My Life is Lame

It’s official.  I’m an adult.  This past week I was diagnosed with the Shingles.  That’s right folks, I’ve got the shingles and I’m ready to mingle (Sorry Natalie, I had to say it one more time.)

So a little over a week ago I woke up at 3:30am to go to work, you know normal working hours, and noticed I had these bumps on my neck.  At first I just thought they were stress bumps (Or as everyone else calls them, pimples), but then they started to itch. 

At the water-cooler, everyone stopped talking about “Homeland” and started talking about the bumps on Matt’s neck. By the end of the day, everyone had come to see the disease growing right under my ear. 

“Well it’s not hives,” one said.

“It’s definitely a rash,” said another. 

“Ew!”

“He needs to go to the derm (Short for dermatologist, who knew?)”

“No he doesn’t.  Just put some cortisone on it.”

So finally, after 2 days of being called anything between fine and a 2 headed monster, I made an appointment with the derm.

(On a side note, insurance is awesome.  I seriously have the best insurance.  See, when you have insurance, it helps you pay for stuff like medicine and doctor visits. No wonder our moms and dads made such a big deal about it.   So If you don’t have some, get some.)

Anyways. The derm walks into the room I’m in, takes one look at me and says, “You have shingles.”

“What?”

“The rash on your neck is consistent with shingles.”

“I thought only old people got that.”

“I guess you’re just a little ahead of everyone else.”

1. Duh.

2. Great.

As many of you know, or considering how absentminded my generation is, don’t know, Hurricane Sandy did quite a number on NYC. Killing over 40 residents, destroying homes, and leaving hundreds of thousands in the dark and cold.  It’s been almost two weeks since Sandy knocked out the city that never sleeps, and still, many are powerless and in the dark. 

What amazes me is how disconnected the various parts of the city are.  At times it seemed as if, lets say for example, the Upper West Side has never heard of the Rockaways or Staten Island for that matter.  These are two of the hardest hit areas. 

The cable news channel I work for put together a piece comparing the lives of residents that live in an area of the city that was least affected, and residents that lived in a more affected area.

The result?

Sound bites from the least affected area were of residents complaining about not getting their Starbucks for 3 days. Sound bites from the more affected area complaining about being cold and not having electricity.

It was as if the least affected area had no idea as to what was happening in the rest of the city. Instead of banding together, they bought their ventis and their bagels.

A journalist’s job is to bring attention to what’s happening and to hold those with power accountable, giving the viewer the opportunity to take that information and use it wisely.

I think there were some who saw the news and digested it as if what they were seeing was some far off place where disaster and destruction was a norm. They ignored their fellow citizens.

As of now it’s as if we live in two cities.  Which one do you want to be apart of? I don’t think we should have to choose.  

I realize this isn’t a very humorous post.  But there’s always a time for being serious. Now. 

I swear I’m not crazy, but I can hear the rats in the walls of our new apartment.  It’s either that, or Natalie fond another crawl space. 

Every time I’m alone, I hear this scurrying noise in the walls.  Like someone (Natalie) left cheese crumbs all over the place. 

I think the scariest time was when I not only heard the pitter patter of little rat feet, but whatever it was let out a squeal.  And before you ask, no, Natalie’s room door wasn’t closed, she was standing right next to me, so that time it definitely wasn’t her. 

And my other roommate wasn’t home, so it wasn’t her either. (I know what you’re thinking.  Wait, he has two roommates? Yep, it’s true.  I’m just not allowed to talk about the other one.  She’s read what I’ve written about Natalie and for some reason doesn’t want to be included.)

The big difference between this apartment and our last apartment, was that we not only heard the mice, we saw them.  Hell, in the last apartment they opened up the fridge and made dinner for us Ratatouille style. Here they just haunt us.  We’re like one of those families in the paranormal activity movies.  One night I’m gonna wake up and their gonna be pulling the covers off of me (Natalie, this is a joke, please don’t read into this.  It’s not actually going to happen.  I mean hopefully…). 

I’m just saying dear reader, yes I’m talking to you directly, you’re the only one who reads this. If I suddenly stop posting, it’s not because I’m on hiatus, or vacationing in Tel Aviv, it’s because the rats in the walls got me.

Breakups are never easy.  I’ve never heard anyone say, “You know what, that break up was super fun. I’d do it again. And this time, in public.”

No matter what, it seems like someone always ends up getting hurt.  Sure there are the cheaters, the liars, the aristocats.  But I mean, even if you’re just trying to do the right thing, someone still gets hurt. 

What sucks even more, is that there’s no songs for the person who ended a relationship for all the right reasons. There’s songs about people who were cheated on, lied to, keying their exes car, everything that Taylor Swift mumbles, but none about a person just being mature and doing the right thing. 

For example, you never hear…

“I broke up with you, because I just knew, it was the right thing to do. (Black background chorus) The right thing to do.”

Where’s that song?  Come on T-Swift, where’s that song?

I bet if their were more songs for the person who did the right thing, it would make breaking up easier, especially if it’s for all the right reasons.  

Let’s be honest.  Emotions are gross.  I hate feelings.  Especially having them.  And unfortunately the only way to not have them is to take the big blue and yellow pills (But not the green b/c then shit gets weird). 

I know, I know.  It’s good to have feelings.  It makes us human (Or dancers according to The Killers). 

The point of this post is just to say, I’m waiting for my song.  I’m talking to you Jay-Z.  I got 99 problems and no break up song that fits my situation is one.

I promise I’m not a terrorist.  Seriously.  It took me 3 times to even spell the damn word correctly.

I promise I’m not a terrorist (Again more than once and it’s spelled for me right above), but I’m rooting for one. 

I know what you’re thinking, can he say that?  Welp, I just did kids.  I’m rooting for a terrorist (Damn, why is this word so hard).  Not a real one obviously, but one on TV.  

If you have yet to watch Showtime’s “Homeland,” you’re unamerican. Just like that word is unenglish. That one too.  

The “bad” guy, or the terrorist, on the show is named Brodie, and I am rooting for him.  I’m totally on board with his mission.  I completely understand why he is doing what he is doing.  

The more I think about how on board I am with this, I wonder, what does that say about me?  So I support a fictional terrorist, I’m pretty sure I’m not alone here.  I bet 99% of the people who watch “Homeland” also support Brodie. 

I’m not going to discuss the back-story, because I don’t spoil television shows, so if you haven’t watched this series, DO IT!  Not only because it’s good, but also so you’ll stop judging me. 

Also, if you’re reading this and live in the NYC area, please do not see this and say something.  If I end up in an underground government facility prison getting water-boarding tomorrow I am going to be pissed. 

This is going to sound cocky.  But it’s only because what I’m going to say is, well, cocky. 

I have this tendency to set goals, and then reach them.  I know, I’m awesome.  Whatever. But the problem is that once I reach these goals, I feel really great, and then the satisfied feeling I have with myself slowly slips away. 

For example.  My latest goal was to move to NYC, get a job and be successful at said job.  Done.  I moved here.  Found a job in 4 days.  Got a better job a month later.  Got promoted 5 months later.  And then got promoted again 2 months later. 

If there’s anyone still reading at this point, thank you.  Everyone else who fell out of their chairs from rolling their eyes, I totally get it.  My roommate does the same thing to me constantly. 

So now I’m trying to figure out what’s my next step.  I recently watched “Into The Wild,” and that seemed like a viable option.  Just traveling a across country.  Living off the land and other people’s kindness.  With the ultimate goal to someday make it to Alaska.  Again, this seemed like a viable option until he dies in the end. Then it seemed less cool. 

Honestly, what I have the urge to do, is to just buy a one way ticket to some random place and never come back.  Maybe I’ll go to Barcelona and sell churros.  Maybe I’ll go to Tel Aviv and sell fruit on the beach.  Kosher fruit of course (Or whatever it needs to be).

I’m sure this is just a phase.  I’m sure everyone has those moments in their lives when they just want to say “I don’t give a fuck,” and then move to Tel Aviv.  Or is that just me?

Whatever is going on inside my head, I need a remedy.  ”The Walking Dead” is coming back soon.  That’ll probably take care of it.  

I had surgery on my balls once. 

What?

I thought you guys should know.  

When I was in 6th grade I would get this unbearable, painful feeling in my testicles.  However, coming from the family that I come from, I never brought it up.  See, I was raised to believe that good southern people don’t talk about their private parts.  No matter what (Clearly this rule hasn’t stuck with me). 

So for 11 months this went on, until one night, the pain was so great, I couldn’t stay quiet anymore.  So I told my mom…that my lower stomach really hurt. 

Off to the hospital we went and before I knew it, this ginger lady was performing an ultra sound on my balls.  No, it did not feel good.  It was cold and sticky and she didn’t even clean up after she was done.

Instead, she told me that something in my testicles was twisting and they were going to have to perform surgery to stop it.

Telling a 6th grader who is just learning about the wonders of his body that he has to have surgery on his balls, is not something you should just blurt out.  I can think of at least 3 better ways she could have told me. 

1. Do you want some candy?  Here’s your favorite, a reece’s peanut butter cup.  By the way, we need to cut open you balls. 

2. For such a young man, you’re very well endowed.  Luckily the surgery we have to do won’t change that. 

3. What I have here, is a fun mask.  Just hold it up to your face, breathe in, and count to ten (AKA not tell me at all). 

So into surgery they rushed me.  The next thing I know, I had the fun mask over my face and the doc sounded just like the teacher on Charlie Brown. 

I barely remember coming out of the anesthesia.  My mom told me later in life, that one of the first questions I asked was, “Did they cut it off?”

After the surgery I wasn’t in the hospital for very long.  For some reason that particular surgery is just a in and out surgery, even though it seemed like a lot more serious to me.  

Before I left, a nurse stopped by my room to give me something.  This is how that conversation went. 

“Okay honey, know you are gonna have to lose all your dignity and let me put this on you. “

She then held up what looked like something she had stolen from Tarzan.

“I have to wear that?”

“Yes.  You want to hang loose so the stitches don’t catch on anything.”

Gulp. 

So for a week I was Tarzan. 

And that my friends, is when I had surgery on my balls. 

So you’ve all heard me talk about my roommate Natalie.  I swear she’s real. And to prove it, here are a few things that often come out of her food filled mouth. 

-“I’m hungry.”

-“I told myself I wasn’t going to drink today.”

-“I only ate some of the cake for breakfast.”

-“Can I eat this?”

-“I don’t want kids.  Unless it’s a black baby.”

-“I’m never drinking again.”

-“Let’s drink.”

-“I have to stop drinking before work.”

-“Can you put ice in that?”

-“I can’t spend money this week.”

-“Wanna go out?”

-“5 second rule!”

-“My stomach hurts?”

-“I think I’m pregnant, wanna drink?”

-“I’m not gonna hook up anymore.”

-“Did I tell you the black dude txted me?”

-“I slept the black dude again.”

-“I think I have HPV.”

It’s always good to end on a high note. 

Sometimes I laugh during sex. 

Does that make me a bad person?  I don’t think so, right?  I mean, I laughed at a funeral once and everyone seemed okay with it. 

I guess those aren’t quite the same, but I think generally people don’t expect you to laugh during a funeral…or sex.

I can’t help it.  I’m so weird.  I’ll be making out, or as Kid Cudi says, “Doing my thannnggg,” and I’ll think of something weird and inappropriate.  Like, “Uncle Matt thinks you’re a good kisser.” 

I’m not saying incest is funny, but incest is funny.  Except when it’s real or involves that brother and sister from “Game of Thrones,” then it’s gross.

One time I thought about how funny it would be if I just pushed them off the bed, and I burst out laughing. I mean, come on.  How funny would that be?  You’re getting your groove thang on (Yea I just called it your grove thang) and you just thrust so hard they fly right off the bed.  That would be so funny.  I mean their reaction would be priceless, right?   RIGHT?!  

Maybe I’m alone here. 

Maybe I laugh too much.  Is that possible?  

Like I said, I did laugh at a funeral once. And by once, I mean every funeral I’ve ever been too.  In fact, once I started a game.  We were at the viewing for my G-ma’s boyfriend and all of her siblings were there (she has 10).  So I spent about an hour making up rhymes and riddles to help remember their names.  I’m not saying I was the life of the funeral, but people seemed to really enjoy it. 

So I laugh during sex, who cares.  If anything, it makes for a memorable experience.  I’m not saying it’s a good memory, but just a memorable one. 

As the old saying goes, If the door is closed and you hear me a laughin’ don’t come a knockin’.  That’s not right is it?

I finally just watched that show ”GIRLS” that everyone keeps talking about.  You know that show on HBO that’s about girls.  That show where all four leads have a vagina, and the main main lead has those weird tattoos that in one episode looks cool and then in the next looks like a skin rash.

Anyways, People, mainly girls, kept telling me that watching that show is like watching their own lives on TV.  

Now that I’ve seen the show, this what I have to say to you girls who feel that art imitates life.

1. No frickin way.

2. In your dreams.

3. Except for my roommate Natalie, that shit is eerie.

I think that the worst part of all this, was hearing girls at work say how it was like watching their own lives on TV.

THE GUY PEES ON HER IN THE SHOWER.  I do not need to know this about my coworkers.   I mean can I get a red zone. 

Also, none of you have taken opium.  This is NYC, everyone’s on coke.

Another issue with the “It’s like watching my own life” statement.  Girls always say it like it’s something to be proud of.  But is it?  Is it really?  Again, HE PEED ON HER IN THE SHOWER.  Do you want that?  Do you?

Now, I just want to make one thing clear.  I do think that the show is funny.  It’s hilarious.  If you haven’t watched it, go do that now.  

But just know, it is not like watching your life on TV.  Your life is nothing like that.  You’ve never been paid $100 dollars to watch a guy pleasure himself, and you know what, that’s something to be proud of.  

Nope, not Eminem, me.  

So I pretty much took the summer off from writing.  Call it a hiatus.  Call it me taking time to examine life.  Call it me choosing to drink with my roommates and loosing focus.  Or, just call me maybe. 

But seriously, I suck at life.  

I mean besides all of the really successful components of my life i.e. job, health, social-I suck at taking time to write.

I think I just want success to stare at me in the face like the “blind” beggar in the subway. Who, I know by the way, is not blind.  I know b/c I stuck my foot out once and he stepped right over it. True story.

When I think about it, me and that blind beggar have a lot in common.  We aren’t committed enough to our cause.  I want to write for a living.  I want to write for television.  I want to control the lives of characters that I create.  As I write this I realize I might have control issues, but hey, we all have our shit.  My roommate is taking a pregnancy test right now.

Like that beggar, I’m not committed to writing.  I need to breathe it.  I need to wake up and smell the smoke coming from my mac because of all the typing I’ve been doing, and not the smell and whiskey and sprite from my glass on the night stand.  

What I’m trying to say is that I need to be the beggar that trips over the foot.  I need to commit so hard to being a blind homeless guy that when that foot comes out, I go straight for it. I have to want to trip over it.  I have to taste the floor of the subway car.  And what will the dirty, piss, vomit ridden subway floor taste like. Success. 

So I’m back.  And I’m ready to make some shit happen.  I’m gonna be a blind beggar. 

P.S.-The pregnancy test was negative.  It’s always negative. 

No, I’m not talking about Kristen Stewart, I’m talking about yours truly.  It’s been a year to the day since I moved to the big apple, wearing a cowboy hat and jorts, and not much has changed. 

I still live in Spanish Harlem, sure I may be fluent in spanish now and I just moved into a building where I can see the upper east side, but my life goal is still to get everyone and their mother to experience the greatness of LOST. 

I still put myself in every awkward situation a person could find themselves in.  One day at work, my boss asked me to show her how to follow someone on twitter.  So I logged onto our work account and searched for my personal account to use as an example. 

I find my account and click on it.  My last tweet:

“Can’t wait to not be at work anymore. #GetMeOutOfHere.”

As my boss and I stared at the computer screen, the above tweet had never rang truer. 

I’m not sure how I manage to get into these situations, but it seems to be entirely too easy. 

Anyways, here’s to another year of being lame. 

I use this nifty little website to track the coming and goings of people on my blog, and one of the components of this tool is that it also tracks keywords people use in search engines that ultimately lead them to my blog. 

Here are those search words. 

- I did girl twice

- Sports team condoms

- Don’t do drugs do tacos

- Bread and wine communion

- How does it feel to direct porn

- Asian hookers

- Condomgate

- Lame people try to scream

- Left 4 dead porn

- Spank me mommy tumblr

- let me watch this.com porn drunk

- What is the best way to spank a child

- Little girl pee pee

- The drunk you they the do porn while you sleep

- College

- Drunk uncle stories

- Sure i’ll wait for her until the last moment of my life

- Tumblr Poop Satin

Some of you are really sick F**ks. 

I can’t.  I really can’t.  The above photo is too much for me to handle.  

Yes, it’s real. Yes, cat’s were hurt in the making of this flying aircraft.  Yes, some four year old on the street that day is still crying in the corner, fearing the inevitable attack from the flying cats. 

I know what you’re thinking.  WTF is that?  So basically this Dutch guy (Yea the frickin Dutch, they’re always doing some weird shizz) had a cat.  It died after getting hit by a car.  Instead of burying it in his back yard with all the rest of his dead pets like a normal person, he turned his dead cat into a helicopter. 

Personally I hate cats.  When I was five I had a cat poop all over my hands and it traumatized me.  

So if I had to choose between an alive cat and a dead flying one. I guess I’d choose the dead flying one. 

Coming to a store near you: The Puss-n-Chopper. 

Below is a link with more pictures of the hottest product of the season. 

http://www.buzzfeed.com/tommywes/half-cat-half-machine-and-totally-insane

I realize the title of this blog is My Life is Lame, but I’m starting to think, maybe I’m not that lame. 

For starters, I’ve got great hair.  Model hair.  It turns the heads that hold up lesser hair.  It evokes jealousy in others the way my perfect locks fall on my head.  I’ve had salon owners offer me discounts just so they can touch my hair.  

When God wanted to create something beautiful, a piece of art that could be admired by millions, he created my hair.

(Honest to the G-Man, I’m a humble guy.  I promise.  But if you saw my hair, you’d understand.)

Also another reason why I’m not lame, I’ve been in New York City for less than a year and I’ve already been promoted 3 times.  Sure, it’s probably because of my hair, but hey, that’s still pretty opposite of lame.

So what I once got hit by a bike, or yelled at by a police officer for shouting to much because I saw a taco bell, I’ve done pretty well for myself.

I always have food on my table, I’m pretty healthy, and I don’t owe anyone money (except for the homeless guy in the subway who keeps telling me I do.)

So as I sit here, watching Gangs of New York (Cameron Diaz as a red head is, I’m sorry, just not that pretty) I’m feeling pretty satisfied with my non-lame. 

Of course, on my way out tonight I’ll probably get hit by a car. 

So it’s been a year since I graduated.  A year.  An entire year.  That’s like, 365 days.  Actually, that’s exactly 365 days.  12 months.  A bunch of hours. 

What have I done with my life since graduating college? Nothing worth writing home about.

All I did was move to NYC, get a full time job at a cable channel, and become financially stable. 

I know what you’re thinking.  What a failure. Where’s his kids?  Why isn’t he married?  How come he doesn’t own a car?

I know.  My first year out of college has been a huge failure.  But I’ve compiled a list of what I want to accomplish during my second year out of college to make up for this one.

1. Impregnate someone and name the child White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Johnson

2. Buy a trailer in a cozy trailer park

3. Adopt an Asian baby 

4. Loose both the trailer and the Asian baby

5. Kill a squirrel with my bare hands

6. Buy a rifle

7. Kill a squirrel with the rifle and compare the differences

8. Get arrested for driving a four wheeler drunk

9. Start a 401 K

10. Lead a revolution to invade Canada

Guess I’ve got a long year ahead of me.  Better go grab one of them adoption catalogs so I can pick out my baby.  

1. Being able to correctly spot a hooker.  There’s so many opportunities in NYC to incorrectly guess, and being able to really pick one out of a crowd is such a rewarding feeling. 

2. Hash-Tagging something on twitter, clicking on it, and realizing I’m the only one to use that Hash Tag.

3. Convincing someone to watch LOST, when years they said it was stupid, and then watching them turn into a LOST fanatic.

4. Seeing another white person in my neighborhood.

5. Tacos.