I’m going to say some things here.

At this rate, I could be speaking to no one at all; I say this with humility: I really don’t care. Last summer I felt like I was standing at the top of potential and brilliance, yet only 12 months later and I’m throwing stones in a pile of rubble. I’ll be swift, but I’ll be lengthy; if you’re not the kind of person who does things like “read in leisure”, or perhaps to be more precise, if you’re not there at all, then this is going to be really simple. That is to say, I’ll break it down so you can skim or not read it at all, since this is precisely what you’re going to do anyway. In the case of the latter, well, I am merely compounding a megaton article for the sake of not doing something else; something that is, quite honestly, damaging to me.

I can feel it in my Dick, my Brain

It’s true, I can feel it in these two key areas. Eric Lane once told me that the only time a man can be alone with his thoughts – and really, truly alone with himself in the universe – is when he’s either defecating profusely or by, uhh, grapplin’ the ol’ fooly cooly and giving it a go-around; yes, somehow that means masturbating. I’ve been told on several occasions that I mention both of these subjects far too often, and I’m honestly delighted to keep injecting them into my literature, if you can even call it that. But “being a man” isn’t what this bundle of words is all about; no, this is not my occupation. What I mean to say is that I’ve been doing some thinking lately; it’s all I can do, these days. Before I get to the savory part of the meal, that delicious part of the story in which I discuss why everyone around me is miserable and fears the cold, stale breath of the reaper, let me first say that I am mourning the current state of our octonaut. Can I even say “our” anymore? I ask. Probably not; as I’ve mentioned numerous times already, I am well aware that I am speaking to myself; this is my occupation. Truth to be told, I do not feel like I can stand on my wooden balcony every morning with my hands defiantly placed on my hips and feel real unless I have recently created something or intend to create something – preferably around noon! (I shoot for writing things around lunch time, though shit on the neighbor’s car if I’m not writing this at 4 in the am!) I have stood on my balcony recently, and my hands have remained at my side. I’ve attempted to place them on my hips in varying intervals, and each time I immediately vomit and cry – simultaneously! This was a clear indication, I reckon, on this summer day in the 2008th year of our Lord, that I needed to write something with the intention of it being completely, mindlessly retarded.

This is the part where I discuss octonaut (KEYWORD: JEBZIG!)

I used to own this website that we called Jebzig!. I have no idea why it had an exclamation point at the end; perhaps it is telling that I selected a period to accompany the octonaut logo; I guess I’m in the market of making a statement rather than SCREAMING about things; I am certain that this makes me “an old man.” People used to dig that place, I guess. Truth: some kid got expelled from school because of Jebzig!. At the time I played it off like it was nothing, but every night for a week I thought about it before I closed my eyes and let GOD whisper cryptic messages into my juvenile ears; it was basically the coolest damn thing in the world. He showed some girl a picture of something disgusting, I am certain; her father blew up and demanded that Jebzig! be blocked from the school. Or something! Hell, that was years ago.

Anyway, people liked it. These people were, for the most part, friends of mine. I, uhh, hope that they still are. Occasionally some hapless teenage boy would run around with the Jebzig! banner, spouting off anti-Semitic nothings or what have you, but nobody really gave these chaps credibility; least of all us, really. I almost sort of wish that there were some mythical ending to the whole thing, but in reality I let my credit card lapse and we lost the domain. Now it stands for all of eternity, empty, full of advertisements, and owned by some evil corporation that wants to charge Eli Tilbury thousands of dollars to relinquish. Some smearing asshole on some large site funded by the donations and wet dreams of children the world over once remarked at the irony of it all, and how the smoldering ashes of our beloved Jebzig! were extinguished in the winds of text ads. He wasn’t quite so poetic about it, but he said something that wasn’t entirely wrong, either. He then e-laughed, I suppose one could say, and strategically placed several offensive emoticons after his sinister cackling before changing the subject and hopefully dying.

Somewhere, buried in the memories of a childhood that I cling to savagely and ruthlessly (or in a closet somewhere, lol), there is a sheet of paper that contains hundreds of ideas compiled in hopes of discovering a clever name for a website. Jebzig! was easy – I simply took my brother’s strangely hick name (his name is Jeb Stuart Litton and I’m not even joking) and slapped an equally appealing word on the end – “zig”; I ripped that one from ol’ Leipzig, Germany. The exclamation mark, as I mentioned earlier, was to inform people that we were teenagers, and we were angry about something. Anyway, this sheet of paper – it has lots of ideas on it. None of them panned out, obviously, because Kevin O’Dell very simply took two ideas I’d been throwing around and welded them together, creating some sort of perverse Pokémon, I imagine. I have done many Google searches, and I often come across people complaining about the name having been “stolen” from them. I am fearful to admit that I have had and perhaps still cling to similar sentiments, so long as these sons of bitches continue to make children’s books about anthropomorphic, deep sea panda bears or whatever the hell they “write” their “stories” about. I hesitate to even call it writing, or even that these are, in fact, stories being created, since so far as I can see, it is simply a collection of Adobe Illustrator projects being narrated by someone’s senile grandfather dressed in some manner of a sailor motif for the sake of hilarity and sadness. We are constantly are odds with these ladies and gents over being the first search for “octonaut” in any given search engine. We win sometimes.

I have recently spoken with a great many people over this “octonaut” website that I shove time and money into every month (it doesn’t cost much of either, mind). I am standing on rubble, friends; I can see the ground. George Carlin is dead, and I can’t find an inch of happiness in all the world. I am well aware that octonaut is “that stupid site where that dude that I kind-of know talks about shitting and jerking off a lot”. I am in the know, guys. If you were to tell me this, I wouldn’t even blink, for I am fully aware!

I bet Dr. Seuss was amazing in bed (or, a bunch of bros owning a website, and how to get back to where we once belonged)

It’s no secret that the floorboards gave way to Hell a few months back, and Kevin O’Dell slipped through the cracks. Today I’m asking him very openly to get out of my dreams, and to get into my car. We’re going on a fucking road trip. DESTINATION: An eternity of love and dedication. I’m shoving arrogance and pride up my ass, and I’m not even going to flinch.

There. I did it, and I didn’t even feel bad. Didn’t even make a face.

I have a shitload of Super Famicom games on my bookshelf; I’ve been considering taking a picture of that bookshelf for six months now. I guess I’m sort of embarrassed that someone will notice a t-shirt on the floor, or something, and make a remark about it. I can never keep my entire house clean, but if I even manage to do so, I’ll take some pictures. But really, the only Super Famicom games that I’ve played for more than 10 minutes are Super Mario Kart and some shitty Dragon Ball Z thing that ol’ RRRRRRRUDIE placed on top of my stack of games in some bookstore in Gotanda, Tokyo.

Taking a break real quick to announce that Super Mario Kart on the SNES is actually complete shit! Yeah, our memories have been lying to us. All of those warm and fuzzy feelings that I anticipated returning to me upon turning the console on evaporated and fucked me in the ear rather rudely!

What I’m trying to say is that I want my boys back. How all of this is going to come together right now over me, I don’t know. In the spirit of global warming, I’m warming up to your cool, hip personalities, and I don’t give a shiiiiiit if you openly mock me on a public forum knowing full well that I’ll see/listen/feeeeeel! This was, ladies and gentlemen, not sarcasm! I am standing on the proverbial wooden balcony of our lives, hands defiantly placed on my hips, crying bloody tears and wishing that all of my little piglets would charge through the sage thicket, dive in and through the mud that we throw and roost in my warm bosom. Abandon ye doubts, hopes and dreams; come hither into my grasp, for I shall cling to ye with the hooks that I carry in my hands!

“It is the LORD’S Day; my wish is fulfilled. I have always desired to die on Sunday. Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees.”

A painful reprieve: WELCOME TO ADULTHOOD, ASSHOLE (or, the part you can ignore)

When we last left me, despairing solemnly in the eve of despondency, I was probably complaining about the passing of time and being what my father insists on reminding me that I am, time and time again – a red-HOT-blooded American adult. I have, in fact, written frequently about my quarrels with Father Time; and more often than that, I have lamented at the foot of not-childhood. Though numerous hours of research, I have come to a bold conclusion. This is not a theory, nor is it my own guesswork; this is an objective truth, friends:

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS ‘TRUE HAPPINESS’

Self-help books and life coaches the world over are quitting their jobs and killing themselves and each other over this scientific breakthrough. No happiness! I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that in this world of responsibility and MAKIN’ BABIES, there is sadness and there is contentment. Some may argue that they are one in the same! Don’t you even dare think about things that make you “happy”! The sadness, I have found, is the baseline. It is the everyday; it is not a pervading sadness most of the time, but a subtle gesture of despairing hopelessness. Oh, I’m lonely. Mmhm, I’m eating the same thing I ate for dinner last night – and the night before that. I just shit my pants and I don’t even care.

Contentment is similar, but different; is it the acceptance of the card you’ve been dealt. A lot of people seem to think that eternal rest and relaxation – and therein happiness, I suspect – stem from the big four: job, marriage, children, house. A whole hell of a lot of people want all of this at the same time, effectively creating a basket where all of ones eggs can be expected to break or hatch… at the same time!!!

We live in a world, friends, where Will i Am’s (of Black Eyed Peas fame) IMDB profile opens his trivia segment with “He is African-American.” This is a place, a country, a time where all-girl musical acts gush over mattresses on the radio. George Carlin is dead. I have half a mind to get some of my nearest and dearest in on a suicide pact and just call it a day! I live in a world where my little sister can ask me the seemingly innocent question, “Ryan, when are you getting married?” –  to which I responded, “Never!” – and be met with rampant, sweltering hatred!

In a car last week, four old friends spoke of times that were decidedly better and happier – weaving our way through the ghosts of the past on old country roads. I swallowed and admitted to my compatriots: “I’d rather be back in high school.” I was met with mournful nods and dreary-eyed agreement. Fuck college, and fuck “true happiness”. That goddamn myth has been ruling my life for years, it seems! There is no eternal Shangri-La which lofts amongst our dreams, there is only The Next Big Thing. If I just had ______, then I’d be happier! Look at your grandparents, or any sluggish citizen of Elderly Land, and you’ll notice that they’re either happily accepting of their impending mortality, or mean as hell. Old people live on both ends of the spectrum, they do not inhabit the center. We do!

I am going to die, and I have accepted this. I’m going to be gentle, caring and happy in the saddest sense of the word. I am going to give my children’s children candy and vast amounts of money from my Social Security wealth that I so desperately need, because I am going to die! And I will be there (maybe!) at their graduation to fill their heads with sticky-sweet promises of “potential” and “reaching for the stars.” I enjoy television and orthopedic shoes!!

OR

I am going to die, and I am bitter as hell about it! Fuck redemption, I am donating to nobody!; I will be stingy and crotchety. Stay out of the dining room, Ricky. Your grandmother has expensive pieces of porcelain that we’re not allowed to eat on in there. You wouldn’t want to go and be a little bitch of a grandson and destroy your grandmother’s only vestige of happiness that she clings so dearly to, now would you? Furthermore: I have shit my pants, and am unable to facilitate a stern cleaning of my unfortunate underside on account of my POOR HEALTH, FEEBLENESS and because you cleaning up after me is ENTIRELY HILARIOUS.

The young have the “gift” of looking toward the future, whereas the old simply look back on the past. It’s a one-way ticket to death, so ALL ABOARD.

In other news, I’d like to give a cheery shout out to recent graduates Jacob “crapabear” Capo and Nick “crapabear’s friend” Pacifco; have a great go at Texas State! Let me know when you dudes come upon and accept/ignore this scientific discovery that I’ve just revealed the world at large! (It should hit you around junior year or so.)

Every day I wake up, examine everything around me, think about Will i Am’s IMDB profile, and then I sigh really hard for 10 minutes straight before hating everything! Goodnight, Neverland!