Let's get back on track.

These are the things that occupy my life and my time. (In no particular order, at least, no order that I'm aware of or will admit to.)

Porno. School.

Beer. Writing.

Work. The White Sox.

Dad. Mom.

Psychotic Stepfather/Psychotic Co-Workers.

Mom's insecurities.

Dad's insecurities.

Both my Grandmas, and the fear that they will die soon.

Procrastination,

i.e. : Throwing out the rotting T-Bone that's in the fridge next to the empty beer cases. See also: Getting my hair cut. See also: Buying new clothes. See also: The many books on the shelf.

Keeping in mind my interests and lack of a significant social (read- sex) life, I am not too fat, and, I'm surprisingly clean.

Another thing I should note.

1. Number of times that I have assured my self that I am, in fact, goodlooking: Thirty seven thousand five hundred and sixteen.

2. Number of girls I've made out with in the past ninety days: Zero.

3. Number of girls I've wanted to make out with in the past ninety days: Approximately Three hundred and sixty four.

4. Of these three hundred and sixty four people, the number that represents those not currently employed by the pornographic film industry: Approximately 16.

The prescence of all these things in one heart begs the question: Why is Fuckhead happy? He has no girlfriend, he has a shitty job, and his prospects of finding a job with the degree he is working toward are slim to none.

There is no real answer, faithful reader. Perhaps he is retarded. Or perhaps, the copious amounts of liquor he drinks are not only disabling his brain and growing his gut, but they are also responsible for making his brain happily retarded. Perhaps he is foolishly, against all odds, just well-adjusted. Perhaps he is from outer space. Perhaps it is a combination of all three of these things. But Fuckhead, happily, is not intersted in discussing them.