even showed him an episode of cathouse on demand from HBO.

I had a lot of guilt about those things I did. But you know what? If I was locked up in a group home stuck fucking my matress, I would want some kind fellow to let me see some erotica.  Maybe not. Anyway fuck that guy. Snitches get stitches.

On their dick after fucking their matress.

The Five Hundred Dollar Five Day Blizzard; Diaper Wine (Check in)

I started doing regular therapy last July. I have been mostly weekly attending since then. In the 2015 summer I was having major panic attacks and tried to check myself in to an institution more than once, and at best i got a few hours sleep in a shitty pleather lay-z boy before gathering my wits and asking old money bags to sack out before work in an actual bed. I think I was under impression my girlfriend/landlord hated me, or maybe that night i had threatened physical harm upon her. Can't remember. There was one too many situations like this happening last summer.

Therapy has helped with the panic. I found out the pills I now have copious amounts of (enough that i mailed a half bottle to a friend who wanted one pill) have horrible side effects and lead to bad stuff in old age and any age actually. I got new pills and thought I had found a magic bullet. I was in control, I wasn't calling my girlfriend a cunt when she wasn't, and when she was I used more genteel words like bitch and piece of shit (she doesn't like the latter and I did apologize immediately. )

Don't know if I had a point in this graveyard shift ramble.  The old drug was the benzo Klonopin and the new pill is Buspirine or Buspar (In case anyone was wondering.) 

I used to snort Klonopin when i first got them under suggestion from a scuzzlord and under orders  from a social worker at the last psych ward that I avoid illegal drugs.  I snorted them first as a joke, and later after developing  a tenderness for cocaine , when the blow or the money was gone, or just for something to take the edge off. They have a minty after snort maybe like those one wipe Charley's i heard about on Doug Stanhopes podcast.

I could use some minty wipes. I think they have witchhazel. I have been forced to use baby wipes since developing frequent anal bleeding and forgetting to make sure i got a referral to my regions youngest "Dr. Assman." Not sure what hemorrhoids have to do with klonopin or wife beatery but hey this is a blog and i find it interesting.

I wrote a year ago about my love for white devil debit card hog. I was developing a jones after having a unexpected trigger to from a video game of all places.  I had three years clean and it was unexpected and I made my way to Facebook and google to find my recenty released from prison dealer/ my brother's bodyguard in grade school.

He had warrants out for his arrest I discovered and was in hiding. But I found him on Facebook and sent off a request. He never responded. But I could see his friends list, and began some sleuthing. I would google search people for arrest records and if their transgressions had anything to do with scumbaggery i would friend request them. I live in a small town and I probably had some connection to them and they would usually add me. Cut the chase found one guy and asked him for contact info for my old sleaze squeeze connect.  He said dude had ripped him off but what did I need.  Skip to i took as much money as I could out of my atm next payday and he was driving to my house. Never met the guy but we were facebook official. I had forgot to tell him my pleasure and did so after he had already left for my house. He showed up and i took him around back and he showed wated look like the consistency and opacity of a white lifesaver. Two 8 balls for the money. But 8 balls of what I had no clue. But me and my nostrils were going to find out.

What i thought would be a night of pleasure (Me my drugs and videogames while my girlfriend was at work)  turned into an ultimately hellish five day run. I slept the entire 24 hour period of my girlfriends birthday and nearly got fired.  It was not or mostly not coke. Probably some synthetic bullshit with a little bit of something. I figured it was bullshit stuff but i still copped with my last hundred dollars after a night's sleep. And that bit seemed more cokey.

That's my last time with the hard stuff. I smoked a little weed one weekend a few months later but the last 8 months no drogas (sp?).

Hope Rodney H. Gila finds this interesting.

Drugs & Me

Rock Star I am not.

Back in the day I used to drink lots of beer and smoke a fair amount of weed.  But even that’s something I’ve had to leave behind thanks to having a real job and needing to get stuff accomplished.

I frequently reminisce my drunken janitor days.  I was an anxious, depressed, narcissistic shitbird, but didn't have any real tangible problems.  I could get drunk as fuck every night and not have to worry about sleeping in or being too hungover to work because it wasn't possible for me to be too hungover to work:  I mopped floors for a living.  

Plus,  I knew  a chick who worked at a coffee stand who would make me a free 24 ounce super latte mocha seven shots coffee drink.  That always did the trick.

I would then scrub shit for a few hours and eventually sneak out with my buddies to smoke a joint and drink a few beers before finishing all the shit on my list.   I would then go to a bar or go home to do bong hits.  Life was good, I was just too self absorbed to realize it.  

I used to pop shrooms from time to time.  I knew a guy who would make them into chocolate truffles. The whole psychedelic experience is a must in my opinion, it really helps gain perspective in things. But I have nothing genuine to add to the dialogue.  

Many people with quite a bit more hallucinogenic drug experience have already written on the subject, so I'll have to defer to them.  I would probably detract from the already tired and trite genre.

Contrary to my partner in this blog--which neither of us have contributed to for over a year--I've never once insufflated a drug. 

I've never used cocaine or methamphetamine--intentionally.  Once I smoked from a hash pipe that was used to smoke crack or crank, not sure which one.  I was up until noon and it was terrible, but that doesn't count.

I used to clean a tavern for a friend.  He'd pay me by rolling fat joints and giving me free reign to the bar--basically, I could drink whatever the fuck I wanted.   He'd also offer me fat lines of blow.  I never took up his offer of party sugar, but I watched him and the other guys around huff up snowy piles of fun while I chugged beers and took out the trash.

Time after time, they'd offer me fat lines of snow and I'd always just waive my hand and watch them blast off to Mars via insufflation off the Pinball Machine.  

Needless to say, I’ve never been too much of a substance abuser.  My fellow blog mate, Kentucky Mudknuckle, has  a legendary history of imbibing powdery substances.  But I’ve always been too much of a pussy to say yes to yayo.  This is as much to my detriment as it is an advantage.  I feel like my hard drug devoid life has deprived me of interesting stories.

                                          

                            This is how awesome my life could've been had I said "Yes" to Blow.  

Never once did I board the Booger Sugar express.  Sometimes I look back and wonder how much more fun these sessions could have been had I not been such a chickenshit.  Probably wouldn't have gone out and done anything interesting, but it would feel like I did.

         There are some that believe that hard drugs are a necessary rite of passage for American Youth.

My only experience with pharmaceutical opiates was this one time a buddy of mine shared a bottle of vicodin with me.  We washed it down with a big plastic jug of Seagrams 7.  We got fucked up as hell at my place, spinning records and somehow ended up at his apartment playing Connect 4 for hours and hours. 

The only thing I remember is waiting until 7 AM to roll around so we could stumble into the Plaid Pantry and buy 40's.  We stayed up until eleven o c'lock or so, continuing our Connect 4 tournament.  

                              This is what I think of when someone says the word "Hydrocodone."

I don't remember coming home, but I remember waking up in my bed 17 hours later.  My head was spinning like a blender.  I urinated in the bath tub, stumbled back into bed and slept for another 12 hours.  I was on staycation.  I had taken a few days off, so I had the luxury of not needing to know what day it was, at least for a while.  I was bed ridden for two days.  

Lucky for me, pills are not my friend. 

Years ago, I knew a Mexican guy who lived in half finished house and drove a banged up Saab.  We were going to start up a business together but not surprisingly, it fell through.  

This guy had a lot of great weed connections, mostly growers, but a few times, we picked up extra goodies from additional sources.

One time we got Ketamine from some girl he was banging at a veterinary clinic, and it was fantastic.

It was as if I was watching my self on grainy security camera with a purple tinted lens.  Was a pretty cool experience.  We went into his house and he put on a Richard Simmons exercise record and put it on slow motion.  It faded out pretty quick and I was left drowsy as fuck.  

We also once bought a sack of raw opium.  It was okay, I guess, tasted like dirt and made me tired.    He then tried to convince me to help him put up drywall in the "living room" while I was sitting there with half ton eyelids. 

We never did either drug again, and anyhow, he ended up going to jail for stabbing someone so it's not as if this is an avenue I could go down again.

The only other club drug I used was MDMA, and that was only once.  I was very young, gullible, cuckable.  I ended up making my girlfriend at the time cry by implying that she was getting fat.  

The biggest mistake of that part of my life I made wasn't telling her this, it was saying sorry afterwards.

It's kind of funny, because as I'm writing this, I realize that it's been forever since I last got high or gotten drunk.  I then realize that I stopped both habits right when I last posted to this blog or posted to anything for that matter.  Funny how that works out.  

Maybe I should do more drugs so I can get back to actually getting stuff accomplished on the internet rather than real life.

If I had the ambition, I would start up a side job travelling from high school to high school teaching kids about the dangers of abstaining from hard drugs, how staying away from bad decisions will make you a boring adult, how  the phrase "I have no regrets" only really has meaning if you've made a ton of stupid mistakes. 

But that's the sort of thing that only former hard drug users have the motivation for.

Joaquin "El Chapo" Guzman Loera Escapes From Prison via Tunnel

...and we have actual footage of the event.

That's right, actual photographs of the infamous Mexican Drug Lord jumping down a tunnel dug for him by his sinister henchman and riding off on a motorbike.

The pictures may look sort of grainy, but you can definitely make him out.  There's no mistaking it, especially in the first photo:  it's Señor Guzman himself making a getaway.

Just Remember:  You saw it first at The Lost Cause Lounge.

Tommy Bahama & the Malignant Prostate Conundrum

I plan on ageing like boxed wine.

Ageing is a process that many people fear, and rightly so, as this is technically a process of dying.  For example, it is common knowledge that as one grows older, it becomes easier to injure one’s self, as it is also typically becomes more difficult to recover.  That having been said, I am not afraid of growing old.

The physical advantages of a young body aside, youth has never been something I’ve been game on.  When I was a kid, I hated other kids.  Now I fucking hate kids.  This persisted even when I was in my early twenties.  I was distrustful of other youngsters, particularly arrogant, lazy college kids.  I also still for the most part distrust arrogant, lazy college kids.  Even more, actually.  But then again, they seem to be getting more annoying.

 So, perhaps I’m a bit biased.  But if I wasn’t biased, would you be reading this right now?

 Let’s instead look at the facts.  Of course, I’m only speaking from a male perspective.  You can charge me with torches and pitchforks all you want, but the fact is, as women age, their ability to reproduce declines drastically, particularly after they reach the age of thirty.  On the other hand, as long as a dude can blow loads, he can still get broads pregnant.  Male fertility, even without recent pharmaceutical innovations, will always possess a longevity that female fertility will not. 

Even as we trudge further deeper into an era of sterile fecundity, where our seed becomes waste, it is important to note that within our recreational organs lie dormant truths coded in hormones.  Again, if you want to dispute this, please consult a website other than “The Lost Cause Lounge.”  We are not interested in proving such scientific points.  Sure, it’s a double standard.  But it’s just how it is:  women wither, men grow rugged.

 Aging for men contains many advantages, even when you are thinking with your dick.  Crow’s feet and widow’s peaks have been moistening crotches for thousands of years.  It’s just the way things have always been.  This largely stems from the fact that middle aged men command a certain amount of authority, which is why mustaches fit their faces so well even if some younger men can pull the look off.  Simply put, mustaches represent old school power.

Old school power in action.

The mustache is a symbol for paternal strength.  But this kind of “power” is not what I’m looking forward to.  It’s neither ebiophile fantasies nor a desire to be dominant that makes me look forward to the decades ahead.

Believe it or not, I’m not thinking with my dick as I write this. 

Let me break it down for you.

 If the mustache represents the dominant side of manliness, the Hawaiian shirt fits the laid back vibe of someone who has outgrown the Bullshit of the world.  This is one reason why Hawaiian shirts in general fit older men so much better than they do Spring Chickens.  Another important reason is that they are so festive and flamboyant that they typically require leathery skin or gray hair for contrast.  Having a male pattern baldness helps, too.

It used to be that Hawaiian shirts, pulled off well, acted as megaphones for the rods of young studs. They kind of advertised a bold personality and thus high quality sperm.  Even then, this was more true for guys in their thirties than their twenties.  Tom Selleck’s role in Magnum PI is the perfect example of the not quite middle aged man who killed it in floral patterns.  His image from that show subliminally exudes, Hey Ladies, I’ve got Diamond Sperm.  I think it was the abnormally hairy chest that did this, but I don’t know.  The important part is, they named a condom after him.  A condom for abnormally large dongs.   

Admit it: if you had a vagina, you'd be squatting on your Sybian right now.

Eventually the haters had their way and the mustache and Hawaiian shirt tumbled down from power, like so many bricks from the Berlin Wall.  In the spirit of most aesthetic changes, it just sort of happened, but I still call conspiracy. 

While the moustache has resurfaced in recent years for young studs, the Hawaiian shirt has been dry-cleaned and retired to the realm of the middle aged and elderly, which brings us back to the fact that aging introduces a carefree grace to men.

In this era, it seems that if a young man wears a Hawaiian shirt it’s either for yucks or it’s because he’s a fedora-wearing-ponytailed-dork.  You know the type, that guy who subconsciously attempts pulling resemblance to Hunter S Thompson but he’s really just advertising that he watches a lot of Japanimation porn.  It’s like seeing a little boy with a plastic badge.  He’s not a police officer, he’s still playing cops n’ robbers.  Nobody can ever take this shirt seriously when it’s a mere whippersnapper flying the flag.  In both cases, the boy in question is either just playing or they are delusional in how the world sees them.

There comes a time in most guys’ lives where they can don those bright parrots and flowers and coconuts and hula girls with grace.   I think it happens at different times for different dudes.  It’s when they hit that state of mind where they know they don’t need to prove anything.  They’ve done hunting, they’ve done gathering.  Now it’s time to casually peruse the world.  This is a far cry from the Magnum Ideal of seed sower supreme.  And this is huge.  This is why I frequently envy these guys.

They’ve done the dance, they’ve been around the block.  They’ve earned the colors.  Just like before you join the Hell’s Angels you have to go through a beat down, to truly be a fully patched member of the Tommy Bahama Crew, you need to go through life’s beat down.  

Like a boss.

Of course, this comes with a price:  higher risk for numerous cancers, heart disease, liver spots, brittle bones, fragile joints.  And with this fragility comes a heightened vulnerability that criminals will  run behind you when no one’s looking and beat you, rob you, even sodomize you.  This list goes on.  It’s literally the beginning of death.

This sense of mortality is a double edged blade.  If one can accept it in in all its various forms, the daily proximity of a definite end to all that is you washes away the trivial bullshit anxieties and obligations of earlier life.  It cleans the spirit, trims the fat.  I’m not saying all guys get there, nor that it is necessarily a set Utopian destination.  Like a lot of things, I would imagine it’s a process on a thousand continuum in so many different ways.

In any case, when I get there, whenever it is, I’ll be flying the floral print, but until then I’ll be garbed in drab.

Mr. Mudknuckle, on the other hand, fucking kills it in floral prints.  

Powder Diaries II: rituals and initations. The beginnings of a fuck up and yeast lord

First time doing coke:

I was drunk living in a party house in a college town with four roommates. All but me and the influist were sleeping. We had been drinking and playing cards (I think gin or gin runmy? Whatever one you play to 500 and have sets of cards to get the points. Fun game.) 

I knew my roommates occasionally did blow, but due to the strength of the pot we smoked I was always passed the fuck out as they merrily hit the nose slopes. 

But not this night.

It was me and my roommate Derin. She was my friends girlfriend, a former college softball star, student and Fred Meyer employee.  I don't know how the conversation went but basically she said, hey we got some coke for Angie's birthday, you wanna do some? I said no but she pestered me, I was depressed and my life was shitty. I was failing out of a post baccalaureate journalism school stint and massively in credit card debt. I was having fun living in a house with  friends from back home but I just felt like I was fucking up in a bad way. Anyhow she convinced me.

My only drug up to that point was pot, and once I told some people I had an old hydrocodone bottle from getting mono and they said pain killers and booze make you feel magical. (Turns out they do, I went to a comedy show and the whole theater had a rose tinged halo to it, and I laughed more than I should have and felt great.  A forty and a vicodin is a good time.)

She brought out the coke and I am trying to remember what it looked like but it was white little powdery rocks in a plastic back.  The snorting part of coke was the first thing I liked about the experience. 

The first time I snorted something was at a frat party when I was in high school playing a show at my older brother's school. Some guy had some snus, a powder tobacco inhalant, and as an at the time non tobacco user it was a good head rush. (Ok take that back, snorting pixie sticks in grade school was my first snorting experience and pixie sticks burn just like coke does when you first do it, before your nasal cavities get eaten away and hey, you might even have a hole connecting your nostril cavities!)

Second time was crushing up the hydrocodone and snorting it off a Waylon Jennings vinyl sleeve. Turns out vicodin and hydrocodone have like 500mg of acetomenophin, which is what makes up almost all of the pill. So yeah. Have fun snorting that you big dummy.

I don't remember much about that night but the thing I remember most was enjoying the ritual. Preparing the coke, chopping up the lines.  BUT!... THE VERY BEST THING AND MY FAVORITE FOR QUITE A LOT MY COCAINE ADDICTION..............

COCAINE CIGARETTES!

I had recently become a habitual smoker and to make smoking even cooler was her showing me how to make a cocaine cigarette. In the Denzel Movie Flight John Goodman calls it a coco puff.  The way she showed me how to do it is you lick your cigarette in four places with the end of your tongue making wet lines on the shaft. Then you lick the end of the cigarette and dab a liberal amount of cocaine on the end then roll the cigarette in a line of powder where you licked it. Let it dry and you've  got a thing of beauty. Besides a few times of trying to smoke foils, (Cocaine and water dabbed on aluminum foil then dried, and using a bic pen as a straw inhaling the smoke, being carefully not to heat the coke too much.) this was most if the coke smoking I did.  It tasted chemical like and smelled that way too.  I am not sure if these coke cigarettes even make you high, and I had forgot about them til now but I think they might have been my favorite part of my fucked up times doing coke.

As for the rest of the night I don't remember much but for the coke cigarettes.  I did not have a come down or a need to do more. I woke up next day mostly feeling like I had sunk to a new low in my fucked up life. Alas, my friends, that was just the beginning of another era; (if you can call it that) a fucked up can't keep a job max out credit cards doing two and three day benders of sniffing lines and the overly anxious dry high and hassle of being at the whim of the one guy you can get drugs off of trying to figure out how to go to sleep, maybe painkillers, wish I could have gotten some Xanax, and I was  basically a human vacuum for as long as the ride lasted.

And then just a poor fiend.

And later putting my life back together...

Years later writing this and the last blog and a bunch of internet searches and finally some social networking will lead me to another entry tentatively called the 500 dollar five day blizzard.  Hopefully my last ride into hell,  chasing my demons  while my past dark nights of the soul overtook me. Cue

Cocaine,
YOUGODAMMNEDSONNUFFABITCH!