Cleaning out my closet

Yeah, that's right. Eminem ain't got shit on me.

Just kidding, Mr. Nem. Please don't shoot me. 

In my last update, I mentioned that I had a few posts which I never got around to completing. I thought it might be cathartic for me, and amusing for you, for me to touch upon the two I liked the best, but realistically will probably never finish. Maybe if I feel like I have a clean slate in regards to creative failures, new creativity can start breeding like rabbits inside my noggin. (Note to self: Advance science; replace brain with bunnies.)

So! Let's get these sad, neglected posts out in the open, shall we? It'll be just like confession all over again, except a bit more random, if that's even possible.

For the first of the two posts, I'd like to preface by saying I would never actually do meth. But I did draw a picture of me contemplating it. I had some brain issues earlier this year. Yes, legitimate, medical brain issues, not "you drew a picture of Hitler banging my mom, what is wrong with you" brain issues. It turned out to be hemiplegic migraines, which suck every dick in the land. But considering the scary bullshit we ruled out, I'll bend over and take it any day.

Anyway, while we were trying to figure out why the fuck I was limping around like a stroke patient and unable to form three-word sentences, I was trying other things, such as vitamins, diet change, a slew of expensive tests, and worst of all, eliminating caffeine, in an attempt to understand and control what was happening.

As you may or may not know, I don't actually have blood coursing through my veins, but rather a frothy mixture of Mountain Dew and coffee. This is beneficial because I don't sleep well and because the carbonation tickles my heart valves. So when I was without caffeine for those horrible few weeks, I was desperately jonesing for something to keep my unhappy ass awake. I started making a list of comparable substitutes in a failed post called "Being Proactive," which included items such as duct-taping a bullhorn to my forehead (for when I slumped over at my desk) and lighting myself on fire (self explanatory,) but the only item on the list I ever got around to illustrating was Meth.

The hemiplegic migraines are under control now, and I did not have to resort to ingesting happy little meth crystals to make it happen. I'd call that a success.

The second post which deserved its day in the sun was about an awesomely terrible idea I once had involving Coca Cola, Bill Cosby, and fourteen pounds of pudding. Rather than try to explain the post, I'm just going to give you what I had accomplished so far. Heads up: I left it at a real cliff-hanger, as far as the pictures go.

This may come as a shock to all long-time readers, but occasionally, I've been known to make very stupid decisions. This is one such story.

I know not everyone who reads will know what Sam's Club is, and frankly, I'm not sure how to describe it in a way that will do it justice. Sam's is an exclusive treasure trove of goods, accessible for members only. It's grocery store on steroids. It's a beautiful, in-bulk wonderland of superfluous spending. They sell everything you could ever want, in quantities no normal human being should even imagine, let alone need. In a way, it's everything America stands for.

A few years ago, my friends Brian and Paul, who were living together (platonically, as far as I know) decided to obtain a membership to Sam's Club, in an attempt to buy in bulk once in a great while, and then go months without grocery shopping. This served not only their benefit, but my own, as members of Sam's Club were allowed to bring one non-member with them. I was lucky enough, on several occasions, to be their +1. I still remember being wrapped in a warm, fluorescent blanket of wonder as I stepped through those automatic doors and feasted my eyes around the dozens of rows, not knowing where to start.

One day, while tagging along in Sam's with my friend Brian, something caught my eye. I mean, everything in this store is huge, don't get me wrong. But this.... this was a thing of pure beauty. I felt like I was looking, for a brief, fleeting moment, into the very eyes of god.

....The god of pudding.

Bippin' and the boppin' and the boooooooooooo....

And that's where the post stopped. "What happened? WHAT HAPPENED? Did you buy the fucking pudding? Did you wrestle in it? Tell me!" scream the masses of readers at this point. Well, I'll tell you.

Being the genius I was, I reasoned that because "my stomach was about the size of this can," (Aka, my torso was, and I really had no idea what the fuck I was talking about,) that I could easily devour this monstrosity in one sitting. I begged Brian for a while, and he eventually obliged. "Okay, so we'll get a can," he conceded.
"We'll get a can each," I corrected.
"Yeah, each! Look!" *holds 7 lbs of pudding to my stomach "It should totally fit in there."

I don't know how or why I convinced him that this was the best course of action, but as a public service announcement: Friends don't let friends attempt to eat seven fucking pounds of pudding. I don't care how much you think you love it, it simply cannot be done. And by god, we certainly gave it the old college try.

We got to the check out with 14 pounds of pudding and a 24pack of glass bottles of Coke (Because, you know, fizzy carbonation + excessive dairy product = a good idea, always.) The check out lady just kind of looked at us for a minute, and eventually asked "...Big night ahead?" No, bitch, we're buying this because we're playing it safe.

We sat down with our Coca Cola, cans of pudding, and Bill Cosby stand-up. We got about twenty minutes in before we realized we had made a horrible, horrible mistake. We had foregone a party that evening just to devour pudding, and were now wishing we hadn't. The compromise was that we would abandon our plans and go to the party, but, we had to take the pudding with us and finish it there.

There is one known photograph of this night in existence, taken at said party.

Yeah, I know, the outfit was hideous. I was going through a phase. Leave me alone.

What actually happened instead of finishing the pudding at the party was that we tried to eat as much as possible over the next week, but with every passing day, every spoonful of increasingly-hateful chocolate death that passed our lips, the task grew more and more impossible. Eventually it got all watery and gross, and we probably tossed out at least 10-12 pounds of it.

I have not been to Sam's Club since.

So there you have it - my two biggest regrets, as far as failed posts. I have a few other pictures that didn't even make it into failed-post form, and have no idea what I might have wanted to use them for.

There's this one:

This was likely for some religious debate.

And then there's this one I drew of Nicki Minaj at some point:

And then there's this one, which I obviously can't take credit for, but that is hysterical to me, so I'm throwing it in here anyway:

I love tacos.

Alright. *deep breath.* I feel absolved of my sins, and like my closet is sufficiently cleaned out, for now. Will this actually help my creative process and result in more regular posts? *shrugs.* One way to find out, bitches. Stay tuned!

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My blog has a sad. My brain has a pbbbbtb.

Sometimes, I feel sorry for my little blog, here. We started off so hopeful and energetic and eager to please the masses.

But, as life has a tendency to do, my ambitions became stifled over time with real-world business, obligations, illnesses, and all the other lovely things that make up life. And thus, my blog began accumulating cobwebs in the corner, crying out for love and attention, and adding to that ever-lengthening list of shit I'd rather be doing, and never have time or energy to actually do.

Everyone has their own burdens and issues, and I try to remind myself often that mine pale in comparison to so many. And for that reason, I did not (and do not, and will not ever) want my blog to become one of those poor-me, self-indulgent venues.

All of that said, however, it's hard to flip that switch. It's hard to want to sit down and be creative when one's mind is bogged down. And I feel like mine's been bogged down for a long time.

I have so many half-finished, half-written, half-illustrated, or otherwise half-assed posts that I've never published here. My creativity and brain in general feel like an ultra-tightly-tangled ball of yarn. Every once in a while, I'll find the end, start pulling, and get excited when I make a little headway. But an inch or two in (giggity,) it stops unraveling easily, and the string I thought might actually pull free with ease disappears into an indecipherable knot. Whatever it was that used to motivate me to keep unraveling it no longer finds me easily, assuming it does at all. It's very frustrating.

"Oh, just do it, you crybaby pussface," you may be thinking to yourself. It never ceases to amaze me that people think it's that simple for everyone. How is it that we can believe stupid cliches, like "Each snowflake is unique" or "No two Doritos have the same amount of seasoning," (mmm, Doritos...) and yet, when it comes to the inner workings of our brains - the most intricate, fascinating, mysterious, unique, indecipherable little fuckers on the planet - suddenly, everyone has the exact same ability to carry on as everyone else?

Spoiler alert: We don't. And I need to learn to stop beating myself up for it.

I don't have an endgame for this post, and there's no particular point I'm trying to make, really. But I wanted to throw this all out there. It's probably more for my own benefit than anything.

Maybe I'll be back soon, maybe not. Either way... I'm sorry for abandoning you for so long, Meteoroflgy. I'll try to do better. *hugs computer screen*

I'll try to do better.