I open my heart… and my ass.

Being in love makes you a pussy

I was talking to my buddy/co-worker and he's telling me that, at 30, he may never settle down, have kids, all that shit. He tells me that he keeps hearing that living a life with all of the joys of triumph and the accompanying despair of defeat is better than having not having experienced any of that at all. What's that bumper-sticker? "I'd rather have loved and lost, than never loved at all" or some shit.

He claims to have been through enough highs and lows and now wants nothing but complete neutrality. No Chocolate-Peanut-Butter swirl ice cream, no bubblegum and peppermint, just Vanilla.

I remember a time when I thought just Vanilla was what I wanted. The Girl had fallen in love with me, and I with her. Then she pulled my still-beating heart out of my chest and ran it over with a fucking road-paver, backed up, and did it again. Vanilla for me, from now on, thanks.

Even when we got back together this time (a few years after the road-paver), I was wary and justifiably so.

She'd say, "Oh, I'm in love with you!" and I'd think, "Too bad you're a cheating, lying cunt," but would say, "Yeah, you're not so bad yourself... now let's have sex." I didn't trust her and didn't want to.

This went on for a while. Then, one day, I realized that I could have some great, anonymous, monkey sex with the hottest girl I knew at the time and no one ever know.

And I couldn't do it.

I was too drunk.

I'm kidding. I couldn't do it because I was in LOVE, you sick fucks.

Love does strange things to a guy. I'm sure with chicks its all drawing-hearts-and-flowers-on-your-note-book and making up pet names like "Schmoopums" and "Wiggleworm", but for a guy, it's mostly trying NOT to make up pet names like "Unholy Succubus from the shit-lined depths of Hades" or "Satan", and it sucks. Somehow it takes away all the shit that we thought we ever wanted to do and makes us not feel bad about it. I no longer wanted to fuck hot, married women. I didn't want to play hockey 4 nights a week and close the bar after each and every game. Hell, I didn't even want to stay home and drink myself into a lonesome stupor while futilely attempting to masturbate to nasty internet porn.

I wanted to be with her. I didn't WANT to be with her so much as things seemed better if she was around.

I got back into my art. Not the tortured abstracts that I'd done where I'd smear the charcoal with my own tears (it would've been very symbolic if I'd done it on purpose) while drawing my wounded soul, but portraits and landscapes where I tried to capture the light just right and they were pretty.

I got into the Suzy-homemaker role and enjoyed making dinner, sewing her clothes, and doing her laundry.

I turned into a fucking girl.

I'm happy though.

I realize now that my depressed state last Saturday was because I missed her.

Damn, did that shit suck.

I hate being lonely.

I'm such a pussy.

Posted by JuddHole

This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.

Cannabalism in the bathroom.

I don't know why, it just seems like stuff happens to me while I'm trying to shit here at work. Today, I was well into the article on the former Avalanche players that are now on the Flames and Lightning teams when Joe-Important-Executive zooms in.

I'm not positive, but I don't think this guy's ass even touched the seat, he was in and out of there so fast. I was going to offer up part of the Sports section, but he was obviously on his way to do far more important things than read about Calgary's Ville Nimminen and his lockerroom wit.

That's cool, I enjoy my quiet time, I think I'll stay and finish the article on Stephane Yelle and his off-season home here in Denver.

*Rattle*

*Click*

*Rattley-rattle*, *Clickety-click*

"Hmmmm, " I thought to myself, "self, it sounds like there's either someone monkeying with the outer door to the bathroom, or a seven-foot mutant rat is chewing it's way through the ductwork and will soon descend upon me with a guttural growl, causing me to continue what I am doing on a much larger scale, possibly with internal organs being expelled."

Most people don't know this about me, but I get scared easily of mutant rats.

Then I figured it probably wasn't a mutant killer rat. Not noisy enough. Plus, rats don't normally curse quietly in executive-speak. "Stupid... Gaahd... Sonuva..."

Man, could I teach this guy a thing or two about cussing, even if it was only Yosemite Sam swearing (Sassafrassin' durn shassamasafrat! Try it, it's fun for the kids too).

I could hear Joe still playing with the outer door through the inner door, so I figured I'd wash my hands. While I was admiring my crooked smile as well as the bags under my eyes from sleep-deprivation (I'm a damn, sexy bitch), I noticed that Joe was growing more and more frantic. What the hell was he doing out there anyway?

I opened the inner door into the 5 by 5 middle room to see Joe with a doorknob in one hand and a look or raw desperation on his face. His suit and haircut told me he was important, but the sheen of sweat across his forehead and his frightened, quivering eyes told me he really didn't like being trapped in that little room.

I did what almost anyone would have done, I started giggling. "Whew, got us trapped in here like RATS, do ya?" I can joke now that I know they're not coming to kill me... at least not yet.

He flinched at the mention of rats, started fiddling with the knob, and executive-cursing again, but now with more inflection.

Joe was probably top of his class in Important Executive school, but I'm guessing they never taught "What to do When a Doorknob Breaks", or even "Simple Mechanics of Doors" because Joe was having an interminably difficult time grasping the concept of "The Doorknob". You turn the handle, then pull. If the knob comes off in your hand after pulling, try something else.

Joe seemed to think that if he turned it just right, and somehow pulled just right, it would reward his subtle nuances by opening. Instead, Joe ended up with the knob in his hand every fucking time.

Seeing that my giggling wasn't helping, I started looking around the bathroom for some sort of sharp object with which I planned to push the latch manually and then pull the door open. As I was looking around the stalls and sink for something small and rigid (see last Friday's entry for why this is funny), I mentioned to Joe that I was very hungry and if we were in here long enough I'd have to eat him.

He did not find this amusing.

He then gave me an I'm-trying-not-to-freak-out-and-you-are-not-fucking-helping look and started knocking on the door. Again, I laughed. These are 8-foot solid oak doors and there are two of them between ourselves and any semblance of humanity. With the central air going, you'd have to knock with a fucking Howitzer for them to hear us in the offices.

All I could figure was that I could break a piece of plastic off of the paper towel dispenser and shape it with my teeth into a suitable tool. Knowing that my bathroom shenanigans would only be further unappreciated if I started destroying dispensers, I had to think of something else.

"Dude, you got anything small and rigid on you?" I say, again stifling a giggle.

Joe looks at me as if I may possibly be the savior that he has been praying for instead of the smartass he was seemingly saddled with. He then produces a set of car keys from his pocket and, with newfound hope and admiration in his eyes, hands them to me.

I find that the key to his BMW (what else would an Important Executive drive?) is the kind that has a really long handle with the lock/unlock, panic, oil slick, and ejector seat buttons on it, and would make for a good tool in lieu of chewing on broken plastic.

I leaned over, wedged the key into the inner knob mechanisms, pushed, hooked my finger in the hole where the knob used to be and pulled. We were freed. Total elapsed time minus me washing my hands and giggling... 15.2 seconds.

Joe's first look gave me the impression that he thought I was Jesus or at least something holy, sent to deliver him from his 5 by 5 hell.

That lasted until I wondered why this fuckmonkey didn't try the key trick to begin with and said, "Wow, that was sure a trial, eh?"

Joe then gave me a look that suggested I had just shit in his shoe, which then changed into a lets-keep-this-between-you-and-me look as he hurried off.

Ingrate. He should be happy I didn't have to eat him.

I tried to tell him that, but he had already disappeared down the stairwell on his way to his Important Executive whatever.

Posted by JuddHole

This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.

Family is what you make it.

I'm sitting on my back patio calling to two loons who are calling to each other (cup hands like there's a creepy-crawly inside and blow through aligned thumbs, "hoo-OOO, hoo, hoo, hoo"). I'm eating beef jerky (teriyaki), Pringles, and drinking beer after beer (Avalanche-Breckenridge Brewery). So, I'm a bit drunk, which lends itself to the most open, honest, and profound communication, I believe. Alcohol=Inhibitions dropped, same as tequila=nudity (another entry, another time).

Despite the intermittent winds, this has been just about the most beautiful day ever. I sincerely mean ever, as it has been beautiful from sun-up (which I watched) to sun-down (which I just witnessed). I got up early and have done nothing except sit outside in my backyard, play with my idiot dogs, draw, read, sing to the radio, and enjoy my solitude.

The Girl is currently in Montana, in the dinky little town we call home. Now that school's over, she has a couple days off in a row, and had planned a trip home because she missed the X-mas trip back home and hasn't been in a year. Oh, her grandpa died too.

Now that I see it in written form, I realize how incredibly callous I can sound in matters concerning death. Granted, my eyes started leaking while reading about Dusty's Mima, but I can be quite sappy and he's an amazing writer.

I do lack a certain empathy for those who have lost a grandparent, though. Allow me to explain why this is so. I've never really had grandparents of my own. Both sets had one die before I was born, and the remainder didn't have much to do with me, or my folks, while I was growing up. Nothing so dramatic as an unplanned pregnancy, murder, or any sort of feuding that caused the rift, just basic apathy and distancing, I suppose. I've just never known my extended family.

I grew up with the philosophy that you make your own family out of those that love you and those that you love. This love doesn't have to be anything overt (thank Dog, because these are rural folks we're talking about, and they aren't much for emotions other than anger-turned-comedy, which is all that I tend to show in this diary). It's just a love that you start to feel, and, in turn, they start to reciprocate. Before you know it, you are part of the family. I actually had an Aunt (not my own Aunt, of course) tell me that she knew she liked me when I showed up for every special occasion, be it a wedding, birthday or other event, but she knew deep in her heart that I was family when I started attending the funerals. Again, people that I loved died, yet I didn't know as intimately as the family that I had "adopted" myself into did, so I could distance myself. Protect myself from the inevitable grief that follows.

Now, when I go home, I spend around 4-8 hours with my own father and step-mother and her family, and stay the rest of the time with my "adopted" families. Adopted... christ, these people have had a stocking and presents under the X-mas tree for me since I was 16. I like to believe that most of them knew that my father was a worthless fuck as a parent and they were glad to be able to offer some semblance of a "normal" family upbringing. Meals together at the table, chores assigned to each person (I've shoveled more shit than most people have ever SEEN), and a certain freedom and respect allotted to each person in the family. My own horse, use of a vehicle (ranch trucks are shit, but they get the job done) and a certain comfort level when it comes to our interactions. I'd get scolded for fucking up, just like their kids, and I got rewarded for triumphs (shit, one set of my "adopted" parents came to more football games and band concerts than my own father).

I know what it is to have family, without all the trappings of the familial guilt ("Why didn't you come to YoungFuckUp's graduation?", "What do you think of SlutTurnedAngel getting married to CompleteManWhore?" "Did you see CompleteLoser got another DUI?"). I consider myself very lucky I'm not expected to have input into certain matters. I'm the classic example of the village-raises-the-child theory. I have only those attachments that I've chosen.

Now comes the depressing part. I'm alone again. With the Girl gone, I realize that my days, my weeks, are devoted to her and the home, the family (fish, dogs, etc.), that we are building here. Daily, I feed all the animals (dogs and many fish), I clean, cook, do the shopping, etc. So, without her here, I am free to do whatever I want, right? Shoot pool, drink beer with the hockey guys, go to the hang-out bar and booze it up with the colorful characters that we know there, rent any movie I want, masturbate to internet porn, kill kittens, smear myself in Crisco and slide around instead of walking... anything. I have the hall-pass, right?

So, why am I so lost? It's almost like my whole persona is predicated upon taking care of someone or something. It feels like I've spent my whole life being taken care of by those that were not mine, but borrowed, and conversely, taking care of myself while I had to spend that interminable time at home with my worthless piss of a father. Now, it seems, I'm unsure of exactly who I am.

I love being the funny, goalie guy to my friends, and sensitive, care-taking-Katy-homemaker to the Girl, but, without that context, do I know who I am?

Without context, do any of us really know who we are?

From Pork's diary, I get a better understanding of depression, because he explains it so eloquently, but I still have a hard time relating to such feelings as I've never felt them the way he describes. I'm not "depressed", I'm unsure of things.

G.I. Joe

"Knowing is half the battle", the G.I. Joe cartoons would tell me in my youth. Is this why it's so important for me to KNOW what's going on?

Knowing, having a firm grip on things, is the tantamount to me as being completely content. If I can only know what's going on, I can formulate a plan on how to handle things from there, if action is needed. Without knowing what is needed, I am lost.

Important to me as well, is being able to express these feelings. That's what a diary is, isn't it? A place for expression. Writing about what's going on should make things better, eh?

Why do I still feel like this then?

Fuck.

Posted by JuddHole

This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.

Toilet Aerobics.

Right after I posted this morning, I headed to the shitter here at work. We share the 6th floor with another company, so you can never really tell who is in the stall next to you. This turns out to be a good thing as I sincerely hope I don't work with the assmonkey that was in the stall next to me.

I get in there, sit down, pop open the Sports page and am about 10 minutes into the articles on Broncos' training camp when I look under the divider into the next stall. I normally don't do this because, well, shit, think about it, why would I care what kind of shoes the other dude is wearing. Something caught my eye though, and I bent over to see what it was. I can see a pair of cross-trainers and these tan, drawstring pants (I think they're called Gramicci) down around the ankles, but that's not what caught my eye. The shoes are at about a 45 degree angle from the floor and are moving sporadically. I don't mean a steady wiggle-wiggle-wiggle like he's just fidgeting, I mean, his legs are spread and he's acting like something furry with 187 legs is crawling out of his butt.

At first I feel bad for him thinking, "must've had wings last night." As I go back to my paper, I catch his reflection in the little chrome hooyah that holds up the dividing wall between us. It's an odd-shaped piece of metal so the image reflected usually resembles an amoeba or inkblot of some sort, but the general reflection is usually that of someone sitting upright on the toilet. This guys reflection is going in and out of focus, again, sporadically, not steady. If it was steady, again, I'd feel bad for him ("C'mon ice cream... C'mon ice cream...").

Instead, I start to figure it out. That motherfucker's in there rubbin' one out.

Now, I rarely miss an opportunity to pleasure myself as only I can, but HOLY SHIT, not in a public fucking bathroom and especially not with another dude in the next stall.

I'm making all sorts of throat-clearing noises now, hoping that he'll deduce that the guy in the next stall knows something's up with his convulsing and odd movements. Nope. He's full-on into it.

Now I'm pissed. But I'm undecided as to what to do. My sleep-deprived state has made me question my judgement today and I've decided my first instinct is completely wrong until I can sleep again. So, I ignore it. In this case, my first instinct was to get some toilet paper, soak it under the faucet and chuck it into his stall. That, or reach under the door and yank on his shoelaces until he stopped. Instead, I'm hoping to wait him out so I can peek through the door space and see who he is while he's (hopefully) washing his hands so I can fuck with him, anonymously, later.

I'm definitely hoping he washes his hands too. I know I had that whole entry about how I don't wash my hands in the bathroom but I definitely would if there was cock juice on 'em.

So, I read for another 5 minutes or so. That fucker is still going and his movements haven't picked up or slowed down at all.

Now, I'm theorizing. Maybe he's epileptic. Maybe he's doing some sort of excercises. Maybe he's retarded.

Nope. All theories go the way of the Dodo when I hear him grunt softly and his frantic movements cease altogether.

Jesus Christ. I can't believe I just heard the money shot. I had no idea how incredibly fucking nasty it would be to hear that and know exactly what it was. This ain't like no porn audio I've ever heard. Ick, bleah, YUUUUHHHGGUUUGGGHH.

When he gets out, I almost can't look, but I do. Crap, can't see his face, but his body mechanics are not of someone who is physically challenged enough to shit with those kind of kinetics going on. I get a good look at the clothing though, so I wait, finish up, and take a quick tour around the floor, poking my head into everyone's office asking really inane questions and checking out their pants and shoes. I don't know what I'll say when I find that shitwad, but, depending on who it is, I'm giving them a look that would make a Catholic School Nun proud, then I'm fucking with him later.

I can't find him though. Must work for the other company. They don't let visitors past the front desk either, so that's out. Shit, oh well. I go back to my cubicle in frustration.

Later this afternoon, I go to take a piss and...

No shit. That fucker is in there again.

Same shoes? Yep. Same pants? Yep. Same God-that-new-receptionist-is-so-fucking-hot movements? Double Yep. The guy's a fucking machine.

Chrissakes.

Sure, I'm a horny-nasty bastard, and there are times that I'm so good to myself, I cry out my own name. But, not twice in 4 hours... in a goddam shared, public restroom... at work... with other dudes going in and out all the time. No way.

Trusting my instincts or no, something needs to be done.

I walk out normally, go back to my cube, take off my shoes and roll up my pantlegs. My cube is about 12 feet from the back door which is about 6 feet from the bathroom door, so I don't have to sneak shoelessly very far. I know I have time to because Spanky McFloggington has to be on at least round two and round one took long enough. Double ick, bleah, YUUUUHHHGGUUUGGGHH.

Why did I take off my shoes? So, he won't know who I am, of course. I'm so damn clever sometimes.

I sneak out the back door, check the hallway ninja-style, and then creep into the bathroom. Spanky had to have heard the door, so I figure to make my move quick-like-a-panther. First I check the shoes and make sure it's him... I'm not making THAT mistake. Yep, jerkin' away carelessly.

I jump out from behind the other stall, grab the door handle to Spanky's stall and start jerking it fervently, in much the same manner as Spanky himself. RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE.

Then I yell, "WHADDYADOININTHERE!?!?!"

"AUH!... WHA!... NUUHH-THING!!!" is Spanky's reply.

I jump back around the other stall and look under his stall again in time to see him yanking his pants up in a furious rush. Then I run out the door, check the hallway, and scoot back to my cube, giggling fiendishly.

I wanted to poke my head out the door and wait for him to come out, but, for some reason, I didn't want the guy to see me. I don't know why, hell, what's he going to say?

"Hey asshole, what's the big idea banging on the door like that while I'm oinkin' my doink?"

Still, if he's psychotic enough to jerk it twice a day in our common restroom, he may be twisted enough to come after me. I guess that would only scare me if he didn't pull up his pants first.

Testament to how deeply involved folks here get involved in their work, the dude in the cube across from me doesn't say a thing as I am futilely attempting to suppress my giggling while putting my shoes back on and rolling my pantlegs back down.

When my co-worker buddy hears me giggling from two cubes over, he comes around and asks conspiratorially, "What the fuck are you doing?"

After I told him and he finally wiped the tears from his eyes, he says to me, "You are so gonna get fired for shit like that."

I might, but I'd appeal the decision until the higher-ups could hear the whole story.

Posted by JuddHole

This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.

I'm neither Retarded nor Retired.

I keep getting junk mail from the AARP. I hate junk mail exponentially more than spam because it makes me work a lot harder at getting rid of it. It kills trees and clogs my trashcan to the point where I have to do an elbow drop just to get all of it in the damn can. So, I call them up. I'm one of these new millenium kind of guys, so I only have a cell phone the size of a freakin' Zippo, so it's loads of fun for me and my fat fingers to play the Phone System game.

"To hear your options in English, Press 1... Para la cucaracha en Espanol, Numero dos... TO... HEAR... YOUR... OPTIONS... IN... OLD... PERSON... MASH... THE... KEYBOARD... IN... FRUSTRATION."

I was highly disappointed that their name didn't stand for the "American Association of Retarded Persons" because then I could've had some fun with it. Instead, I get:

Customer Service: "Hello, this is Marcy, how may I help you today?"

Me: "I'd like to join up, babycakes"

Marcy (pausing for slight snicker): "Okay, what's your name, sir?"

I tell her.

Marcy: "Judd... I'm sorry can you give me your last na..."

Me (interrupting): "Call me JuddHole, sweetcheeks."

Marcy (slightly annoyed now): "Can you spell your last (garbled) for me?"

Me: "S-W-E-E..."

Marcy (still slightly annoyed, but also slightly amused): "Your last name, sir."

I spell it for her.

Marcy: "And your date of birth?"

Me: "September 7, 1974"

Marcy: "I'm sorry sir, but, for membership consideration, you must be over the age of 50."

Me: "Interesting. CAN YOU STOP MAILING ME SHIT THEN?"

Sleep Deprivation

Apparently, my subconscious decided to wait until 4:53 am to pull out it's little book of Porcine Ponderings. Love Dusty for so eloquently writing about what makes me scream "GAAAHAGURGHIFINGA". The part I love about being tired as hell yet unable to sleep, is that I know that I'll lay there, pissed, until about 11 minutes before the alarm goes off and I'll have perfectly fucked-up dreams.

I tend to dream about my fishtanks a lot. In reality, they are beautiful and well-maintained, with loads of happy fish. How do I know they're happy? They're not dead. I'm happy that I'm not dead. In my dreams, though, the tanks are always leaking or having an emergency and I'm forced to try and save them from being dead by juggling buckets and water and a hairdryer attached to a lightswitch.

This morning's 11-minute dream had me attempting to save all of the fish from my saltwater tank while it was slowly draining into an irrigation ditch on the ranch back in Montana and all the fish were trying to bite me. As I ran around to the other side of the huge tank, I leaned in and saw that it was now, miraculously, empty.

"Godammit," I yelled, "I'm dreaming. This is a fucking dream." Now, I'm pissed, but, instead of waking up, I walk around thinking I can do things I can't do in reality, like fuck a supermodel or do the Crouching-Tiger-Ninja leap. Instead, all I get is this old biker in some random bar, with a Harley-Davidson bandana on his head, no shirt, covered in tattoos, talking to me. I'm thinking how much this sucks, as I would've much preferred a hot naked girl, or at least the guy could be ON a Harley, and I could ride it. I'm sitting there frustrated, repeating to myself, "Self, this is a crappy dream," until I look at his tattoos and the big one in the middle of his back, written in Olde-Style script says "This'd be a good Diary entry." Obviously, my subconscious is a bigger diary geek than I am, but who am I to ignore it?

Posted by JuddHole

This blog was the one that changed everything in my life, so it stands to reason that it continue to do so. I hope it starts with my underwear.