Welcome To My Hell

Now, lets be clear right away. This random tangent likely arose from a combination of falling asleep and waking up at 3:15AM, playing the new Penny-Arcade game, not getting to race this evening, followed then by standard web browsing…For standard stuff. On the web. That isn’t porn.

…Seriously, it wasn’t porn.

If it were porn it’s likely I wouldn’t be able to hold interest in the topic of sex for more then a second and this post would not exist.

I saw an ad for Trojan condoms, and I got thinking back to the good old awful days of middle/high school. For you 80’s babies: Do you remember a time before you were having sex and possession of a condom was taboo, parhaps strange, yet cooler then hell? They were like having a seemingly rare sought after item. Condoms at that age were priceless items worth about a dollar. I remember all the creative places I had known friends to hide them even if sex wasn’t something yet on their weekly agenda. (The battery compartment on an old radio being my favorite.) People collected them like they were the fucking pogs of the generation. Ring shaped impressions on wallets were badges of honor for some reason. (Ironically being a resounding sign of ignorance as well.) No one ever used them. They would just packrat a many as they could get their hands on “Just in case.”. Yeah right. Everyone knew that said case would not come to pass anytime soon. And certainly by the time it did, we were aware of the impending event at least hours in advance.

Sex died. I think. Either that, or myself and others have become completely desensitized in the sheer saturation of sex. It’s everywhere. I can’t logon to MySpace without someone I’ve never met trying to pries my money from my wallet via a vagina. You can’t escape it. Hell, you can’t even read some 22 year old’s blog without running into it. Eh?

It’s almost upsetting. I’d love more then anything to be able to ‘turn sex off’, so to speak, for just one week or something. One week where I wasn’t reminded by a bus stop advertisement that I was not a member of the group of roughly 20 million people who were currently having sex. And quite honestly, I don’t want to be. Not that I’m opposed to the idea. But can’t I be sexual on my own time and of my own free will?

It kind of makes me connect on a very minimal level with some conservatives on the matter. In their day, sex was much different. Even if you don’t like their ideas, you have to at least acknowledge the fact that those views were cemented in before most of them were twenty. In an age where sex was not exactly table conversation in the same way that it is today. I’m almost certain that I’m experiencing the same shock they do. You know, that whole “What the hell happened?!” sort of feeling. If you want to better understand the feeling I speak of, find some music that you grew up with from the ages of 12 to 18. Now turn on the radio to any Hip-Hop station… See?

In today’s fast paced internet driven frenzy of a society, ideas and values change fast. The ideological evolution of the human species had been put on fast forward with a hint of methamphetamine. It used to be that things were “in” or “cool” for about 5 years. Now they are cool for about 5 weeks. Sometimes 5 minutes. Styles would change over the decades. You referred to old styles of clothing as “60’s” or “80’s”. However, now we refer to old styles as 2002, or 2004. I think those women’s peasant shirts with the flowing sleeves made it about 8 months before the next big thing came along. Had that style come to fruition twenty years ago they would have probably been the next poodle skirt.

If I had to point blame. I’d place it squarely on the shoulders of technology. Break ups over the phone. Couples sending texts to each other more often then they see the other in person. Sexual encounters with strangers are choreographed on the internet. We have no time anymore. We need that gratification, and we need it right now. Tomorrow we will need more gratification and we will need it even faster. And it is the internet that is feeding our addiction.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my computer. I love the internet. Together they are responsible for my having a job. Understand that I do not consider technology to be evil, though I do believe that many recent technologies influence human nature in a way that degrades the overall quality of our human existence. The price we pay for speed and convenience is that of being forced to dehumanize regular social interaction. Is it worth it?

It only makes sense that sex’s social standing would change faster then some others. With an instant delivery system like the internet, coupled with the fact that sex always was, and still is one the best topics of conversation, no matter the tautological repetition of the well known procedure, stories with details of a drunk party with your ex and her best friend trying to talk into wearing a dress in exchange for a blowjob from both of them — *ahem* — never get boring.

Like a fine wine. — This weekend. Ah… An excellent year. We had just got back from a meal at Texas Roadhouse. A rather noisy (given) and uncomfortable meal. The cause likely being somewhere between throwing up an antibiotic and it being painful to eat with my recent dental work.

So last Saturday, both me and my counterpart Vann could practically taste it. It was the first day of the year where the temperature had broken 80 degrees. The cars were out. I knew without a doubt that State St. (A popular cruising/racing road) would be absolutely crawling with scores of 18 to 20 something drivers looking to show everyone who swings the big dick.

We both were thinking it. But we were both hesitant after having thoroughly renounced illegal racing as well as agreeing that the risks and dangers far outweighed the fleeting feeling of showing someone you’ll never see again that you are better then they are. We both agreed that the people who cruised State were the ones with insecurities about they’re position in the laughable weekly totem pole of the illegal racing scene.

Then, of course, we snapped back to reality. “Wait a minute! WE swing the big dick. Let us go hence and prove it to them with a motorized vehicle!” (Too many people these day trying to stick it to their fellow man with possessions, women, and success. Get with it people.)

Boredom? Check.
Raging unspent testosterone? Check.
Perceived emasculation by social sanction and outcast? Check.
A tangible means to which we can vent this unspoken indignation? Check.

It was worse then I thought. About 11:00 PM. You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a turbocharged car. It was greatly gratifying and equally disappointing to find that there was next to no ricers out. All of the cars that were bold enough to risk losing their car or a good deal of money were all pretty new/fast/expensive. Vann was rocking the GTO; It was most worthy boasting an LS2 engine.

It was a new and interesting feeling. My first thought was “Yay! No riced out cars on State tonight! Wooo! We’re going to have some real racing!” followed very quickly by “Wait a minute, who am I going to make fun of?”

We probably only saw one or two cars that evening that were mexi’d out with the popular (loud exhaust + rims = 250WHP)mentality. I too am guilty of possessing such a vehicle. But God knows I don’t try to race it.

We also had ran across a White Jetta with not a shred of Dynamat in his “sound system” equiped vehicle. His trunk was vibrating worse then an old car on bad gas going uphill. Everyone around us was starting at him in amazement. Maybe it was he who truly ruled the road that night. As far as he thought at least. He had no shame at all about looking like the biggest douche on the road. I want to be that guy. I think he won the content as far as truly realizing that he doesn’t know any of these people and wouldn’t have to worry about it in the morning.

Night rolls on. Drags to 40 MPH. Engine revs. Nothing serious. But then we came to realize that we were at a red light with red and black GTO’s on both sides, three abreast. Naturally at that point a race was pretty much mandatory.

Now for those who haven’t done it. Racing on a street that you KNOW has a police cruiser around every corner and intersection. It’s quite amazing how the adrenaline and feeling of duty over powers your sense of reason. In your head you quickly run a simple logic: “If I get caught, I could lose my car, my job (truck driver), and pay a lot of money. If I don’t, I can show this no-name guy whom I will never see again that I’m a better driver then he is.”

The answer is obvious to those who do it.

Race.

Now, on the street it’s the adrenaline rush and possibility of getting busted.
On the track the feeling is a bit more intense… The sound of the burnout, the smell of hot oil, mixed with the acrid smell of tire smoke, and the strangely sweet smell of racing gas fumes overloads the senses. Spectators and crewmen near the starting line, lean away from the ever increasing noise, wincing, with fingers in their ears. You look over to your opponent. He looks inhuman strapped down by the mesh of belts. Dehumanized with his crash helmet and tinted visor. You wonder how such a fragile human can look so merged into such a powerful machine. Deep down, this is truly frightening at an instinctual level.
This is why track racing is the best in any case.

Green Light. The three of us take off. A modified LS1, and two stock LS2’s. Dead even up to 50.

60.

70. We pull ahead.

80 MPH.

– Now if the adrenaline from the race wasn’t enough. The somersault that the faithful glands on top of your kidneys do as you fly past two cops going the other direction and seeing their roof lights fire up will make you nearly vomit on the spot.

At this point my pilot doesn’t see them. I believe I informed yelled at him to get to the next intersection and turn about 8 times before it really registered why.

The potential consequences finally click. Throttle open. We’re screaming to the next intersection, I have my head backwards waiting for the headlights of the cars to come into our side of the road. Both police cars spin around and come after us with clear intent. Before I know it we take the hardest right turn I think has ever been taken in the car. I have my head spun around the whole time looking for headlights that might come around the corner. The Black GTO turns off. We pass. One GTO is a possibility. Two of them would have been a dead giveaway.

Next road. We turn into a building, wing the car around the back. Engine off. Lights off. Silent as the dead. Sitting without movement as if a whisper would have given us away.

5 minutes of terror and we finally start to calm. “If they we’re going to find us, they’d have found us by now.”

Moral of the story:
Racing is fun. Track racing is fun. Illegal Racing is fun but with many dangers and too much risk. If you are not willing to lose your license, car, and a good deal of money, don’t do it. For those of you who are: Maybe I’ll see you next week.

But how you ask?

Well Timmy, it’s really quite simple. Allow me to give you an example.

Legend:
House A: Where my grandmother lives.
House B: Where the new neightbor lives
Red Line: Property line between the two houses.
Yellow Box: The section of grass that the neighbor refuses to mow because he thinks that the property line is the end all be all of his lawn and it isn’t his responsibility.
Blue Dot: Delicious Cake

Now in the neighbor’s defense, he’s right. It isn’t his responsibility to mow that section of the grass if he doesn’t want to. It is on my grandma’s side of the property line. However, I’ve always been a big fan of going out of your way to do a good thing, or just show some human to human courtesy. But it seems that the neighbor is diliberately going out of his way to be an asshole by not mowing a portion of his lawn that is part of the same patch of grass as the rest of his yard.

So — I mowed his entire lawn. It’s simply priceless that in this way I can be nice to someone, while at the same time sending them a clear and obvious message to go fuck themselves.

I got a couple emails the other day asking me how I got the idea for the domain name ‘welcometomyhell.com’. Allow me to fill you in.Â

Jamie, Cassie and Ciena. You three get to be my examples since I have pictures of you. If that’s a problem, let me know.

Alright. I just want to let you all in on the hell that is my life really quick. These are three of about six or seven girls that I see (or did see) on a regular basis. Everywhere I go, the club, the bar, etc. I am usually escorted by one of these fine specimens. (And believe me, those pictures do no justice. The way Ciena looked tonight at Area 51 and Dee’s, drew so many eyes it was getting annoying.) Anyway, it’s not unusual to see me come with one and leave with another. However, no one is ever wise to the fact that I have absolutely no romantic involvement with any one of them. When people are not whispering about me amongst each other, saying things like “He’s gotta be gay.” or “He must have money.” I’ll have guys ask me: “How do you do it?”

I have my inital reaction of wanting to hit them as hard as I can out of the pent up frustration, and then I tell them that I don’t have any kind of relationship with any of them past platonics. See, we’ve all been sexually frustrated. But it’s not the same as it is for everyone else as it is for me. The girls I hang out with are all either 8’s, 9’s, or I dare say 10’s. I don’t know my appeal, I just make a good ‘guy friend’. I endure constant flirting, innuendos, confidence, intmacy, as well as just having to look at them all day without any sort of release what so ever. It’s miserable to say the least. Try this: Accompany one of these girls shopping for revealing clothing sometime, and see how many times you can answer the question “How does this one look?” before flipping out and hitting yourself in the face. (to distract from the pain). Sometimes, it gets so bad that the only time I can take my attention off my penis is when I’m in my car. (Which oddly enough, is in the shop tonight. So maybe that’s why I’m just a little bit worse off this evening.)

The moral? None. But all you people bitching about being the “best friend” have no concept of what that can be like on a scale larger then one person. So allow me to get you a straw so you can suck it the fuck up.

So there you have it. Welcome to my hell.

I ditched out on Area 51’s fetish night to hang out with my friend Mike and some others. He’s leaving for Arizona soon so we kind of got everyone together for a “Lets rip on Mike H-core one last time so we can remind him why he’s leaving”. Lots of fun, lots of bullshitting. The kind of thing you wish you did every weekend. And for those of you who are, you need to go to school.

After that, I went to see some old friends. Heather A. and Odette.

I’ll keep this piece of wisdom quite brief.
Wine is a creeper. It’s not like hard alcohol. Once you feel it, it’s only just started. Moderation people. Moderation.

I wrote this back in March of last year for an ex friend. I stumbled on it today and felt a repost was in order.

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It starts innocently enough. You see your her at the club. No big deal, even if you did sense some chemistry when she arrived. And even if she’s beautiful, or she’s smart, or witty. None of that matters because she has a boyfriend. Or you have a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or you’re a pussy.Â

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“Whatever,” you sigh. “There’s time.”

And there is time, but of the ‘passing quickly’ variety. You hang out each night, but nothing comes of it—least of all you. Naturally you play it down when the week is up and she says goodbye, leaving you with a hug and an O.C. season’s worth of sexual tension.

“Whatever,” you tell yourself. “There are other fish in the sea.”

And there are. But none have that enchanting smile. That cute laugh. An ass and legs from which all future asses and legs should be molded. You can’t shake the thought. Sitting around food at Denny’s with the guys, the question gets asked:

“If you could bang any chick, who would it be?” The answers are the standard predictable celebrities. It’s your turn now…

“Her,” you say, prompting groans. Someone calls you a fag. You crumple into the corner. Like a suppressed Gestalt (Psychology majors) or a debilitating case of blue balls (everyone else), that missed connection lingers, haunting you.

After days, weeks, months of platonic hugs, and fruitless fooling around. You finally straight up ask her. Only to realize that she’s not in one. Hey, no kidding, neither are you. You buy her some food, and offer the usual yet sincere praise of the way she looks. But to you they’re just a formality. After countless months, it doesn’t matter that you’re both half-unwilling. You could both be half dead and it wouldn’t temper that passion. You do something you never do and make the move.

The rest of the morning is a blur. You note that she has an beautiful smile but the moment opportunity knocks, you’re making out against the wall, against her doorway, on her desk, in her bed. Things escalate without reservation, because you’ve both been simulating this event every night since you met. You know exactly what to do. Repeatedly.

You wake up the afternoon in a strange house with vague recollections of the morning’s events. Initially you blame yourself for getting too desperate and sexually frustrated, but then you realize that it wasn’t the drunkenness of lust that caused the fog, but rather the passion. The love. ‘Mushin no shin’. everything happened so quickly that you were unable to process the minutia. What remains is a composite of the event. A mere mental highlight reel that you skim through as she gets out of bed and walks around. At that moment, everything is really fucking awesome.

After some pleasantries and an hug, she leave’s. You walk back to your car. Rather, you float. You float leaving the house, and you float during the car ride back home.

Later the guys ask why you’re floating. — “Her,” you say, prompting groans. Someone calls you a fag. You don’t talk to the guys again for the rest of the week. You don’t need to. You’ve got your own personal in-drive video, a greatest-hits collection, to keep you occupied.

Months later, you wake up in the middle of the night. Something isn’t right. Instinctively, you think back to her—just as you have every night for a half of a year, since the highlight reel doesn’t cut it anymore. The knowledge that you’ve had the one girl who got away, no longer provides you with pleasure. The satisfaction of that one morning at your place is gone.

In its place is another specter, but one that you can’t seem to identify. Is it the lingering wraith of a disappointing over-anticipated hook-up? Or are you haunted by the spirit of the person who was, is, and could of been? Or the real person that wasn’t, isn’t, and never will be?

As you quiver alone in the night, trying to capture whatever it is that lurks, you absent-mindedly scratch your junk. Just as you have every night for a week. And then it hits you. You’re possessed by something, all right. You sigh and continue to rub yourself, letting your head fall back against the pillow as the final thought of her flashes:

Man, what a bitch.

Yes. Shampoo.

See I was in the shower just a second ago washing my — hair. And I noticed that they have some of the damnedest things on the side of hair product bottles. A few examples followed by a quick rant:

Pantene Pro-V -Â “35% more fullness” or “95% less frizz” and also “Gently cleanses hair for a healthy balance.”
A balance of what exactly?
And how in the hell would you scientifically measure these facts? Last I checked, ‘fullness’ and ‘frizz’ were not standardized measurements.

L’Oreal – “With Hydra-Proteins.”
First off. I’d like to say I’m ashamed of myself for bothering to spell and punctuate the brand name correctly.
Anyway. When I break down the words “Hydra” and “Protein” I can’t help but picture L’Oreal pumping bull semen into their products on the assembly line.

Garnier Fructis -Â “Active Fruit Concentrate.”
Active as in acidic? *shrug*

Suave – “With Nexxus*” or” With Redken*”
Now this one was my favorite because rather then trying to bullshit people using a seemingly meaningless concoction of made up words that the population has come to relate to hair care, they just went straight to the designer name dropping.

I’d say the only bottle of shampoo I didn’t see trying to feed me a line of bullshit was the Head and Shoulders shampoo. It just said “Dandruff shampoo.” That’s it. No distractions. No bullshit. No Volumizing-Hydrating-Fortifying-Cream-With 6.02×10^23 essential vitamins and nutrients formula. I like that.

I think all shampoo bottles should simply say something to the effect of “Hair cleaning/fragrance gel that smells like *insert herbal or fruit bearing plant here*” If they’re going to insult my intelligence, I’d rather them condescend to me rather then trying to lie to me.

Never again am I going to buy any shampoo that has the word ‘hydrating’ anywhere on the bottle.

Really quickly, allow me to put this one to rest once and for all. Hair is made up from dead skin cells. The primary component in the dead skin that makes up hair is Keratin. Keratin is a fibrous INSOLUBLE protein. As in, it doesn’t dissolve in water. Your hair needs to be hydrated about as much as your fingernails do. (Being the same and everything.) So next time your hair feels dry, rather then washing all the natural oils off of it, try not washing your hair for a day. You may be surprised.

Or was it Go ask Alice? I forget.

So today I received an email from an old highschool acquaintance who shall remain nameless. Unless of course I wanted to publically embarrass her. Nah, I’m not that evil.

Anyway, I was asked a very interesting and very forward question.

“How do you give a good handjob?”

 – Needs to know how to give a a good handjob.

Dear, Needs to…yeah.

I often get questions such as this for reasons that I am completely unaware of. What the hell made you all think I’m some kind of sex therapist? Not that I mind, I love this kind of crap. However, this was just too priceless to answer via the privacy of email. So although I am not going to mention your name, I will however cause you to make the most priceless face that I wish I could be there to see.

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So here it is everyone, Jeffrey’s guide to giving a good handjob:

Step #1: Use your mouth.

Note: I know it’s 4:00 AM. And this rant is sporadic and perhaps won’t make sense to some. Unfortunately I haven’t the articulate tongue or writing ability that my good friend Vann does. So bear with me. First a quote.

“In the world I see – you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You’ll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You’ll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you’ll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway.”

-Tyler Durden, Fight Club

Technology is ruining the way people should communicate and relate.

Text messages, IM’s, Cell Phones.

Now. Now. Now. We want it all, and we want it right now. We can’t wait for anything anymore. It’s doesn’t matter what it is — even relationships! People no longer have time to go out, and learn about a person anymore. Instead we communicate online, where there is no tone of voice, no context, no eye contact, no touching, no demeanors, physical or visual cues. No interpersonal interaction on a real world plane what so ever. I’m guilty of the same thing. Almost every single female with which I am friends with now, I slept with before I even knew their last names. We all have to have it right now. Let’s fuck, and then afterwards, we’ll learn each others’ names, and be friends. All thanks to the internet.

We have clocks on every wall of our homes, TV’s in our cars, and camera’s in our phones.

Why speak in person when we can communicate via an Instant Message? In person where I can communicate information and learn about you. But where I can not build rapport, or have the too often overlooked benefits that accompany talking to someone in person.

Is the answer so simple as to just talk to someone in person? Ten years ago, yes it was. But now, you can no longer talk to people in person. Try asking someone from the age of 15 to 22 a personal question and see what happens. I doubt you’ll get more then a weird or anxious look from someone my age if you asked them what they like to do in their free time. Even if it was in an appropriate setting and context. I am honestly scared to think of what it’s going to be like to try and build any kind of relationship ten years from now.

Arguments. Problems. Friction. Things of that nature. People always want to seem to address these things online. The chances of actually being able to successfully address and resolve an issue between two people online is near impossible. I’ve seen it a thousand times. At anytime, either party can stop talking, they can leave, they can lie. Although people should be addressing concerns such as these in person, they never do.

Most people I know will not say a thing about themselves unless it is via an electronic medium. Some claim that it is because they are shy. Which is valid. However, I am shy myself. I used to be so shy, that I couldn’t be in a room of more then 2 people without feeling anxious and wanting to leave. To this day I struggle with the same problem. But I refuse to hide behind the internet, where emotion and reality is void. Because I being someone who got over his shyness, I know that as long as you have the cover of an electronic medium to hide behind, the shyness with never go away. It doesn’t matter if you’re making friends, finding a mate, interviewing for a job… At one point, you are going to have to make yourself vulnerable. And accept that there is a possibilty that you could be rejected or hurt.

As much as I’ve tried to beat them. I can’t, and have been forced to instead, join them. I have your proof in the fact that the only way I can ever hope to convey this message to more then three people is via a website. I assure you all. Convenience is not without it’s price. It’s a shame it will likely be too late before the world realizes this fact. Ten bucks says I can find a publishing from someone just like me, 50 years ago warning people of what would come of our addiction to fossil fuels…

In person and in reality, doors can be shut, voices can be raised, feelings can be hurt, and deceit is much more difficult.

Things that my generation grow more and more incapable of handling.

“Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing.”

What in the hell provokes people to wake up. and shoot off a text message to every person in their phone, telling them Happy New Years, Happy Valentines Day, Or Happy Monday?!

Because I don’t know about you guys, but I know how much I love being woke up by my phone five times in a hour and having someone let me know what the day is. “It’s Valentines Day?! No Shit?! It’s a good thing you took the time out of your day to let me know, and annoy me at the same time! Thank you!!”

At which point I call them up and let them know how thankful I am that they reminded me of the holiday. God forbid I don’t know it’s: New Years Day when I have no plans; Valentines Day when I’m single; And Monday when Heroes in on.

I have from time to time made referrences to the “Red Sky”. I think only one person really knows what I mean when I say it. The Red Sky is a term that I have attached to the emotion that comes with the synergistic hell of ultimate betrayal and confoundment.

I named it after an analogy I once used to try and describe the emotions and feelings that come with the realization that something you have considered for so long to be the truth, is not the truth at all.

For example. If I ask you, “What color is the sky?” You would say blue without hesitation. As you know, it is blue. You’ve known this trivial fact your entire life. It is a given. That’s the way it is.

Then one day you wake up, get ready for work or school, and when you step outside. The sky is red. Can this be real? “No. It can’t be!” you tell yourself. You squeeze your eyes shut and deny it will all the will of your being. And when you tire of the futile fight to maintain your hold on “reality”, you open your eyes back up — and the sky is still red.

God. Love. The Universe. The Ultimate Question.

All these things have the potential to fall into the Red Sky catagory. Imagine what would happen to a life long devoted Christian if they found out that God didn’t exist. Imagine how confusing it would be to go to sleep at your friends house and wake up in a tent in Antartica. And my favorite, imagine the feeling of your heart failing to beat for an entire minute when you learn that the one you confided in, trusted, and loved the most was the one who stabbed you in the back and left you for someone you always considered to be inferior.

That’s the feeling I speak of. Believing something with everything that you are, then discovering you were wrong.