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5 Years by Trey Printer Friendly

God help me. My guts are churning and I can barely breath.

Apparently the cheap ass generic cold medicine I'm snorting by the handful doesn't mix well with the cheap ass plastic bottle bourbon I'm chasing it down with.

If I keep listening to this song over and over again, maybe I can keep it together long enough to post something.

Cause gaw'dam it, it's February and the Strangelands 5 year anniversary.

Beats the hell out of President's day, and I promised Ray I'd post something before the end of the month.

I like to think the Strangelands isn't a blog where people post whatever boring shit has happened to them lately, but fuck it. I got your post right here.

Fuck you February. You suck, and your mother wears army boots.

Isn't Valentine's Day enough? Sickly sweet, bullshit, corporate created, consumerist trap holiday. What other pound of flesh do you need? What else do you want from me?

This has probably been the most fucked up February I've ever had.

Let's see. It starts with a party buddy of mine shooting himself in the chest. A suicide.

What the fuck? Are we still in highschool? Are we still listening to Counting Crows and moaning about the establishement?

This guy had a job and a child. He was 34 years old.

It's awful, but I picture him in his car, parked in his office garage listening to some depressing early 90's grunge travesty. I picture him pulling the trigger and tearing his heart out of his chest. The blood spurts from his body in great arches spattering the window of his sensible car. He has time for one last thought. “Oh shit. That was stupid.”

So fucking trite. So fucking lame. Such a fucking waste.

He was a good guy. The kind of guy you knew would show up when he said he'd show up. Strange but genuine. He did what he said and he took care of his friends. He had that rarest of traits. He had character.

There was a half dozen people he could have called. People who would have told him not to. People who would have told him that he was loved and that the bad times were only temporary.

He should have dialed that fucking phone.


You want to hear something depressing, try listening to the mother's eulogy at her suicide son's funeral. That'll set you back a step or two.

And why are there always sandwichs at funerals? What is it about death that requires cold cuts on old bread?

And where do you go from there? This is still early February. Still weeks to go.

Give me a moment. I'm riding that edge between incoherant vomiting inebriation and the death of all inhibition. A smoke a couple of testicle wrenching cheap whiskey belches and I'll pull it back together.

Not good, but better now.

Friends, life is short brutal and mean, but it's the only fucking game in town. Rage and rant and hate the facts therein, but stick till the end. It's the only game in town.

Enough about hat.

Did I bring up the 7 hour car ride, me with diarrhea and the two guys in the back seat alternating between preaching the love of Jesus and talking about which of their wife's three holes they preferred sticking their cock in? Did I mention they were having a farting contest?

Did I mention the trip to New England I took with my wife? The one where we went to the airport on Sunday so we could catch a plane back only to find out my wife booked return tickets for the wrong month?

You know, you can resolve a problem like that for about 1000 dollars.

Did I mention I resolved a problem like that so I could get back to go to work.

Did I mention I lost my job? That was last week. The second one I've lost since the start of this meltdown.

I spent more money to get back to work than I made the week they laid me off.

Did I mention that on the plane ride home some woman sat her 4 year old child next to me instead of sitting next to her?

She sat her child next to me. Me. Unshaven, hungover, dark eyed weirdo. I didn't understand at first.

Ten minutes in I get it. Her mother didn't want to ride next to her and had a chance to get some free baby sitting.

I spent 3 hours on a plane next to sweet, precocious Sydney. Sydney who threw trash at me and hit me and called me poo poo man. Sydney who, when I told her I needed to sleep, punched me and said no no no. Sidney who scribbled nonsense on paper, said it was her poop note, wadded it up, and threw it at my head.

God bless parenthood everywhere.

Did I mention that when Sydney finally started picking peanuts off the floor and saying they tasted better because of the poo, I let her eat them because I just wanted to be left alone?

This is how February has gone so far.

That's it. That's all I've got. At least for now. I could babble on about my job or about the economy, but it bores even me.

So happy anniversary strangelands. You haven't become everything we'd hoped, but at least you are still pure. No bullshit. And that's something special.

I even see comments from people we don't know. We're glad you're here.

Five years of random ramblings and drunken bullshit.

I still read it. Apparently you do to. In the future we'll all be famous to 15 people.

Not sure why it matters.

Ray is the only thing that keeps this site going, and most people just think it's his blog. I shouldn't bitch, cause I like this place, it's where I live, but we missed it by a year.

This site came in to existance before anybody had heard of blogs. Ray and I were sitting around drunk one night (just like all the other nights) and decided it would be cool if people could have a place to post whatever insane shit was going through their heads. Hmmm... sounds a lot like a blog.

The difference is, nobody offered us a couple million dollars.

Well, happy anniversary Strangelanders.

If you're inclined, drop a post. We'd all like to read it.

So raise a glass to five more years. We'll still be here, crying into the wilderness.. Hopefully, you will be too.

Entered By Ray From Austin
2009-02-28 02:30:31

Hey how the hell did you get on my blog? Ohhh, yeah. Not a blog. Good thing you lost your job so that you could post before February expired.

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