Articulated Vulgarities

Land of the free? Somebody lied.

You may have heard that the Department of Justice and the FBI recently shut down the free file hosting site MegaUpload, one of the largest of its kind of the internet.  Those in charge, including rapper Swizz Beats, stand to face some pretty hefty jailtime for the site, which notoriously hosted everything from pirated games, movies, music, and everything in between.

I'm going to be honest: MegaUpload was, at its heart, a repository for piracy.  It allowed users to upload and download files more or less anonymously, had comparatively relaxed restrictions on download limits, and excellent speeds, making it the go-to spot for people to "share" files.  Illegal files, mostly.

I can't argue that MegaUpload, and similar sites like RapidShare, are effectively an easy way to pirate copyrighted goods.  I can't even really fault the entertainment industry for attempting to stop rampant piracy, though I think they are disingenuous about their reasons.  No corporate record company gives a shit about protecting its artists; they care about protecting their investments.  If Warner Bros. advances a director millions of dollars for a film project, you can be damn sure they want to recoup that money.  It has nothing to do with keeping gaffers, electricians, and lighting guys employed, as their patronizing anti-piracy commercials suggest.  You're not hurting the little guys working behind the scenes on movie sets.  They're all unionized.  They're just worried about lost ticket sales at the box office.

Digression aside, I can't fault corporations for trying to protect what's theirs.  As harmless as it seems to the end user, piracy is piracy, and however much those of us who've downloaded something illegally like to try and rationalize and justify it, it is ostensibly stealing.

Who I can blame, however, is the FBI and the Department of Justice.  If this isn't another sign that corporations run this country, I don't know what is.  There is nothing more pressing than shutting down file sharing sites?  There are no matters of national security more important than MegaUpload hosting the new Taylor Swift album on its servers? 

Let me break this down for you, as a somewhat experienced computer user: There are two kinds of pirates.  There's the average computer user - the kind of person who overheard someone talking about torrents and rushed to Wikipedia to find out what they are.  They still use peer-to-peer applications like Limewire and their computers are probably infected with dozens, if not hundreds, of trojans and malware programs. 

Then there are those who know what they're doing.  They know how to cover their tracks.  Believe it or not, the FBI is less concerned about these folks.  Why, you might ask?  Because those people have been around since the dawn of computers.  They know what they're doing, and they're not afraid.  It's easy to make an example out of a suburban mom who downloaded the latest Now That's What I Call Music CD, but much harder to track down the people who ripped and uploaded it weeks before it hit store shelves.

The people who excel at piracy ran elite BBSes in the infancy of the internet as we know it.  They're the people who invented torrents in the first place.  They're the ones who rarely, if ever, get caught, and they're the ones who will simply find a new way around whatever obstacle the DoJ puts up.

The FBI and the Department of Justice are fighting a losing battle.  You can shut down file hosting services, but eventually the pirates will just find something else.  First it was BBSes.  Then it was newsgroups, which are still around to this day.  Then P2P programs like Napster and Kazaa brought piracy out of the realm of the computer savvy and into the public conscious, and before you knew it, 12-year-old Jimmy and drunken college kids were downloading the new Eminem CD weeks before its street date, thinking they were some badass hackers sticking it to the man.

In light of the MegaUpload bust, many other hosting services have either voluntarily shut down, or are being shut down.  It seems like a big victory for the anti-piracy crusaders, but it's really not.  There are still newsgroups.  There are still torrents.  There are still myriad ways for tech savvy users to get what they want without having to pay for it.  You will never stop piracy.  Those old enough to remember the days of sending cassette tapes through the mail will remember the empty threats that surrounded such actions.  Was anyone ever arrested for trading cassettes?  Cassettes became CDs, and CDs became mp3s, and mp3s became flac files (for the audio snobs among us).  It's an increasingly digital world, and there's no stopping it.

The record companies, the Motion Picture Association of America, and the so-called good guys will tout this as a big victory.  They'll say they're protecting American jobs and innovation, protecting us from the horrible threat posed by piracy and "rogue foreign websites," to use the vernacular of the recently-defeated SOPA and PIPA bills.  Personally, I'd rather they spend a little more time worrying about Iran building nuclear weapons and the crazed 20-something son of a deceased crazed dictator in North Korea than some kid downloading a surreptitiously recorded shaky cam video of Mission: Impossible: Ghost Protocol. 

Piracy has always been around, and it will always be around.  It will go back to being underground for a while in light of recent events, but it will rise again when the newest, simplest method of delivery makes it available to all once more.  It's inevitable, and it's a waste of time to try and stop it because the fact is while you may deter the average citizen, you will never scare or stop the other group.

When Wikipedia and several other websites instituted a blackout in protest of the Stop Online Piracy Act and Protect IP Acts on January 18th, Christopher Dodd, the CEO of the MPAA, not only threatened to pull financial support from politicians who refused to support their cause, he made the ironic statement that the blackout was "an abuse of power."  Forgetting for a moment that his threat could be construed as a similar offense, I would like to recognize his powers of perception. 

You're right, Chris.  We do have the power.  We do.  Not you.  You may have the money, but if our increasingly technology-reliant world has proven anything, it's that money does not necessarily equal power anymore.  Information is practically instantaneous in the age of the internet, and I've seen men and women undone by it.  Private e-mails, text messages, and classified documents are all on the web for anyone to see.  One need not look much further than Wikileaks to see the impact the internet has had on modern society.  I'd like you to keep that in mind, Chris.  We have the power, and it is not a good idea to incur the wrath of the internet elite.

Celebrate your small victory now, corporations and intelligence agencies, for in the grand scheme of things it won't matter.  One year from now, piracy will be as accessible as it ever was, and when you put a stop to that, the underground scene will change tactics once more.  To quote Ian Malcolm from Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park, "Life finds a way."  So, too, will the pirates. 

Good night and good luck, gentlemen.  You're going to need it.

This Job Would Be Great If It Weren't For The Customers

Before I landed a job working at the most innovative company in the world, I worked as Employee #598724 at a retail organization. In order to protect their integrity, I won’t disclose their name, but let’s just say it’s the largest electronics retailer in the United States.  We’ll call them “West Buy.”

“West Buy” was an interesting place to work.  We were all a bunch of youths in our late teens/early twenties, making more money than we probably deserved, and everybody fucked each other.  EVERYBODY.  I don’t mean figuratively.  Literally, everyone seemed to be having sex with someone else there.

There were these weird pockets of employees who all lived together, splitting rent three or four ways, and leaving plenty of expendable income, and for some reason this just led to everyone getting it on.  It was uncanny, and I’ve never experienced it anywhere else I’ve ever worked.  I doubt there was a single man or woman under the age of twenty-five working there who was dating anyone outside of the store.

I spent the majority of my time there in the warehouse, doing all the work for half the pay the lazy, worthless salespeople earned.  You ever wonder how all that product gets into the store?  It’s unloaded by bitter, angry, hate-filled young men forced to stay there until two in the morning, only to have to turn around and at six and come back for the morning deliveries, while the pampered, brown-nosing, cocksucking sales staff gets to go home no later than ten p.m..  Not that I hold any resentment or anything.

After three and a half years of being underappreciated in the warehouse, I was coerced into taking a position on the sales floor by one of my best friends.  Because clearly I’m a people person and interacting with dim-witted customers is sure to be a recipe for success.

He had me convinced that we would make an unbeatable team in the media department, selling things like game systems, DVDs, and music, because it was what we knew.  This was the last time I ever listened to anything he has ever told me.

The reason being that “West Buy” doesn’t care about sales of game systems, software, CDs, or DVDs.  There is little to no mark-up on items like that.  It’s the accessories and the service plans where “West Buy” makes their money – most of which are useless and unnecessary.  When buying an original Xbox, which comes with a built-in eight gigabyte hard drive for saving games and more, we still had to try and convince customers that they still needed a memory card.  My friend was exceptionally good at this thanks to his lack of a moral center; I was not.

Most of the time I would simply wander the floor, trying to avoid assholes and their stupid questions (you call them “customers”).  Occasionally, one would grab me and I would tell them what they were looking for was in some random aisle just to get them away from me, then run to the back room and cower inside a refrigerator box until I was sure they had left.

There were two customers in particular I avoided like the goddamn plague.  One was a tall, older man who stunk worse than anything I’ve ever smelled.  His hair was always tousled, his clothing was filthy, he wore sunglasses at all times, and he always spoke with his teeth gnashed together, which made him difficult to understand.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Perhaps his appearance and unacceptable personal hygiene is a result of low income.  Maybe he’s a stinky, smelly, sweaty, dirty, greasy, nasty, unwashed person who leaves a cloud of B.O. that hangs in the air for fifteen minutes after his passing because he’s poor, and I’m just an asshole for judging him.  He was in there every week, buying ten or more DVDs at a time.  If you can afford to buy movies, you can afford a fucking bar of soap.

You could always tell when this man had been around by the stench that lingered.  He left a trail of awfulness everywhere he went, but to stand next to him was enough to make you gag.  Whenever I saw him enter, I immediately retreated to the warehouse and hid in my Fortress of Solitude (the fridge box).

Less olfactorily offensive, but no less obnoxios was the man…woman… thing… I honestly don’t know.  I really don’t.  I wish I were kidding, but I’m not.  I have no fucking clue whether this person was a man or a woman, and it haunts me to this very day.

It would come in every week, and also had a penchant for DVDs, but had the annoying habit of asking if every. single. goddamn movie had special features.  You know how you can find out? Turn the goddamn package around and read the list of special features!

Because it had a voice that was somewhat high-pitched and feminine, I originally thought it was a female.  The thin moustache gave me pause, but I’ve seen women with more hair on their upper lip than I’m capable of growing, so I considered that it may have been a hormone problem.  Then it threw me for another loop one day when it picked up a Girls Gone Wild DVD from our “Special Interest” section and began commenting on the hot girls.  I started to believe perhaps it really was a man, but I suppose it could have been a lesbian too.  I just chalked it up as one of life’s great mysteries and tried to avoid contact with it at all costs.

The video game section, which should have been my favorite area to work in, became a constant source of irritation thanks to parents using our demo systems as makeshift babysitters for their stupid children while they shopped around.  There were two brats I especially hated.  The first was a Chaldean kid who came in just about every day for months on end and would play for hours.  I don’t know if his mother thought we were a daycare center or what, but he would stand at the demo units until we had to forcibly turn them off to get rid of him.  He even had the nerve to ask for a chair on several occasions.

Every time he came in, he asked if Grand Theft Auto: Vice City was out yet.  I gave him the same answer every time – “Not until October 27th” – but the next time he was in the store, he’d ask again.  This kid couldn’t have been more that ten.  Not exactly age-appropriate for Grand Theft Auto, and his mother was obviously one of the clueless masses who believed whatever her son told her instead of doing any research herself.  That little bastard bugged me for months, asking the same question over and over, but I had my revenge.  When the game finally came out and his uninformed mother brought him into the store to purchase it for her future-felon child, I warned her the game contained explicit and violent content including, but not limited to, killing police officers and having sex with prostitutes.  More importantly, once the game was opened, it could not be returned.  He tried to tell her it wasn’t that bad and accused me of lying, but I ignored him and warned her, “This is the worst game I’ve ever seen in my life. I wouldn’t buy it for my son.”  They left empty-handed, with that little shit begging his mom the entire way.

The other troublemaker was an Asian kid, probably in his young teens, who would accost people playing on our Xbox demo unit.  Having worked through the Xbox and Gamecube launches, I can definitively say the Xbox was the more popular console.  We sold out of our supply of Xboxes in a few scant hours, meanwhile I sat at a table with two pallets of untouched Gamecubes behind me the day that system launched.  I can only assume – and I’m basing this solely on racial stereotyping – that since he was Asian, his family had stock in Nintendo and he wanted the Gamecube to succeed, so he spent his time telling everyone playing the Xbox that the Gamecube was better.  Then he’d go over to the Gamecube demo and tell whoever was playing that it was better, just in case they needed affirmation, I guess.

He would also spread ridiculous, unfounded rumors, and end each one with, “Do you know about this? Have you heard about this?”  Every time he said those magic words, the urge to punch him in the face swelled.  Nobody has heard your rumor, because you just made it up.  Go away.  I hate you with the fury of ten thousand burning suns.

Those were some of the regulars, but the one-timers were just as bothersome, asking for help as they do.  Oh, you want to know where Aaliyah is filed?  Do you know the alphabet?  Oh, you want to know if I have Monster Balls?  Wait, what?!

Yes. A lady once asked me if I had Monster Balls.

Halle Berry had just won her Oscar for Monster’s Ball, and anyone who has ever worked in media retail knows there is a phenomenon that occurs anytime someone wins a major award (Oscars, Grammys), or dies.  People flock to the store to buy that person’s work, just to show they’ve been fans all along.  A lady approached me one afternoon, looked me straight in the eyes, and asked, “Excuse me, do you have Monster Balls?” – which is an entirely different question than “Do you have Monster’s Ball?”

I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to keep a straight face, and I simply responded, “Yes. Yes I do.”  I’m pretty sure cheap pornos start that way, but I took her to the section where Monster’s Ball was kept, grabbed a copy of the DVD, and then I pulled my dick out.

OK, that last part may or may not have actually happened.  I didn’t show her where the movie was.

God's Great Plan

"Bullshit is all the reasons we give for living.  And if we can't think up any reasons of our own, we always have the God bullshit.  We don't know why we're going through all this pointless pain, humiliation, decays, so there better be someone somewhere who does know.  That's the God bullshit.  And then, there's the noble man bullshit; that man is a noble creature that can order his own world.  Who needs God?  Well, if there's anybody out there that can look around this demented slaughterhouse of a world we live in and tell me that man is a noble creature, believe me: that man is full of bullshit."

The soliloquy you just read was delivered by Peter Finch in the role of downtrodden, world-weary news anchor Howard Beale in the 1976 classic film Network.  Beale, disenfranchised with society, and his role as an influential newsman, uttered those prophetic words on the air during one of his final broadcasts for the fictional Union Broadcasting System (UBS). 

Over the course of the five months (has it been that long already?), I've heard many people say that Deborah's passing was all part of God's Great Plan.  We may not understand it yet, but there's a reason for everything.

To that, I say: bullshit.

Organized religion is one of the most vile, evil things in the world.  It teaches people to hate, fear, and judge others who may hold different beliefs or live a different lifestyle than their own.  People do and say awful things in the name of organized religion - and I'm talking about all organized religions.  Wars are fought, innocent people are killed, and people are harrassed for their beliefs.

Since I was very young, I came to several beliefs about the existence of God.  God does exist, of that I was certain (or as certain as one could be without any hard evidence, but that's what the word "faith" means).  There is historical evidence of the existence of Jesus Christ, though scholars now debate the time of his birth and death.  His resurrection is, of course, what causes the most contention. 

It's true, there is little indisputable proof that Jesus Christ, the son of God, rose from the grave or so loved the world that he died for our sins.  Oh sure, there's the Bible, but - and what I'm about to say will no doubt be controversial to many of you - I have always viewed the Good Book as sort of like the Telephone Game.  There is a reason there are different versions of the Bible, and throughout multiple revisions, edits, and changes, the original message may have become contaminated along the way. 

Having said that, the core tenets of the Bible remain strong foundations to live your life by.  You shouldn't kill, steal, commit adultery, take advantage of others, or worship material things.  I think of the Bible as sort of a collection of parables - not unlike fairy tales - that should be used as a guide to live a good, honest life.  Do I believe there was a talking snake or a boat big enough to carry two of every species of animal?  No, because I'm a logical person and I see the physical impossibility of such things.  Considering how many species of animal there are in the world, the boat itself would have to be more than half the size of the planet to carry two of them all.  Suggesting there were fewer animals back then only raises the question of where the rest came from, since evolution and creationism do not go hand-in-hand for many people.

What I choose to believe may be hard for some people to accept or understand, but so much of organized religion preaches belief through fear.  Deborah and I didn't even see eye-to-eye on our beliefs, though we ultimately reached the same basic conclusion, so I don't expect anyone else to.

All my life, I chose not to believe in the vengeful God you heard about in the sermons of your youth.  The God who would condemn you to an eternity of fire and brimstone if you didn't follow a very specific set of rules, or most egregiously, didn't believe in Him.  I had often heard atheists and agnostics say, "If there really is a God, how could he let bad things happen to good people?"  The answer, I thought, was simple: God does not play favorites.  As hard as that may be to accept, God does not get involved in our lives.  He sits back and lets us make our own choices, then judges our actions when our time comes.  God doesn't create murderers, idolaters, warmongers, rapists, thieves, and all the evil people of society any more than he creates the pillars of integrity and kindness - at least, not directly. 

After Deborah was abruptly taken from me, I tried to rationalize it.  I tried to believe in the notion that it's all part of the "Great Plan," but several thoughts continued to nag at me.  If, indeed, life is pre-ordained, and we are all merely playing our part in accordance with our predetermined destiny, what becomes of free will? 

Think about it.  God gave us free will, correct?  If life was pre-ordained, doesn't that contradict the very notion of free will?  If everything we do is part of some plan - every step we take, every decision we make - then we really don't have free will, do we?  If life is all predetermined, then by implication God is responsible for murderers, rapists, and all the evils of society because, for some reason we can't fathom, it was part of His plan.  I don't know about you, but I sure don't want to believe in that.

"Let me give you a little inside information about God.  God likes to watch.  He's a prankster.  Think about it: He gives man instincts.  He gives you this extraordinary gift, and then what does He do - I swear for His own amusement, His own private, cosmic gag reel - He sets the rules in opposition.  It's the goof of all time.  Look, but don't touch.  Touch, but don't taste.  Taste, don't swallow.  And whil you're jumping from one foor to the next, what is He doing?  He's laughing His sick fucking ass off!  He's a tight-ass!  He's a sadist!  He's an absentee landlord!  Worship that?!  Never!"

Al Pacino delivered those lines as John Milton, the earthly guise of the Devil himself, in the 1997 film The Devil's Advocate. 

Right now, some of you are probably mortified.  You're praying for my soul, and you're already typing up angry, outraged responses, or pleas for me to rejoin the flock.  "Beg for God's forgiveness."  "God loves you, don't turn your back on Him."  Do me a favor.  Stop.  Hit delete.  Don't bother.  If anyone should be seeking forgiveness, it's God. 

There are two options, the way I see it.  First, God is as I always suspected - omnipresent, ever-watching.  Watching, not doing.  He sits back and watches His creation take shape.  He watches us suffer, watches families torn apart by violence, cities leveled by natural disasters, and babies starve to death.  He watches it all... but He doesn't do anything about it. 

If God doesn't get involved, He cannot be responsible for your blessings, but by way of inaction is responsible for all of life's hardships, ugliness, and sorrow.  How could I worship something that has the power to make things better, but simply chooses not to?

The second option is that we are following a cosmic plan.  Free will is a myth that makes us feel like we're in control of our lives, but in reality we're all just playing our roles.  The logical conundrums in this scenario are almost too numerous to point out.

We are taught that God is infallible.  That's the biggest argument against the theory of evolution - the implication that God made a mistake and changed something, or that He is not in complete control.  Fine.  But if God is infallible, that means He is responsible for everything that happens, good and evil.  Sure, God got you that great job, blessed you with a beautiful family, and handed you that bitchin' sports car you've always dreamed about.  But he also created Ed Gein, Jeffrey Dahmer, Osama bin Laden, Ted Kaczynski, Adolf Hitler... You see, God cannot only be responsible for the good and not the bad if, indeed, we are all acting in accordance with the plan - and free will could not logically co-exist with the plan, because that implies that God is not in complete control. 

So which is it?  Does it even matter?  Why should I thank God for my blessings, but refrain from blaming Him for my pain?  Why does He get a free pass?  How can anyone or anything receive all the credit and none of the blame if it supposedly created the entire world and life as we know it? 

Of course, there is always the third option: that God does not exist.  Neither science nor religion has been able to adequately and definitively prove how all life began, after all, so I have to allow for the possibility that Deborah's death, and all of life's misfortunes, are a simple case of mathematics.  Bad things happen, and sooner or later, you or someone you know are bound to be a statistic.  In this particular example, I'm told Deborah had roughly a four percent chance of surviving.  Those are nearly impossible odds, and unsurprisingly they did not work out in her favor.  Our bodies weren't built to last, and there is so much about them we still don't understand.

We choose to believe in the afterlife because it comforts us.  For many, it gives people something to strive for - a reason to live a good life.  It is a frightening thought that death is the end, I admit.  It's a thought that has kept me up at night and given me anxiety attacks.  The idea that I will simply cease to be, and all of my memories, my experiences, will fade away with me is not one I prefer to entertain.  I would like to believe that the person I am will continue on after my physical body has decayed.  But how can I put my faith in anything that would let so many bad things happen?  Moreover, why should I need convincing that living a good life is the right thing to do in the first place?  Shouldn't we all strive for peace, prosperity, and happiness, regardless of whether or not it results in a potential reward when we die?  Most importantly, why should I grovel at anyone else's altar for things I've worked hard for and be thankful when they're taken away?

Yes, I'm angry.  I've been angry since July 6th, 2011 when Deborah died at just 33 years of age, and if you have any common sense you will shut up.  If you've read this far, you've done so of your own volition.  This is my blog, and these are my feelings, and you will not change them, so don't even try.  You can quietly judge me as a heretic in the comfort of your own homes all you'd like, but I don't want to read your comments, opinions, suggestions, or preaching.  Shut your mouths.  Stop typing that comment or that e-mail.  Do not try to win me back because all you will succeed in doing is making me angrier, and this time my anger will be directed at you.

I don't want to hear about how Deborah's death has a greater meaning and we just can't comprehend it now, because I don't believe it and it doesn't change the pure logic that God is either directly or indirectly responsible for the suffering of all humanity, whether through His plan or through observation rather than interaction.  If God exists, maybe He is not loving and merciful.  Maybe He is vindictive and arrogant.  How dare we question His plan?!  How dare we not worship Him?!  How dare we not thank Him for everything we work for.  God didn't give me a job.  God didn't buy me a car.  God doesn't pay my mortgage.  God didn't win Deborah's heart.  I earned all those things through hard work, and you're fucking right I'm proud of myself, so if pride is a sin then you might as well send me to Hell.  

Maybe God is a big kid with a magnifying glass and we're all ants.  He's a schoolyard bully, demanding our lunch money and we give it to Him out of fear of retribution.  I bet most people who read this post will react with revulsion and call it blasphemous, but if God is as loving, forgiving, and understanding as you'd preach, what would it matter what I say or believe?  Would He not understand my anger, my sadness?  Were we not created as imperfect beings and, thusly, should we not be forgiven for our imperfections, fears, doubts, and faults?  Instead, He demands homage.  He demands recognition.  He demands credit for everything we accomplish, but we absolve Him of all blame for fear that he will deny us entry into his exclusive club.  He's a cosmic bouncer with an inferiority complex, standing behind His velvet rope and taking out His issues on people who he feels have wronged Him. 

You're all free to believe whatever you want, whether that's in the Christian God, an alternative deity, universal forces, multiple gods, or nothing at all.  All I ask is that you extend me the same courtesy and do not try to convince me of anything opposite of all I've said here.  I will not live my life in fear of eternal damnation or in hopes of salvation.  I will not live my life for anyone other than myself.  From this point forward, I will live my life the best way I see fit - in a manner that pleases me and not some entity watching over me, silently cataloguing and judging everything I do for His Naughty or Nice list.  

I have always said that intelligent people can discuss religion, whereas ignorant people will argue about it.  With that in mind, I must reiterate that I do not expect to see a single e-mail or comment telling me I'm going to Hell.  These are my personal beliefs, and I expect everyone to respect them and leave me to them.  I have chosen to share them purely as a therapeutic release, not to invite your judgment or opinions.  I don't care about your opinions, quite frankly.  If I did, I'd be reading your blog and not the other way around. 

The Horror of Bacon Candy

"I have something for you," my friend texted me this morning.  "Can you come to my office in 5?" 

"Sure," I replied.  "Just give me the signal."

When I arrived in her office, she handed me a container that looked like your average Chinese takeout box.  I was momentarily excited because, as a fat man, I love Chinese food.  I was a little disheartened when she told me it wasn't a quart of fried rice, but what are you gonna do?  Instead, the box contained this:

No, your eyes do not deceive you.  That is bacon-flavored candy, appropriately called Bacon Candy.  She laughed and clapped with glee upon seeing my reaction, which could best be described as elation.  Two of my favorite things combined - sweet, delicious, sugary, fattening candy and salty, meaty, fattening bacon!  Twas a dream come true!

Returning to my desk, I shared the gift proudly with my coworker, informing him I would embark upon the Bacon Candy experience in short order.  But then the logical part of my brain kicked in.  What if Bacon Candy was terrible?  That couldn't be, could it?  Bacon and candy go together like peanut butter and jelly, chocolate and caramel, alcohol and fat girls!  God would never let that happen, for surely this was a gift from the heavens!  I am of the opinion that bacon makes everything better.  There was no way Bacon Candy could disappoint!

With some trepidation, I unwrapped the first of twelve individually wrapped, unassuming pieces.  They looked harmless enough, almost like a peppermint candy cane or those candies that have been stuck to the inside of grandma's candy bowl for an indeterminate amount of time and have coalesced into one giant sticky mess that lifts the bowl up with it when you try to grab one.  Popping it into my mouth, my beautiful dream turned into a horrible nightmare.

Bacon Candy is a misleading name for this product, because both words sound like something you would want to eat.  Despite the tin's claim of "Superior Bacon Flavor!" that was "Smoky!", "Sweet!", "Tasty!", and "Meaty!", Bacon Candy exhibited none of these traits.  After tasting it, I no longer believe in God.

My coworkers laughed at my pain as I struggled to keep the atrocity in my mouth for more than ten seconds before finally relenting and spitting it into my garbage can and downing a bottle of water in almost as many seconds in the hopes it would wash the vile taste out - a hope I quickly discovered was false.  Twenty minutes later and after eating a peppermint candy cane I CAN STILL TASTE IT!  I can even taste it in my NOSE when I breathe.  It's sort of like that horribly bitter taste that remains in your mouth after drinking coffee, but far, far worse.  I'm not sure how best to describe it, for there are no words in our language or any other that could accurately relay the horror.  It's like the Cthulhu of candies - unspeakably grotesque and evil beyond imaginging.  Lovecraft, on his best day, could not have written a story as frightful as my experience with Bacon Candy.

This is the most awful thing I've ever put into my mouth, and I've tried vegitarian bacon.  I didn't think it could get much worse than those flat strips of soy "painted" an odd reddish-purple hue in a misguided attempt to resemble real meat.  Vegitarian bacon is what I imagine it must be like to eat construction paper if you sprinkled salt on it.  It was so gross it actually stuck to the plate it was cooked on and had to be scraped off just to take a bite, yet somehow - almost inconceivably - Bacon Candy is worse.

I can only conclude that my friend hates me and was trying to kill me. 

We're Onto You, Human Resources!

What you are about to read may be the most shocking cover-up in history.  I'm in the process of alerting the media, and when the news breaks the ramifications of it will be felt the world over.  This conspiracy makes the corporate fraud committed by financial institutions look like child's play by comparison.  I hope to hell you're sitting down and not prone to fainting, because this is earth-shattering news, and only D-Rex and her crack team of investigators could have uncovered such a dastardly plot!

There are cheaper benefits providers than the one my company uses!

Our yearly benefit (re-)enrollment packages were sent out yesterday evening, and the firestorm began this morning.  Every year we go through the same cycle: People want better benefits, but if the prices go up, they want cheaper benefits.  Nobody seems to possess the simple, practical logic that the two things don't go hand-in-hand.  If you want coverage from a leading provider, it's going to cost you.  Healthcare is not cheap. 

But today it was uncovered that there are cheaper providers than the Blue Care Network and now they're ready to bring down the company for trying to hide this information from the employees!  I didn't even know there were other providers, let alone cheaper ones!  Did you guys know about this?  How long has this cover-up been going on?  If we aren't happy with the plans offered, we could simply opt out of them and choose to find our own coverage, but our company never told us this!  They tried to hide it with a more expensive plan from one of the nation's leading providers!  After all, one healthcare provider is just as good as another, right?  There can't possibly be any other reason for a cost discrepency other than a giant conspiracy.  Those bastards!

The suggestion - and I swear to God this is a real thing that came out of someone's mouth - was to let the employees look over the various plans from all the different providers when the time comes.  In other words, instead of letting the HR people who spend countless hours researching these things do their jobs, they want to leave it up to a committee of imbeciles who don't even read the summarized information HR sends out in the first place.

Yeah, that wouldn't be a giant clusterfuck.  I'm sure several hundred employees across numerous sites throughout the United States, each with different needs, would come to a quick agreement upon thoroughly reviewing a wealth of information.  I can't imagine anyone skipping to the cost breakdown and simply choosing the cheapest one without regard to what it actually covers.  That would be idiotic, and I think it's clear we don't hire idiots.  By the way, did I ever tell you about the employee who thought Michigan was an island because it's surrounded on three sides by water?

Of course, the suggestion was for "all employees to look over the plans," but really, it's about one employee - D-Rex.  D-Rex thinks our benefit plans are chosen specifically to spite her.  This morning she announced that it would cost her an extra $1,000 just to continue working here due to the increase in costs.  How dare HR not take into account how these benefits might affect her and only her?!  You heartless bastards!

This is just another in a long line of atrocities committed by our company upon its employees.  Thank goodness we have D-Rex - someone who is brave enough to get to the bottom of this conspiracy and stand up to tyranny!  I don't know how deep this goes or how it will change the healthcare industry, not to mention our company, but I'm sure it's going to be big news.  The lid has been blown off, and if your company offers you benefits it's a good bet there are other options for you too!  Revolt, brothers and sisters!  Rise against your oppressors and tell them you don't need their healthcare!  You'll find your own through hours of research and effort. 

Or, you know, you'll inevitably sign the Goddamn enrollment form and repeat the cycle of complaining next year.

Disappear Here

"Wait, I'm in the wrong house, in the wrong room
Some place in someone else's shoes
I want to turn back, I want to shut down
You'll blow away if I breathe out
Save me from sleeping now
Save me from flying out
I disappear here"

O hai!
 
What's been going on?  That's a rhetorical question.  I don't really care.  I was just being polite.  This is my blog, after all.  If you want to talk about yourselves, get your own blog.  They're free over at WordPress, you know.  Instead, I'm going to talk about me.  Not that you asked, but you have the option to stop reading anytime you feel like it.  I'll never know the difference.
 
November is a hard month for me.  It was two days after Thanksgiving 2009 that my dad passed away, which puts a dampener on the entire month.  I still carry a shred of regret that I didn't talk to him two days prior when he'd called to wish his sons a happy Thanksgiving, though I've forgiven myself for it.  This year will be especially hard with the additional grief of losing Deborah.
 
You see, this year we were going to hold Thanksgiving at our house.  In fact, we bought a new kitchen table together for the occasion.  When my brother and I moved back into the house, we had a small, round, four-person table.  It was adequate for the needs of two bachelors, but once I started dating Deborah I quickly realized the lack of foresight.  We couldn't even have a family dinner with my own small immediate family, let alone hers that includes children and relatives that actually talk to each other and gather on holidays. 
 
So to Art Van we went and we bought a new table that seats six to eight before adding the leaf, which will give it room for an extra two fairly comfortably.  It was an exciting moment - our first furniture purchase together!  We were turning my old house into our new home.
 
After Deborah passed, I still wanted to hold Thanksgiving at my house like we'd planned, but as time has gone by and it has inched ever closer the prospect has become more and more daunting.  Not that I don't want to keep in touch with Deborah's family - I do - but I think I'm trying to take on too much, too soon.  I haven't fully dealt with the severe depression I spiralled into after her death.
 
Oh, did I forget to mention that?  That's because I didn't realize it until about a week ago.
 
I used to have a policy against self-medicating.  I saw it as a sign of weakness that I couldn't control my own emotions or my thoughts.  I realized how fucked up I was when a friend told me to my face, "Matt, you need to stop because you're driving me crazy!"  That was really the turning point, and since that day that particular friend and I have never had another confrontation.  Indeed, we're closer friends.  But that moment scared me straight and made me realize I had a problem, so I set my principle aside and went on Zoloft shortly after my dad died. 
 
Man, what a difference! 
 
For those of you who don't suffer from anxiety, let me try and describe it as best I can for you: It's awful, horrendous, chest-constricting, irrational, irritating, obnoxious, annoying, terrifying, crippling, and generally shitty.  It's just a horrible, horrible feeling - and the worst part is that you often don't realize how bad it has gotten until someone snaps at you.  You see, anxiety breeds selfishness.  All you want to do is make that horrible feeling go away.  You need constant reassurance.  You need affection.  You need, need, need, and even when you get what you sought you'll just find something else to obsess over because most anxiety-based fears are irrational.  They spring from nowhere just as often as they do from traumatic past events. 
 
Even as someone who suffers from anxiety, it's irritating to deal with other peoples', but I always empathize and say to myself, "I know what they're going through."  Much like losing a parent, sibling, child, or significant other, or surviving cancer, or any number of awful, life-changing events, the only people who can truly understand it are those who've been through it.  Not to equate anxiety and cancer, of course, but you get what I'm saying.  It's impossible to accurately describe how terrifying it is to lie in bed, worrying that perhaps my brother has died unexpectedly.  In the past, my anxiety has caused me to go days without eating and/or sleeping (sometimes coinciding, sometimes alternately).  Once, when I still worked at Best Buy, I actually collapsed on my bedroom floor and slept there through the night after not sleeping for nearly four days.  My body just finally gave in and shut down. 
 
So I went on Zoloft, and I felt better.  Much better.  The grief from losing my dad was still there, but the irrational fears weren't.  The constant worrying and wondering and second-guessing and, most importantly, that dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach weren't there.  I did a complete 180 on my belief about self-medicating.  Hell, I was ready to become the drug's spokeperson!  Zoloft for everyone!  Viva Zoloft!
 
Among my myriad of problems is my inability stubborn refusal to follow doctors' orders.  I'm supposed to be taking cholesterol medicine; I don't.  I'm supposed to do stretches for my bad back; I don't.  I was supposed to take Zoloft, probably for the rest of my life; I stopped.
 
For a long while, I was OK.  I met a great girl, we were happy, and though I had a few episodes that she lovingly forgave me for, it was nothing along the lines of the crazy shit I put my friend through.  Right after Deborah died, I asked my doctor to renew my prescription.  I got my bottle of little blue happy pills, and I took about a week's worth before abruptly stopping.  I once again decided I didn't need pills.  I could control it on my own.
 
Oops.
 
Once again, it required a cold, hard dose of reality to make me realize, "Holy shit, I have a problem!"  Looking back over the last four months since Deborah passed, I can see the problem has been there all along.  I can remember the sleepness nights, terrified that someone else I loved was going to be taken from me.  I can remember feeling the crushing fear of walking into work, trying my best to avoid the sad eyes and pitiable stares that reminded me of what happened.  I can vaguely remember doing things with my family and friends just to keep myself occupied, but I honestly couldn't look back and tell you what 90% of it was.  The days ran together in one big blur, and I remember remarking to my brother about losing all concept of time.  I didn't care.  About anything.  Looking back, I'm almost ashamed that I didn't recognize some of the signs, but people seldom do when they're so wrapped up in the cloak of depression.  20/20 hindsight and all that...
 
I can't tell you how many times I've heard "I really admire your strength" over the last few months.  The truth of the matter is this: I am good at faking it.  I lived the life of a single, brooding, anti-social misanthrope for 27 years.  You don't think I know how to put up a front?  If I could build physical walls as well as I build emotional ones, I'd be the world's most prolific construction worker.  The truth is I've been running on fumes for quite some time now, and it's time to refuel before I'm abandoned on the side of the road by everyone. 
 
Last weekend I started taking my Zoloft again.  I have reminders all over my house to take it every night at 10 PM.  Already, I've had people remark that I seem different.  Already I feel better, more like my old self - or at least my 2008 self when I came out of my shell and started getting out more.  I'm not as quick to anger at work.  I'm calmer while driving.  I actually feel like playing video games again.  I feel creative again (not only am I still writing, but I'm seriously considering another creative project I've wanted to explore for a long, long time).  Some of the things I've broken may not be fixable, but that's my doing and I'll accept responsibility for it because it's my own stupid fault.  I never should have stopped taking my meds in the first place.  I lost the woman I was prepared to spend the rest of my life with.  What made me think I could handle that by myself?
 
I will own up to my mistakes.  I will own my dysfunction, but I won't beat myself up over it.  In fact, I'm not dealing with anything negative right now.  I've spent so much time worrying about everything else that I've neglected myself, and it's time to refocus.  If I'm not happy, how can I expect other people to be happy around me?  "Yeah, let's hang out with the mopey guy who worries about everything.  That sounds like a lot of fun."
 
Of all the unlikely sources, it was Chris who provided the most poignant advice: "Ignore the sucky stuff.  Look on the bright side, and find something to look forward to every day, no matter how small it is."  I knew there was a reason I kept this guy around!  Each morning I wake up and I think of something to look forward to.  Monday it was finishing up a long overdue video game.  Tuesday it was playing a new one and making myself a decent dinner (for once).  Wednesday it was dinner and shopping with my mom and brother, and so on.  It helps tremendously to think of life as a series of small events - getting an e-mail from Chris that makes me laugh, a game of Hanging with Friends with Ashley, lunch with Kristy or Emily.  These are common occurrences, but they're what make life bearable.  Let's face it, it's a scary world we live in.  If you don't find some way to laugh every day, all you're bound to do is cry. 
 
Will I stumble?  I'm sure I will.  I'm only human.  But I'll recover.  I have an amazing support group, and my belief that I have the greatest friends in the world only gets stronger with each passing day.  They've stuck by me through thick and thin.  They've been there for me, accepted me, and forgiven me.  Quite frankly, they all deserve medals.

This One's For Me

I was recently asked what would make me happy with regards to a career.  What could I see myself doing for the rest of my life that wouldn't make me miserable?  The answer was simple: writing.  But it was the follow-up question that struck me: "What are you doing about that?"

It gave me pause.  I've already blogged about how my self-doubt works its magic and leaves me feeling inadequate with regards to my writing, but that's only part of it.  One of the other key factors is that my brain moves a hundred miles a minute.  I have been woken up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep until I've gotten an idea out of my head.  The notes app on my phone is actually filled with typo-riddled 2 AM brainstorms.

While this should lend itself to a career that is as inherently creative as writing, it also has the detrimental effect of rendering countless projects obsolete as new ideas take over.  On my hard drive, there are no less than eight different stories in varying degrees of completion.  Some are outlines, some are very rough drafts, some are extended passages that have been edited and re-edited possibly dozens of times to the point where I feel they're as good as they're going to get.  The only thing they all have in common is that none of them are finished works.  Some of them date as far back as 2000, including text for a planned graphic novel I was collaborating on with an old friend.

That's just on my personal hard drive.  Somewhere amongst the things I salvaged from the house fire in 2009 are handwritten pages that were never transcribed to my PC, and my Drafts folder in my e-mail at work has a few more roughly constructed ideas.  Then there are the ideas I've been carrying around in my head for years, including an entire collection of horror-themed short stories that I had planned to turn into a collection.  Some of those stories are more than a decade old as well.

Much like my favorite musician, Prince, I often find myself getting bored with old ideas once new ones come along.  While I'm pointing out similarities, writing is, in some ways, like dating.  The best part of writing is typically the beginning - when fresh ideas spill freely and you're typing so fast you can barely keep up with them.  That's when it's really exciting, and after that initial excitement wears off, it becomes a grind.  You still love it deep down, but you get comfortable, complacent, and you start to take it for granted that you can take a night off.  That night off then turns into two, then three, and before you know it, it's a week... Then a month... That's how it always goes for me.  I write so much when I latch onto a new project that I burn myself out. 

Writer's block is a horrible thing, as any writer, aspiring or published, can attest.  There are few things more frustrating to would-be wordsmiths than watching that Goddamn cursor in your word processor of choice blink repeatedly.  It becomes a sign of mockery, but after writing feverishly for several nights in a row, I always find myself staring at it, daring me to continue, and no matter how long I sit there, how hard I wrack my brain, the cursor always wins.

Not anymore.

To quote one of my favorite bands, "I ain't losin'.  Cause this one's for me."

In the last three days, I've begun focusing on my writing again.  Why?  To prove a point.  I'm going to prove that fucking cursor wrong.  I'm going to prove to everyone I can do it and make those who've told me I could all along proud of me.  But most of all, this one's for me.

I'm going to prove it to myself.  Someone else's words - or challenge - may have been the catalyst, but this is for me first and foremost.  If nobody reading this post right now ever reads the finished product, that's OK, for there will be a finished product at least.  If it never gets published, I will at least be able to look at my completed story and say, "I did that, and I can do it again." 

Making a full-time career out of writing is very difficult.  Unless you become a best-seller, chances are it will amount to little more than supplemental career.  I would probably still need to hold down a full-time job, but I would at least be able to temper the frustrations by coming home and doing what I love on my own time (or during my downtime at work, for that matter).  I don't care if it's my career.  I'm going to do this.  For too long I've gotten in my own way.  I've let that vile, heinous cursor mock me.  I've let my doubt cripple me, and I'm not going to accept that anymore.  I deserve better.  I've been through too much shit in the last two years, and I need to do something I can be proud of.  I'm tired of feeling defeated whenever I try my hand at something.  I can accept failure at the hands of something I cannot control, but I cannot continue to accept self-defeat.  Fuck you, cursor!  I've got your number now, and just wait until you see what I've got in store for you.  You'd better be prepared for a workout, because the last three days have been foreplay.  The hot and heavy stuff is still to come.

Yes, I wrote today.  Yes, I'm happy with what I wrote.  Yes, I already know what I'm going to write tomorrow.  Yes, it's still going to take some time - possibly a whole year - because I need to pace myself to avoid burnout, but most importantly: Yes, it will get finished.  Nothing short of my death is going to derail me this time.

I may still take a day or a weekend off, and that's OK.  I can't beat myself up over that.  I'm entitled to that too.  I don't want to become the stereotypical eccentric shut-in we all imagine writers are.  I can still buckle down and do what I need to in order to make a better life for myself without ignoring my friends or my other hobbies.  I just need to manage my time better.  I need to push myself, and if some of you want to push me too, that's fine.  Friends, feel free to kick me in the ass if you ask, "Did you do any writing yesterday?" and I non-chalantly respond, "No."  Mock me.  Challenge me.  Encourage me.  Do whatever you see fit if you think I'm slacking.

I'm gonna do this.  I'm going to prove to myself, to everyone else, and most of all that fucking cursor, that I'm capable of seeing a story through to completion.  If it never sees the light of day, so be it.  I'll try again.  I just need to know I can do it.  I AM GOING TO DO THIS.

"I ain't losin'.  Cause this one's for me."

There's a Reason It's Called the S.O.S.

The Secretary of State is a horrifying, wholly awful place.

What is it about the S.O.S. that makes it the hangout for the trashiest members of society?  I can't explain it, but I have never gone in there without immediately breaking into a cold sweat and thinking, I may not make it out of here alive!

There are several things you can always count on at the Secretary of State.  The first is the incredibly long wait.  It doesn't matter what time you go.  Expect to wait.  If you think you're slick and you're going to waltz in there ten minutes before they close, take them by surprise, and walk out, think again.  About 70 other people had the same idea, and they are all sitting in those cheap plastic chairs with exasperated looks on their faces.

In the interest of being fair, I'm going to defend the S.O.S. employees.  Having worked retail for eight long years prior to my current job, I can assure you with a high degree of certainty that 99 times out of 100, the long line is not the fault of an incompetent employee, but the idiot customer at the front of it.  Either they don't speak English, or they're trying to pay with 4,500 rusty pennies, or they are unprepared for whatever it is they're doing there, or they're complaining about the long wait.

I love the people who think they should be exempt from waiting because they were too lazy to renew their licenses until the last day.  That's my favorite.  It's not as if there are any other options available to you, such as online renewal or handy do-it-yourself touchscreen kiosks.  Oh wait, I'm sorry, those are available options.  Shut up and sit down, asshole.  It's not the employee's fault you're a procrastinator.  I think they should institute a policy of telling customers who believe they should be bumped to the front of the line to write a 2,000 word essay on why they should be moved ahead, mostly because I'm curious how many idiots would actually do it.

Also dependable: Foreign Guy.  I suppose it could be Foreign Lady too, but neither of them speak a word of English and they're applying for a driver's license.  And they'll get one, too, because what I learned from tonight's visit is that the questions they ask you at the DMV don't really mean anything.  It doesn't matter how many you get wrong, they'll keep asking until you get enough right to pass.  Failed the eye test?  Eh, no biggie.  You don't really need to see that well while driving.  As long as you can make out the large blurry objects moving around you are cars, you're good to go. 

Perhaps the strangest thing you can count on is sweatpants.  Sweatpants are big at the DMV, in more ways than one.  I guess people figure they're going to be there a while, so they may as well be comfortable, but in the whole of recorded history there has never been a larger collection of dirty, stained, frayed, and tattered sweatpants than at any given time in the Secretary of State.  It's almost like a required uniform.  I feel like I'm being ostracized by the Swamp People that occupy that place for "wearin' them fancy blue jeans and collared shirts."  I'm sorry, but my NASCAR shirt is currently being used to plug an oil leak under my car.

Then there's that person that always wants to talk to you.  Why?  Why must you torment me?  I don't care how long you've been waiting, or about your foot infection, or your views on the current President and how the wait is all his fault.  Please let me wait in relative peace and quiet.  You aren't the only person in the world, or even in the room, being made to wait and you are not that important.  Also, would it kill you to shower once in a while?  Cologne or perfume is not the same as soap, and they do not mask your hideous body odor.  Instead, it mingles with your stank (yes, that's right, "stank") and forms a noxious compound that could be used in chemical warfare.

As I sat there in my own chair, watching the gargantuan woman in front of me impatiently rocking back and forth in hers, wondering just how much longer it could hold out before snapping and sending her spilling backwards on top of me, crushing me to death, I knew the true meaning of fear.  I survived tonight's trip to the S.O.S., but I'm a changed man.  When you look death straight in the eye and only narrowly escape, well... an experience like that changes you forever. 

The Power of Self-Doubt

Self-doubt is a powerful thing.  It's a powerful, horrible, and incredibly irritating thing.

I have a love/hate relationship with writing.  It has been a dream of mine to be a novelist for more than half my life, dating back to my love affair with fantasy novels and video games.  My early attempts were little more than derivative knockoffs of existing works or really bad adaptations of video game stories.  Over the years, my writing and my vocabulary have improved and matured, but what has not followed suit are my self-confidence and my motivation.

I never finish anything.  This stems from my innate ability to doubt myself, even under the best circumstances.  I could show my work to dozens of people and receive unanimous praise, but I still wouldn't be satisfied.  My self-doubt is so great, it's practically a superpower. 

Very few people have ever been privy to my attempts at serious writing.  In fact, I think the number currently sits at one.  She's someone I respect greatly and whose opinion I value, both as a friend and an exceptional writer herself, yet when she tells me I have "mad writing skillz" and that my work is great, I brush off her compliments and assume she's placating me.

Last night I was going through some of my half-finished works and I realized something: I was actually pleased with a lot of it.  As I re-read one particular story for the umpteenth time, it struck me that I was simply reading it.  Not editing it, apart from a few spelling and grammatical errors I noticed, or fixing minor plotholes, and not changing it drastically.  This is atypical when proofreading myself.  Like George Lucas, I am never happy with my work and am constantly changing it, and it could be debated whether it's for better or worse. 

While reading said story, a flood of ideas came to me and I found myself excited briefly, but there was one thing that kept nagging at me: It's not my idea. 

The story in question is based on a concept from David Bowie.

In 1995, Bowie released an album titled Outside.  Originally the first part of a planned trilogy, the album's initial critical and commercial failure ultimately led to the project apparently being abandoned (no mention of the follow ups, Contamination or Afrikaan, has been made since 2003, and Bowie has released several albums since). 

The album's liner notes contained a short story, written by Bowie himself, detailing the phenomenon of Art-Crime, an underground craze where murder and mutilation have become a somewhat legitimate form of art.  It was the lead character's job to determine what was categorized as legal and illegal. 

Seeing potential for a great story, I took this concept and ran with it, began to flesh it out.  My story deals with themes of xenophobia, censorship, loneliness and companionship, our primal urges, and the decline of society.  The depravity of Art-Crime has been accepted by a section of the populace, while others have begun to view all art - music, film, books, sculpture, painting, even culinary arts, etc. - as destestable.  It's a somewhat (OK, considerably) dark social commentary about where we could be headed wrapped up in a grim science fictiony story.

I do not write linearly.  I usually start with the ending, or at least a rough outline of one, so I know where I want the story to go, but then I jump around and write random sections, eventually piecing them all together in order.  As I was editing three sections together last night, surprisingly pleased with myself, I still found myself thinking, This will never get published.

My reasons for thinking this are numerous: 1. It's not my idea, and I have a feeling David Bowie isn't exactly easy to get ahold of; 2. It's good for me, but it's not good; 3. I'll never finish it as a direct result of items 1 and 2.

It's like a roundabout, in that it's an unending circle and it's stupid.  If Stephanie Meyer can get that garbage called Twilight published, anything should be possible, right?  But in the end, the story will most likely sit on my hard drive, doomed to the same fate as the other dozen or so that reside there and have for many, many years (in some cases, even being transferred from old computers to new ones).  Why?  Because I doubt myself, and nothing anybody says ever seems to change that. 

Fatman & Blobbin'

I'm fat.

That's right, I said it.  I'm a Fatty McFatFat.  I know it, and even though you're probably too polite to agree, you know it too.  And you know what?  I'm OK with that.

You see, I'm on the Happiness Diet.  I eat what I want, and I'm happy.  It may not do wonders for my cholesterol, but that's why Lipitor was invented!  Viva Lipitor! 

There are times, however, just little fleeting, temporary moments when I feel shame.  Usually, it's when other people point it out and I'm forced to hang my head like a scolded dog.  Then I roll my shame in caramel and powdered sugar and I eat that too.

It might surprise you to learn that I often skip eating lunch.  I'd like to tell you it's because I'm just not hungry, but we all know that would never, ever be true.  Sometimes it's because I don't want to spend the money, but most of the time it's because I'm simply too lazy to go anywhere.  If I vacate my premium, early-morning parking space, some asshole will inevitably take it, which just makes me have to walk my fat ass even farther when I re-enter the building and when I leave at the end of the day.  So you see, in a roundabout way, I don't eat because I'm fat and lazy.

One night Deborah and I went to Texas Roadhouse, which was one of her favorite restaurants.  I ordered my usual chicken critters, which are really just chicken tenders with a slightly off-putting name that suggests they're some sort of mutant chicken creature.  Typically, Texas Roadhouse's entrees are on the hefty side, but this was one of those days where I hadn't eaten lunch and I polished off my plate.  Stuffed and satisfied, the waitress returned to our table and offered this observation, "Wow!  I've never seen anyone eat the whole plate before!"  Which is the same as saying, "Wow, you ate the whole plate, fatass!"

Thanks, waitress!  Thanks for your candor!  That was awesome the way you took away my dignity like that, ha ha ha...  Let's see how much of your tip I take away in return!  One dollar, two dollars, three dollars...

Part of my problem is my lack of self-control.  And my love of bacon.  And cheese.  But mostly my lack of self-control.  I cannot resist certain things.  If there is chocolate involved, chances are 100% I will accept it.  You could offer me chocolate covered testicles and I'd be like, "But there is chocolate, right?"

So when a coworker's birthday rolled around, she brought in a cake to share with the office.  She went to everyone's desk and asked them if they wanted a piece.  She got to my desk and said, "You want a piece of cake, don't you, Matt?"  Note the assumption.  She saw a fat guy, trying to pretend he wasn't as excited as a kid at Christmas when he spotted cake coming his way, and essentially said, "You want this, don't you, fatty?"  Shame.  I was shamed.  Shamed and offended!

(I took the cake.  But I frowned while doing so.*)

(*I did not frown.  I was too busy eating cake.)

I used to be skinny.  At one time.  Many, many moons ago.  If you don't believe me, here is proof (blurry proof, but proof nonetheless):

 
Unfortunately, we had to say goodbye to the old Matt after he was eaten by the new Matt, along with the person whose arm is in the photo.