I Was Born Ready, Motherfucker

"Only difference between a dream and a nightmare is how big your balls are, bitch."

-Wanted

Never really thought about things like that. I mean, I literally have some very large testicles attached to this body. Ask Sara. Ask any of my girlfriends. However, I don't think it's the size of them that make a damn difference when it comes to how a guy plays his cards. I mean, I kind of like shopping and even the fact that I write in a blog says something. Still, I kind of want Sara to measure them for that added masculine effect.

Spent all week with Sheryl Crow's "If It Makes You Happy" playing in my head. It's one of my favorites when I'm walking down a long hall or find myself wondering back to the days I was in college. The song, the video, everything just came together hard. Sheryl's also pretty damn nice to look at in her videos and I hated it when I heard she had cancer.

Well, that song had a reason for being there. The past few days, I wished I could come across a channel just accidently playing it. You know, like MTV *might* actually play a music video without some tween dancing around like a mentally challenged kid. Lucky me that Best Buy had a DVD containing all Sheryl's music videos. Right before work, I was transferred back to the days of listening to good music where it wasn't just how good a person looks. "If It Makes You Happy," "Soak Up the Sun," and "Favorite Mistake" were played til I couldn't take it anymore. 5 speakers blasting what my little dog considered noise made me happy.

Just this once, I had a feeling of total dominance when a guy that watched me work out paused in awe as I walked out of the gym. He had been watching what I did throughout my workout. Black leather and loose jeans was me walking out the door with no emotion whatsoever. It was a nice feeling to think that someone admires the pain I go through to try and find some sort of maleness in me.

My brother has a quote that annoys me because it doesn't fit him. I'll give you a little bit of it that kind of sums it up: "Chicks dig scars." I laughed a lot when I see my little bean-pole of a brother trying to attempt some form of acting tough. The boy has no muscle tone, face has damage from past acne, and thinks that his motorcycle gives him all the testosterone he needs for women to wet their panties at the sight of him.

I don't consider myself that masculine. I'll admit to looking the part but inside I'm a mess of all sorts of weirdness even I admit to being embarassed about. My mind's still stuck in the past thanks to how much I loved playing with my GIJoe figures, Nintendo, reading comics, jumping out of trees, and so much more you'd wished you could have seen me if you had become a ghost. To my brother, I just might be the key to what he is missing. I've got scars, my hand's got a small one thanks to dropping a weight bench on my thumb, underneath my chin is an obvious one thanks to someone slamming my head on a metal fence, and I'm sure there's more. Wish I could have had that one on my back from that infection last year. Remember that? Let's just say that it looked like an enormous zit bigger than you're used to having but smells when popped. The amount of blood in that thing? Wow. I was dripping.

Who knows. Sara has told me over and over that one of the geatest things about me (besides being able to let loose and be goofy without fear of judgement as she runs around a parking lot acting like a pterodactyl) is that I make her feel so safe. Walking down downtown, no one's going to mess with her. Last time, a guy turned his head downward as if he didn't want me to catch him looking at Sara. Leather has the power. Not me.

Work has picked up again. Found myself getting through it in the usual time but it flew, man. By the time it was over, I thought only and hour had passed. Weird. Sometimes, I just lose my goddamn self in there.

A lot of my crew are getting Valentine's Day off. Not just me. One of them has a major speech problem that takes him forever to get a sentence out. Forgot what it's called. Sometimes, I feel horrible for finishing his sentences for him. After much waiting, I got it that he's got a girlfriend. Isn't that nice? For me, it's not often that I find guys with disabilities as someone girls want. Seriously. It's more the other way around. Guys overlook 'em more often. I know, I know. I might get called out on this one but this is from my experiences.

It's just amusing to me how all these guys I work with are taking Valentine's Day off. We're the tough ones that don't sit at a desk pushing pencils so there might be some sort of dizziness in the time-zone where muscular guys walk the sidewalks with roses. Romance is a whole lot sweeter when thick forearms escort a girl to dinner. Am I right? Some are going to give me shit about that but I ask this. Have you ever been fucked by a guy with muscles instead of some bean-pole that thinks scars and a motorcycle is what makes you wet? Those that have been fucked from behind while gripped hard at the ass know it, yo.

So, I'm outta here. I'm bored by this entry and ready for some Sheryl Crow to sing me asleep. I'm dying for my boss to ask me if I'm ready for work on a good day. "I was born ready, motherfucker!" That's how to start it off. Happy twats all around.