Wednesday, November 26, 2014                        

You Must Think I'm Made Out Of Titles

Hello jerkfools.  Time for our special Thanksgiving entry.  A day early.  Because I wouldn't want to take up time you could be spending with your precious, precious families.  I wish I had a plural of families.  All I have to do is get a bunch of women pregnant, and the non-aborted babies will take care of the rest.  It's an air-tight plan.  Can I abort this entry?  That would be the way to go, in my opinion.  No, must soldier on.  It's snow/sleet/rainining today.  Make up your mind, weather!  No half assin' it.  I was using an umbrella in the snow!  You damn weather made me look like an idiot.  And that's respect from neighbors walking their dogs that I'll never get back!  Anyway, on this Thanksgiving, we eat seven bitter herbs and spices.  That's not even remotely correct.  We do eat corn, though.  That's my name.  I'm a Thanksgiving miracle!  You might even say I'm a-maize-ing!  Don't really say it, though.  No one will take you seriously.  Ha, his name reminds me of other things.  You're welcome, I do it all for the people.  There was a girl named Maisy, or something, in my high school, and she was like 4'9.  It's weird being multiple inches taller than someone.  Unless they're a toddler.  Then, it makes a great deal of sense.  Anyway, nobody's satisfied with this paragraph.  The point is, Thanksgiving is once again upon us.  We celebrate it with eleven herbs and spices.  What?  You snooze, you lose.  Now you gotta do eleven.
    Doesn't seem fair.  Oh well.  I like the deal the settlers made with the American Indians.  Okay, you give us corn, and, let's see, what do we have.  Oh, I know!  We'll give you the Plague.  Done and done.  Man, what you gotta understand, man, is that the American Indians had no concept of ownership.  They were all, like, the Plague belongs to all of us!  That's a new character I'm working on.  It's called, "Hippie Who Is Wrong About Things."  That's how that might go. I'm relatively certain that is how it actually went.  The great part about Thanksgiving is it's all about the family.  Trading ghost stories with your grandfather... And so on.  Shooting a documentary with your second cousin's cat.  Eatin' pretzels with the neighbors.  Those classic Thanksgiving day activities.  I can't get the thought of eatin' a turkey leg out of my mind.  I'm so primed for this shit.  Yeah!  Get pumped!  Maybe I'll get buffalo wings tonight.  You know, as preparation.  Or not.  I'm not 100% committed to it.  Anything's possible, at this point.  What am I even doing here.  Writin' paragraphs.  Someone's gotta do it.  Anyway.  Thanksgiving.  I just wanna say, I'm thankful for all the times I don't have to write crazysheet.  Relaxin' is fun, fun stuff.  I know what the problem is.  My life hasn't changed in two years.  There's only so much I can talk about.  Hey, I can fit into shirts I couldn't a year ago.  How wonderful.  And guess what?  Back to usin' a belt.  Alright.  I wanna start a hybrid of the BLT and call it the BELT.  The, "E," stands for, "Everything."  Gotta put everything in it.  And bacon, lettuce, and tomato.  I only like tomato in sauce form.  That's how I feel about things.
    Alright.  What else is going on, and stuff.  I guess I'm just upset no one ever thanks me for giving.  Stupid American Idiots getting all the credit for everything.  American Indians, too.  Whatever.  That's how a joke might go.  Too bad it was just me fucking up while typing.  Which is funny, too.  I guess.  Anyway, hello.  I ordered lunch.  Because I eat lunch.  I'm just a regular Joe, eatin' lunch, doin' other stuff.  There's a pizza place nearby named Joe's.  Maybe I should get a job there, being such a regular Joe myself.  Maybe I should campaign for Joe Biden in any future elections he might be interested in winning.  Maybe I should just drink coffee all the time.  Perhaps I should play with little army men.  Will that make you happy, Mom?!!  I know I'm not the son you wanted me to be.  But it's not my fault!  I have illness!  Illness!  That's how Thanksgiving might go.  Good to prepare your rants ahead of time.  That's how I feel.  Anyway, let's cut this entry short.  This'll be last paragraph.  I ordered lunch, and what kind of a Joe would I be if I'm not ready to accept it into my house and, later, kitchen?  Then mouth.  Then food.  Then butthole.  Then do it all over again.  Anyway.  See ya later.                     

12:20 P.M.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014                        

I Swear This Has Never Happened To Me Before!

Hello friends.  Something weird happened last entry.  As I was re-reading it today, I found that I don't remember writing the entire second half of it.  I mean, I've written drunk before, but I'm always able to remember what I wrote.  Today, I look back, and the last few paragraphs, it's like I didn't even write.  Did you write it?  It wasn't me.  Anyway, so I did something I've never done in the history of crazysheet-- I edited it.  Because the paragraphs were repetitive crap, anyway.  Anyway, now time to look forward.  I have enough problems with myself, I don't need to add black-out drunk to the list.  Although, I guess I do, if I want to be accurate.  And I'm a big fan of accurateness.  I mean, I guess I did write it.  That's the most likely explanation.  Oh well.  Onwards and upwards!  I do remember taking a bath after my entry was over, and throwing up in the bath.  That's a pretty good sign I was drunk.  Anyway, time to drink a beer.  Hey, if I don't drink it, somebody else will.  I'm a hero.  This is for you, mankind!  Sip Sip Gulp.  That's a weird way to drink things.  I need to start giving myself random tests throughout the entry to gauge how drunk I am.  Say the alphabet backwards.  FUCK YOU YOU SAY THAT SHIT.  GET OFF MY CASE ALREADY.  Alright, I saw a, "Y," at the end, that's the second to last letter, I'm gonna give you credit.  Anyway, what else is going on.  Thanksgiving in a few days!  I like family time.  It's all like, "Hey-yo, wassup?  Pass the ketchup.  KEEP IT DOWN, KEEP IT DOWN."  I can't have my parents knowing I'm using ketchup.  It's contraband.  Also, doesn't belong with any of the Thanksgiving foods.  Also, I hate ketchup.
    Also, so far, I remember writing all of this.  So far, so good.  I should be getting my blood tests back this week.  It's possible I'll have to go on a few things, depending on the results of the blood test. You know how blood tests work, why am I explaining this to you.  Mostly because of my mental illness, I go to hospital probably 10-15x more than the average 26 year old.  That's cool.  Wait, 26... that's what I'm turning in a few weeks.  Woo!  Still 25!  If I committed a crime as a newborn, and was sentences to 25-life, I'm officially eligable for parole!  I would still be eligible for parole if I was 26.  That joke doesn't make a ton of sense.  I wonder what the youngest person ever was arrested for, and held in jail.  I wonder it so bad, I'm considering googling it.  I'm not sure if I'm ready for that kind of commitment, though.  I don't care that much.  I got arrested when I was four for getting stuck in the VCR.  They say they were there to help me, but I know they were taking finger prints.  That's why they took our VCR with them.  Certainly not because they wanted to watch Cop & a Half, and have the laughs all for themselves.  No, it was for the precious fingerprints inside.  Uh-oh, I told that story before.  How do I know it's still me writing the entry.  I'm pretty sure what I'm doing right now is adding to the entry.  And what I wrote before, I wrote it, it's still pretty fresh in my mind.  But, if I look at this later, I may very well be like, "What is this crap?  How long is he gonna stay in italics?  Can I go home now?"  So, that's a situation that might occur.
    Can you tell me where you live?  YEAH, IT'S 459 FUCK YOU LANE.  Anyway.  At least I'm conscious about what's going on today.  That's a nice step up.  Sure, I'm also conscious about the lack of entertainmentalityitude, but, oh well.  Do you know how much you've had to drink?  I DRANK YOUR MOM LAST NIGHT.  Alright.  Looks like we got a new character a-brewing.  The straight laced cop!  Who always asks reasonable and predictable questions.  And he's somewhat of a pushover.  That character is goin' places.  Anyway, what else is going on.  Can you tell me your name?  WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME YOUR NAME, YOU JUST WON STARRING ROLE IN THIS MOTHER.  Well, I'm glad you asked.  You see, I come from a long line of Big Mommas.  My grand father was Gerald Big Momma, my father was Mubarak Big Momma, and I guess that makes me Mubarak Big Momma Jr. That guy just shot himself in the leg.  He ain't making another appearance anywhere after that clunker.  I like cash for clunkers.  What if I want clunkers for cash, though?  I'm sure we can work out some sort of agreement.  If you look at a mirror image of yourself in a mirror, is everything re-reversed, so it looks regular?  I'm working on my thesis.  Mirrors-- What Are They All About?  Do you know where you are right now?  Yeah, I guess.  What's good with you?  Finding out the cop was the real star really deflated the drinker's ego.  Anyway.
    What else is going on.  Still here.  Still gotta write the entry.  Still gotta stay conscious.  So much responsibilities.  No class this weekend.  I can devote more time to whatever it is that I do.  Oh well.  What else is going on.  Ugh.  Maybe I did write that crap.  Why, though?  It's not like me to do things without thinking them through.  I remember I had a friend in middle school, and, wistfully, he told us all he was gonna leave New York and go to live in Florida with his, "Big Momma."  And us, his close friends, were all very sad.  Then it turned out he was just playing a goof on us.  There never was any Big Momma.  That's how that goes.  Also, if any of you wrote the second half of last entry, shame on you.  You ruined a perfectly good web log.  Wasn't me.  As long as no one caught me on the camera, or saw me banging on the sofa, or even did'ing it in the shower, it wasn't me.  To be a true player, you have to know how to play.  That's how I feel.  To be a true crazysheeter, one more paragraph.
    Alright, let's go.  Finishin' up the entry.  Still aware of what you're doing and your surroundings?  You know it!  Alright, I won this entry.  My only regret is I didn't get a piece of beef jerky today.  The store only has Slim Jims, and that's been played out.  I need a higher quality beef jerky.  Although, any product endorsed by Randy "The Macho Man" Savage has to have some redeeming qualities to it, one would imagine.  My favorite part of the entire Spiderman series is when Randy Savage tells Spiderman he has, "Three minutes of play time," in the ring, and he holds ups his pinky, his ring finger, and his middle finger to signify, "three."  Most people wouldn't have used those fingers.  But Randy "The Macho Man" Savage isn't most people.  Anyway, see ya later.

-2:30 P.M.                              

Monday, November 24, 2014                        

I'm a Pimp Like U Wouldn't Believe

Hello friendships.  It's me, here again, for some reason.  What to write about.  Hey have you heard about these new things called alcohol?  That's how I feel.  Anyway, I sometimes get butterflies in my stomach before the big game.  And by big game, I mean blog writing.  What if I go out there, and nobody likes me.  You know, like what happens when I leave the house?  Anyway, I gotta start thinking about the future.  Not just part time Queens College classes, big picture type stuff.  Like, which mental hospital do I want to be incarcerated in for the rest of my life?  The one that allows visitors to bring you bottles of soda.  That's an easy decision.  Also, if dinner is slop served out of a bucket.  I've always wanted to eat out of a bucket, I've just been waiting for a situation where it's socially acceptable.  And one that doesn't not allow rock-paper-scissors playing, because it's too provoking.  Hey, how am I supposed to fleece the feebs out of the cigarettes they're not supposed to have in the first place.  I don't think mental hospitals have a black market of stuff, like prison does.  Mentally ill people wouldn't be fit to figure out such a system.  I'm free now, though.  Time to look ahead.  I guess I could get a job as a homeless man.  They seem to have it all figured out.  And, let's face it-- homes are for suckers.  Oh!  My new neighbors moved in.  I met the patriarch of the family, he seems like a nice guy.  Asian.  And apparently they have a son, around my age, whose in college.  Who may or may not live with them.  Sounds like great friendship possibility!  Now all I have to do is get him to wear an Elisha Cuthbert costume when we're making love, and I'd be all set.  Or, I could break down the wall that connects our house, and be like, "Looks like we're roommates!"  Even though I don't live in the room adjacent to their house.  And, in all likelihood, neither would be.  I used to live in that room.  It's half the size of my current room, cause my brother used to live in my current room, but I successfully lobbied my parents to let me switch rooms when he went to college.  And, no joke, my main memory of the older room was listening to, "Little Room," by The White Stripes, while in that room.  That, and being scared shitless while trying to sleep.  The ghost of the old lady out in the hallway.  The bloody heads in the closet.  The who-knows-what under the bed.  The ghost of a girl on the other side of the bed.  The ghost on the ceiling.  No wonder I spent most of my adolescence sleeping downstairs on the couch.
    That's how that goes!  Am I right?  Sure I am, you can trust me.  I wouldn't lead you astray.  I was also scared about going into my parents bathroom, because I always imagined the bathroom-lady from The Shining was in there.  That's how that goes.  One would imagine.  Also, later on, in my teenage years, I would imagine there was a homeless guy in our attic, watching me sleep through the vent.  That could be explained by my paranoid-schizophrenia, though.  Most things in my life could be explained by my paranoid-schizoaffective disorder.  Like, why can't I relate to people?  Why doesn't anyone like spending time with me?  Why are aliens reading my brainwaves and transporting them back to their home planet of Algernon 8?  We joke, we joke.  It's all in good fun.  If you're on Algernon 8, you gotta have a pretty poor image of yourself, to let yourself be called Algernon 8.  That's like if we called ourselves England II.  Get a unique name, that's what I say!  Be your own planet.  That's how I feel.  Anyway, what else is going on.  I also remember, as a kid, leaving the bathroom door open, for some reason associated with fear.  I forget exactly why, maybe I wanted to be able to hear what's going on outside the bath room, in case some shit goes down.  Maybe I just didn't want to be trapped in a room with Bloody Mary.  I know I would never summon her on purpose, but, hey, accidents happen.
    Alright!  I guess.  Another fun day of crazysheet.  This was supposed to be a makeshift website, this incarnation at least, helping me figure out what my role is in the world.  Instead, it just became this cancerous entity that became my place in the world.  Oh well,  Let's Go Places, am I right?  Probably.  I'm right an astonishing 79% of the time.  That's a solid C+/B-.  We have fun.  If we don't have fun, who will?  It's up to us, folks.  It's up to us.  I remember my first junior year in college, fall of 2008, the first day, I was getting high with a suitemate, and he kept playing me these jazz songs on youtube.  And I was like, well, I am high, so these sound okay.  He also told me about a radio show called Coast To Coast, where they talk about big foot sightings, alien encounters, ghosts, stuff like that.  And, being an avid podcast listener, I was intrigued.  I musta listned to it two or three times, high and drunk out of my mind.  My main memory of that semester, though, was I went to McDonalds to get whatever, and handed them a twenty dollar bill, and they were like, this is counterfeit.  So, what did I do?  I went all the way back to my dorm, got another twenty, went back to McDonalds, and was like, sarcastically, Will you accept this?  They thought they won that situation, makin' fun of the lowly college student tyring to get an Angus burger.  But I showed them.  By giving them money for food that can only be described as crap.  But, to me, it was a win.  That, and having to deal with my suitemate who was even crazier than me.  But, he was crazy in a way that attracts women.  There were always girls around.  So, I put up with it.  I remember being mesmerized by a chess game he was playing with his friend.  I was high, of course, and my senses were getting disorganized, watching the game get played.  What the Hell is even going on?  And I had two beds in my room.  Cause my roommate never showed up.  Crazy Guy suggested, "Why don't you combine the bed into one?"  So, if I have sex, room to spread around.  So I did it.  Never had sex, though.  I did have some sex before I combined the beds.  Don't mean to brag.  Actually I do.  Sex!  Sex!  Sex was had by me!  And it was awesome!
    That's how that goes.  I also had two desks.  Maybe I want my laptop on this one tonight, maybe the other one.  Talk about luxury.  It's kind of a good thing I got sick.  Without getting sick, there's no doubt in my mind I would be a full blown druggie at this point.  Now, sure, I take five or seven unique pills a today, but they're doctor prescribed!  In the end, though, there's really no difference.  That's sort of how I sort of feel, today.  I remember making pillow talk, after the deed(s) was done, tellin' the girl about my twenty dollar McDonalds story.  She was so impressed, she fell asleep.  Let me tell you, waking up to a beautiful woman in your bed, with your arm around her, and stuff, no greater feeling.  And, almost immediately is when the side-effects from Coke took place.  Cause I was on coke, for the first and so far last time, when I was with the girl.  The next few days, what seemed like weeks, were pretty uncomfortable.  Being high on coke made it so much easier, though.  It's like, On this drug, I can intuitively figure out how to act and what to say that would lead to sex.  It was pretty weird.  Or, maybe that's just what I was thinking, and I just got lucky.  I don't know, I haven't tested out this theory again, since.  So, what was I talking about?  Oh yeah.  I had sex!  Sex sex Sex!  That great thing?  Had by me.
    Anyway.  I haven't had sex since then.  That's over six years, at this point.  You can't have sex in hospital.  There's rules against it.  If there wasn't, there were a couple of ladies over the years that, if it were allowed, might have fit the bill.  You can't have sex living at home.  Your father isn't interested, and your mother would get all clingy afterwards.  No need for that.  You can jerkoffsterbate.  That's one way to go.  Not really sex, though.  You need another person.  That's how I feel.  Can I get off this riff about sex?  It's making me uncomfortable.  Not really, but it's probably making you uncomfortable.  That's one of the intuitions that stayed with me after coke.  Ninety percent of what I say, normally, makes girls uncomfortable.  I just turn it into a positive.  Uncomfortable?  Not my problem!  I'm doin' this shit for me.  Anyway, what was I talking about?  Twenty dollar bills and sex.  And porking my mother.  Fun stuff!  See ya.

-2:30 P.M.                                                     

Sunday, November 23, 2014                        

You'll Never Get a Title With That Attitude

Hello friends, frienders, and friendists.  What's your host up to.  That's me.  I'm the host!  Now that I'm officially host, there's gonna be some changes around here.  First, new background every month.  The host has spoken!  Second, better titles.  No more half-assing it.  I've got some great title ability, but I've been throwing it away on these half-assed mediocre titles.  Is the ass half full, or half empty.  Third of all, ignore that joke.  Fourth of all, I forget what I was talking about.  Good thing, too, because comedy comes in threes.  I heard that somewhere.  If I did a, "Fourth of all," the comedy would be ruined.  Unless if I make it up to six.  I assume multiples of three are okay.  That's why three is the funniest number.  One is the loneliest number, two is the loneliest number since the number one, and three is the funniest number.  Four can suck a lemon.  Five is just trying too hard.  Anyway.  What's the good word today.  I think there should be fortune cookies that command you to do stuff.  It's like how my doctors are always asking me, "Are the voices asking you to do things?"  And I say no.  But fortune cookies could turn that on it's head, and start telling people, "Kill Your Wife," or something like that.  You know, for humour.  It wasn't me, it was the fortune cookie!  My go-to evil command is Kill Your Wife, for some reason.  Probably can dig into that for some quality therapy-goo.  Also, don't kill your wives.  You probably like them to some extent, that's why you got married.  I don't have a wife.  When I get married, and the priest or whoever says, "Do you take this woman, to have and hold, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?"  I'm just gonna shout out, "I'm Talking Down-Town!"  Then run into the bushes and crouch down, away from prying eyes. 
    Or maybe roll my eyes, and say, "No one told me there would be questions."  Or, Can I phone a friend?  No?  Can I at least ask the audience?  Fifty-Fifty?  That joke devolved into crap.  It started out as crap, then turned into crappier crap.  It's a good thing I'm the host, I'll cut myself a little slack.  After I say, "I Do," I'm gonna turn to the priest, and whisper, "So, when do we do the circumcision?"  And he'd be like, This isn't a bris.  And I'd be like, There's a bride!  Same first three letters!  Get your facts straight!  Microsoft Frontpage doesn't recognize Bris as a word.  No wonder they're micro-soft.  Again, that doesn't make sense.  Yeah, but it's close to making sense.  That's a win in my book.  I like how, in Shakespeare, comedies end in weddings, and dramas end in funerals.  I don't have a joke there.  It's just something I like.  What about A Death At a Funeral.  That was a comedy.  And Wedding Crashers was a drama.  At least, I assume it was.  No laughs.  I guess when it comes to those movies, the score is Luke Wilson One, Owen Wilson Zero.  I liked Wedding Crashers.  I'm just being contrarian.  Now I know that if I'm ever invited to a wedding, I can hit on girls there.  And, if I'm invited to a funeral, there's still a chance that I may die.  If I'm ever at a funeral, and there while they're lowering the casket into the ground, I'm gonna start chanting, "Speech!  Speech!  Speech!"  This entry sucks.  Speech!  Speech!  Speech!  Well, hey, if you're here now, I guess you already know about the quality of the entry.  Believe you me, I didn't plan for it to be this bad.  In my mind, it was going to be a nice, relaxing time, an escape from the drudgery we all face day to day, but it just hasn't been turning out the way I had hoped.  I tried making some jokes, and I mostly fell flat on my face.  I'm sorry.  But, as the good Lord says, "If at first you don't succeed..." I forget how the rest of that saying goes.  The point is, this could get better at any moment.  It probably won't-- the odds are against it.  But, it's possible.  Thank you.
    Well Said! Well Said!  Well Said!  Some people just don't know when to quit chanting.  Anyway, what was I talking about.  Probably something important.  This blog tackles the big issues.  Like, New Flavors For Dunkin Donuts Iced Coffees, or Things That Are In My Room That I Can See.  I think when it comes to commercial spokespeople, the Wendy's lady is the hottest.  Too bad Dave Thomas isn't around to give me his blessing to court her.  That's how I feel.  I don't get why McDonalds is based around a clown.  When people think of hamburgers, what do they think of.  CLOWNS.  I don't get it!  I'll never get a job at McDonalds with that attitude.  They perform rigorous background checks, and if they find out I made fun of Mr. McDonald, I'll get black listed from every McDonalds in the land.  Also, Jake from State Farm.  I wonder what he's wearing. More with the farm theme, like McDonalds.  These words, it's still these words.  Also, how terrible is it that Bill Cosby is a racist.  I mean, rapist.  That's how I feel.  Whenever I see interviews of my favorite comedians, they always cite Bill Cosby as one of the tops, ever.  I've only seen one of his stand up specials, from a year or two ago, and I can recognize that he's really great, but, to be honest, he was never one of my favorites.  But, being a rapist?  I mean, his public persona is so likable, but being a rapist is pretty much the worst thing you can be.  It's inexcusable.  So, fuck him.  I'll admit, I don't have all the facts, but why would so many women make it up.  They wouldn't.  Hey, let's fuck over Bill Cosby.  That guy's been asking for some trouble.  Doesn't make sense.
    I'm not a fan of the N word.  Or the Q word.  Not even the E word.  Don't get me started on the H word.  And the T word?  Never in a million years.  Certainly not the W word.  Shit, I just said it.  I was once at a sleep over with some friends, and I jokingly called our black friend a slave, and he put me in a headlock and made it physically clear how insensitive that was, and I took that as a life lesson.  I had always been a "Laughs at any cost," guy, but there are some things that aren't funny, because they're so insensitive.  Also, earlier in the sleep over, we went into a McDonalds in an "urban" area, and as we were entering, I said, "I've Got Jungle Fever!" which I didn't even know what meant at the time.  And some guys moved their bandanas, and stuff, which my friends interpreted as a sign they were about to kill someone.  So we went to the blockbuster across the street for two hours until we figured they were gone.  And that's why the only time I'll say jungle fever now is when I'm shooting the shit with Michael Rapaport.  Which is weird, because he wasn't even in that movie.  All white people look alike to me.  All Filipino people look alike to me.  Can we at least agree on that?  Anyway.  The jungle fever bit is a little bit funny.  If only because I didn't know what it meant.  What would possess me to say that?  It's like there's a little part of my brain that just motivates me to be an idiot, even if I don't consciously fully understand what it means.
    Maybe Michael Richards was just so sick of being Kramer, and would rather be known as the racist.  You spend such a long time as one identity that you hate, you'd do anything to replace it.  Think of how terrible it would be to be The Kramer.  Every time you walk through a door, someone goes, Not funny.  Do it again.  That's how I feel.  For some reason, in my mind, it was Vanessa Bayer saying, "Not funny, do it again."  I guess cause she's on NBC.  Like The Seinfelds.  Because he's my Butler.  Anyway.  That makes me think of baseball.  There's a man by the name of Billy Butler who plays for the Major League Baseballs.  He can sure sock a few home runs.  In all honesty, I love the new coconut flavor for Dunkin Donuts iced coffees.  It's like I'm drinking a tropical adventure!  A girl actually said, "Hi," to me, after class yesterday.  After class, I went to the bathroom, then was leaving the building, when a girl from my class was returning into the building, for whatever reason, and she waved and said, "Bye!" and at the same time I sort of nodded my head and said, "Hi."  Oh boy, in our hilarious romancing of the stone, will we ever get on the same page?  She says bye, I say hi.  She goes on ignoring me, I look at her butt.  The sexual tension is thick, real thick.  I remember, the first time I smoked a Newport, I was with my friend in 2010, meeting up with some girl.  We got high, and she was with her family for some reason, and they kept showing us paintings, art stuff.  And I was like, so this is what Newports taste like.  That's relevant...?
    Anyway.  Our brains make weird connections and shit.  I guess.  Who knows for sure.  These words, it's these words.  Sleepovers are great.  I remember one of my go to movies, when I was having a sleepover at my house, was Return of the Living Dead.  I remember I was once having a sleepover at the guy who fed my Dog Treats house, and his younger brother was just running around naked.  So, of course, I asked for his phone number.  Turned out it was the same number as my friend.  Who woulda guessed.  I also remember playing Sonic The Hedgehog at his house.  But, mainly, the dog food eating and the brother nakeding.  He was probably my best friend in elementary school.  And he's not on Facebook, so I literally haven't heard from him in fifteen years.  I wonder what he's up to.  Gotta be something.  Assuming he's alive.  I remember he liked That 80's show, the short lived sequel to That 70's Show, and we made fun of him for it.  And, at a sleepover at another friends house, we were playing All Star Baseball into the night, and one of our created characters won, "The Golden Hammer," which I guess is a baseball award for sluggers, and we kept going, "Golden Hammer!  Ooo-ooo-ooo!"  That's interesting because it's my fuckin' blog.  And I remember his dad was also a math teacher, because my Dad is/was a math teacher.  It's these words, these words.  What the Hell happened to him.  Who avoids facebook for eight years.  I'm even friends with his oft-naked younger brother, but he's nowhere to be found.  Oh well, more power to him.  If I could go the next eight years of my life without Facebook, that would definitely be a step up.  I don't need it.  I'm better off without it.
    Yup.  Maybe that's why old crazysheet was a thing.  Most people my age didn't have any presence on the web, so my website was more notable.  I mean, it wasn't a huge thing, but my friends shared it with their friends, and whatever.  I got about 20-30 hits a day, which is pretty good, considering I had less friends than that.  I don't know the statistics for this incarnation.  I'd need to pay extra.  And that's just money I don't have.  But, also, you gotta figure some of those hits are from search engines and drones.  But even if you cut it in half, ten people a day?  Pretty awesome... at the time.  And I know, because I would meet people from my friend's high school, and they'd know about crazysheet.  And then, I'd fail at relating to them on a personal level, so we never became friends.  But, before we failed at becoming friends, they were interested in being friends with me!  That's some accomplishment, I would imagine.  That's how that goes.  THESE WORDS.  I'd never use the C word.  Or the V word.  Definitely not the 7 word.  I think there might have been three or four black people in my grade in high school.  The only contact I had with any of them, was, in 10th grade Chemistry, I would always be drawing boxes in my notes, and a black kid was like, "Do you draw anything other than boxes?" and I was like, "Nope!"  Keep it simple.  I should have told him to think outside the box.  There was another black kid who I partnered with when I retook Chemistry, as my lab partner.  I don't remember any stories about him, except that it was when I was retaking chemistry during the summer.  And I kept listening to Weezer's Maladroit album to and from the summer class. 
    Alright, maybe last paragraph time?  I guess.  I like these jumbo sized entries.  You get more for your money's worth.  Which is a lot, because you pay me nothing.  Not even a comment on Facebook.  Nice entry!  I'd take that as payment.  No one seems to care.  Oh well, I know I'm puttin' out solid C-/C entries, and that's enough.  Maybe even B entries, if you're expectations are particularly low.  That's how I feel, am I right?  How would you know if I'm right.  It's how I feel.  Only I may know how I feel.  You ain't got a clue.  These words, it's these words.  I don't know why that amuses me so much.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  Closin' up the entry, that's one thing that's going on.  See ya later.

-2:57 P.M.                         

Saturday, November 22, 2014                        

What Can I Say To Get You Into a New Title Today?

Hello friends.  It's your friend, me.  I spent my day in class today writing some real great titles for songs.  I'm talking primo stuff.  And I was all pumped up about starting a new album.  Then, I got home, and was like, "That's right, I can't play guitar."  What a dummy!  I can always use them in my fantasy rock band league.  These titles are worth starting every week of the season.  I started writing titles because I did the very basic groundwork for a potential New Monkees movie, and figured there should be two or three songs in there.  Then, it just spun out of control, and I was like, "Fruck the movie, these songs are the real stars!"  Then it turns out I can't follow anything through to completion.  Except for this website.  I regularly write five paragraphs!  Five paragraphs!  Regularly!  Anyway, what else is goin' on.  I made some decent eye contact with some girls in class today.  I'm working up to smiling at them, maybe even saying, "Hello."  Save that for the last class, or so.  Don't wanna blow our proverbial wad too early.  Anyway.  When did I start using the Royal, "Our?"  Two sentences ago, that's when.  I had a dream I was listening to new Elliott Smith songs.  And in the dream, I was rapidly writing down the lyrics, so I wouldn't forget them.  Then I woke up.  Too bad things you write in dreams don't exist in real life, otherwise woulda have that shit saved.  I remember one of the words used was, "Dream."  Which seemed particularly relevant, I thought.  I had a dream the night before, someone was teaching me guitar, reluctantly.  And when I was trying to play for him, I just kept hitting the low E string.  That's the only note I would play.  Which is pretty much about where I'm at, guitar-skill-wise. 
    Dream-wise, I'm gettin' pretty good.  Those are some solid dreams, as far as I'm concerned.  Paragraph-wise, I'm up to 2.  Pretty good as well.  Anyway, what the what.  I only have two more classes for my Fall semester class.  Alright!  Then, it's New Monkees time.  One would hope.  It'll probably be just reading scripts, and writing about them.  Let's examine the script for Adaptation.  How can we write scripts that are self-referential?  Susan Orlean should go back to New Orleans, where she came from.  I've had it up to here!  Anyway.  Crazysheet.  That's what be goin' on now.  How has my life been crazy in the past three days?  How has it been sheet?  It's been crazy because I saw a movie.  It's been sheet because I spent money on bus rides.  I remember one of my last class field trips ever, in sixth or seventh grade, we went on a bus that had T.V.'s in it, and we watched Shrek.  I assume we also went to some place and learned some stuff.  But, more importantly, we watched a movie.  Class trips are fun.  I remember this one time, we went on a class trip to Battle of the Bands, because our substitute teacher told us there was gonna be a class project next semester about rock band.  Turned out, he was lying.  He went to jail for six years and when he came out, he was a born against Christian.  Or something like that.  That was the last title I came up with, on the walk to the bus stop.  Something Like That.  I like it, because it's anagram suggests slitting wrists, which is fun fodder for rock music lovers.  It's still Rock 'n Roll to me.  Weird Al oughta write a song called, "It's Still Billy Joel To Me."  Roll does rhyme with Joel.  I was listening to the classic rock station, and they advertised how over Thanksgiving, they're gonna play the audience-voted top 1,043 classic rock songs, in reverse order.  That number seems kind of arbitrary.  Arbitration is an issue faced by many sports players in the modern age.  The Modern Age is a song by The Strokes.  The Strokes can be a reference to masturbation, or playing guitar.  Possibly swimming, but nothing else. 
    New paragraph.  All cleansed from the old paragraph.  We gotta look forward with this thingamagig, not backward.  I dropped a cigarette on the sidewalk, earlier, and picked it up.  Some people walked by me and looked at me, and I was like, yeah, these people might judge me if I smoke it now, so I put it in my pocket.  Then, when they were outta sight, I smoked it.  There's already 700 toxic chemicals in it, according to commercials.  What's a few dozen more from sidewalk gunk.  If anything, it probably makes it healthier.  That's how I feel.  I ate two fortune cookies recently, and they said synonymous things.  Not even the same thing twice, just two things that basically were the same thing.  I take that as a sign that coincidences happen.  I was on the fence, but this sealed the deal!  Five paragraphs is too long to look at a computer.  Stephen Merchant's T.V. show is showing their movie tonight.  He's great.  I remember my freshman year in college, I would listen to the old XFM radio shows they did with Karl Pilkington, when he was still just their producer.  I loved it.  I'm part of that weird generation that was just starting to hear podcasts when our minds were young and impressionable-- in college.  So, there are all these other ways to form a narrative and interpret and discuss life?  Other than what we know from our social circle and T.V. and movies?  Pretty crazy stuff.  And look where that led me.  Writing five paragraphs of mutton on a website twice a week.  I can only hope that, right now, ten years from now, after I'm famous, there's young kids reading this, trying to figure out what crazysheet was all about before he hit the big time.  Here's a hint-- Live life so that it fits into five paragraphs, and don't say anything particularly interesting or extremely funny-- if you're too entertaining, people will be threatened.  You gotta find that sweet spot.
    Hopefully, in ten years, I'll be up to ten paragraphs an entry.  You gotta make some sort of progress in this life.  Yup.  I've been fantasizing a lot recently about starting a podcast.  I would have nothing to talk about, though, with no one to talk about it it to.  I've come up with some names, though.  Trash Talk.  Dirty Talk.  Sportzilla and The Jabberjocks.  Not really the last one.  We Be Podcasting.  That's a frontrunner.  My Thumb Is Bleeding with Michael Kornblum and Guest.  Not bad.  Not... bad.  Two more classes!  Then, what's screenplay writing all about?  Then, what's Yoga all about?  That's actually really worth looking forward to.  Good for mind and body?  I have both of those!  Also, lookin' at girls asses during downward dog!  One would imagine.  Crazysheet The Podcast The Movie The Podcast.  Why not.  Anyway.  Five paragraphs of crap.  That I can do.  No music, though.  I guess I can start titling entries with off-beat generic pop rock songs.  Gotta put them to use somehow.  Also, don't judge the rest of them by the one I said.  Like I said, that was on the walk home.  Totally different category than the ones I wrote in class.  I'm also looking into taking a UCB class, but so far there hasn't been a timeslot I'm available in.  I really feel the need to take one, so I can rectify my horribleness in the last one I took.  Every scene, I was just thinking, This is moving too fast!  What's going on?!  I feel I could do better.  Also, looking at girls asses during downward dog.  I'm talkin' down-town!
    Alright.  Fifth paragraph tizzime.  Also, American Lit Survey II.  I'm talking down-town!  Anyway.  I don't trust any book written in the 20th century.  If it's so good, why isn't it a movie? I remember I once read a book called Invisible Man in high school, and the last chapter he falls down a sewer.  I love that.  Any book that ends with the character falling down a sewer, and isn't a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle story, is aces in my book.  Also, it was probably a genuinely fine novel with important implications on our society and culture.  But it ends with him falling down a sewer!  And, also, I remember there's a chapter where he works in a paint factory, and our teacher was all like, what's the significance of the paint factory chapter?  You tell me!  You're the teacher!  I had a genuinely fine joke about The Grapes of Wrath in old crazysheet where I go, George Bush woulda liked the ending if the old man could decide which breast to invest in, or something like that.  I used to know about politics.  Now all I know about is The Boys Are Back In Town.  I get all my news from lyrics on the Classic Rock radio station.  I remember my freshman year in high school, I took this program where every week I went to Silvercup Studios, and learned about T.V. and movie making.  And we saw the Sopranos set, and this was before I had seen it, and the guy I knew from Stuy was like Woah, This Is Where Furio Almost Kissed Diana, Or Whatever Tony's Wife Name Was!  I wanna say Diana, or Louise, or possibly Barbara.  Yup, he said all that.  And I remember it was near a Kennedy's Fried Chicken.  And I was like, hmm, so that's what an urban knockoff of K.F.C. would call itself.  And also, freshman year, I had to meet some grade-mates at the Flushing library, which is near the 7 train station.  I literally had zero friends freshman year.  Zero.  I was too busy being an eccentric cool dude.  I remember once, in Freshman English, I sat by the cool kids, because someone was sitting in my seat, and a cool girl actually said, "Do you usually sit here?" which I took to be an incredible insult, like, "WHY ARE YOU HERE?" but maybe she was just making conversation.  I don't know.  I later went on to be in a Video Production group with her, senior year, where she still never talked to me.  I guess she talked to me that first time.  We remember what we want to remember from high school, am I right?  I probably am.  Otherwise, I wouldn'ta said it!
    Yeesh.  Gotta keep writing here, for some reason.  Otherwise, I'll be forced to recognize the pointlessness of my life and the ultimate futility of trying to justify it.  So, keep writin' crazysheet!  Yeah!  What to write about, though?  Probably crazy, and/or sheet.  Hopefully, both.  We'll see.  This has been a weird year.  It's been, like, I'm trying to get over my mental illness, but I'm not quite there yet.  Like, I'm putting myself out there, a little bit, in a lot of ways, but not 100% committing to anything.  Like, writing entries, writing music, taking the screenplay writing class hopefully, thinking about guitar lessons, UCB lessons, etc.  Eventually, only one thing will persevere.  And my life will form a narrative around that.  But, for now, it's a lot of different things.  Gotta do something.  And leave the rest behind.  I guess I could make drinking my one thing.  But that wouldn't be good for my future prospects.  Anyone whose one thing is drinking probably doesn't have a lot going on.  Anyway.  That stuff is depressing!  And serious!  Not fodder for crazysheet.  Not!  Anyway, so, what is doffer for crazysheet.  probably what I write soon.  Because, yeah.  What else is going on.  This is what, the sixth paragraph?  Let's do seven.  I don't wanna leave yet, baby.  We got more entryin' to do, I swear it.  I'm pretty sure girls are attracted to me in real life.  They make eye contact in all the right places.  So far, nothing yet has come of it, so far.  But the possibility is there!  That's how I feel.  When I'm done with this entry, it's back to nothing.  I don't wanna go back to nothing!  I wanna keep bein' something!  Even if it's relatively nothing.  Also, why is doffer a word?
    Last paragraph time.  Yeah!  Whatta write about.  Probably paragraph fodder, and stuff.  Yeah!  Yeah.  What else is there to wirite about.  I wrote about current stuff, like the class and the patheticness of my life, and I wrote about high school, and the patheticness of my life back in high school.  I guess I can write about the patheticness of my life in the future.  I bet my life will be pathetic in the future!  The odds are for it.  The good news is, I get to go to sleep tonight.  No one can take that away from me.  What will I dream about?  Probably more stuff about failing at music, if the last two nights are any indication.  And if my dreams are any syndication, they will follow the narrative that's been spelled out for them and continue on that path.  Anyway.  Life is weird.  That's how I feel.  Once you think you got it figured out, it throws you a screwball, and you realize you're no more than Sportzilla and/or the Jabberjocks.  Anyway.  This was two hours.  Two hours.  Too long, when considering the quality.  Two short, when considering the quality of life.  Anyway.  Half a paragraph to go.  That's how that goes.  I suppose.  Yeah.  Maybe I'll stay up to see the Hello Ladies movie.  Because it would be nice to pretend something is worth doing something for.  Yeah.  It's kinda cool, thinking, one day, I'll be able to do something with females.  It's depressing, though, thinking that that day is not now.  That's how that goes.  Booyah.  See ya later.

-5:17 P.M.                                                           

Wednesday, November 19, 2014                        

I Only Eat Food Inspired By The Jerky Boys

Beef jerky and jerk chicken.  All a guy needs.  So, I did try a piece of beef jerky for the first time since Middle School, and, lo and behold, I'm still alive.  I woulda imagined all the fluid would have been immediately drained from my body and I would collapse on the sidewalk.  Even though I ate it in my kitchen.  I would have fallen backwards seventy steps and then keel over.  Anyway, hello!  It's Wednesday.  I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow.  My thyroid doctor.  Cause of all the Human Growth Hormone I've been taking.  If you want small testicles, that's the way to go.  I guess.  Who wouldn't want small testicles.  Makes your pee-pee look bigger.  I'm comfortable being a grown man using the term, "Pee-pee."  Sometimes you just gotta go with what feels right.  Anyway.  It's cold outside!  Wha the wha.  Why can't we just suck up all the cold air in winter, and then use it for air conditioning in the summer.  And, the reverse, save up the warm air in the summer for heat in the winter.  Where are the scientists working on that groundbreaking idea.  Probably up in their Eiffel towers, ignorant of what problems the working man really has to deal with.  Ah, we say wrong words, we say wrong words.  Did you know Ebony and Ivory was about the disconnect between the privileged upper class and the blue caller worker?  Well, the ebony collared worker, more precisely.  Ivory sorry for that joke.  When I propose marriage to a woman, I'll open up the engagement ring box, and declare, confidently and lovingly, "Me Love You Long Time."  And then I'll be in like Tony Gwynn.
    Okay.  What fun.  This month is flying by.  For a long time, time was taking a long time.  Then, since Halloween, it's been goin' pretty quickly.  Probably because I started exercising.  A body in motion tends to stay in motion, in relation to E=MC², and you got your time flying.  Anyway, what's going on.  Dunkin Donuts coffee has a new flavor.  Cinnamon.  Alright!  I also eat turkey, because it rhymes with jerky.  I feel that's a close enough relation.  No slurpees, though.  Gotta draw the line somewhere.  Take this background, for instance.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  It's Wednesday.  Probably already mentioned that.  I'm gonna have a sonogram taken at the endocrinologist.  What's that run these days, about twenty dollars?  I think I have to pay you fifteen dollars just for making you read that joke.  Damnit.  I should just delete it, that'll save me some hard earned quiche.  I call cash quiche.  Here's another five dollars.  I haven't made any progress in my Big Star book in a few weeks.  I'm waiting till I catch up on actually listening to their music, before reading any further.  That way I'll have a point of reference to what they're all about.  Anyway.  This entry is taking forever.  Oh Well.  At least it's the weekend.  In January, my screenwriting class is every day for three hours.  Who works Monday to Friday, for three hours a day?  It's madness.  I'm not gonna put up with it.  I'm writing a strongly worded letter to the commissioner of Queens College.  Either you change the schedule, or trade me. 
    I'll waive my no-trade clause in this instance.  I'm sure they can get a couple of 19 year old Dominican prospects from Stony Brook for me.  I'm no slouch.  I once got a B-, and the teacher wrote Talk To Me After Class.  Oooh, talking to the teacher after class!  Guess I'm Mr. Special.  My Spring semester teacher noticed how awesome I was, and told me to meet with him after class, and he was like, "I can tell you're a writer..." and so on and so forth.  And I was like, "Oh, go on.  Stop it!  You're embarrassing me!"  For some reason, he thought I wrote fiction though.  At the time, I was like, "Nah, I'm sorta into music, you know.  Writin' songs like I'm way old school, but still taking classes in... school."  And he was like, "Fine, just stop talking to me."  Also, we were once in groups discussing a book where supernatural things happen, and I made a joke insinuating the things in the book actually happened to me, and he said, "Okay, just make sure you don't go towards the light."  Which was important, because in Poltergeist, there's some confusion about whether the girl should go towards the light, or stay away from the light.  Now, because of this teacher, I know to avoid the light.  See, you can learn practical information in an English class.
    Also, I learned, maybe I should be a fiction writer.  Apparently I've got the goods in that arena.  Let's see, Tony and Clark were... Fuck, I'm just thinking about former first baseman Tony Clark.  Let me start over.  Jason and John were blah blah blah.  One of them thought, "Ah-hah!"  They called each other brah and went down to the spa.  Damnit, I told you I wrote lyrics!  Gotta stick to what you know.  I would waive my no-trade clause to go to Stony Brook.  They seem like good people.  I thought, as a goof, I might start calling the subway the underground railroad.  I need to wait for it to come up in conversation, though, and I need to make sure I remember it.  But, one day, it'll come up.  And whoever I'm talking to will realize they're dealing with a comic mastermind.  Anyway.  It's Thanksgiving next week.  That's great fun.  What's the deal with turkey?  Turkey, as a food, is nobody's favorite.  The best you can say about turkey is that it's serviceable, it serves it's purpose.  You know what you're getting with turkey.  Just a bit I'm workin' on.  Stay away from the light.  That's how I know not to become a comedian.  As soon as it's time for me to wrap up, there's a light.  Gotta avoid lights.  Anyway, what else is going on.  When I'm done with Queens College, they better retire my number.  I've given too much to the fans, I've earned that much.  My number is 619-433-35.  Retire it!  I can't believe Mike Stanton got a 300 million dollar contract.  Seems a bit egregious for a retired serviceable relief pitcher.  I can't believe Arch Stanton got money buried in his grave.  Or something.  I haven't seen that movie in ten years.  It has a killer theme song, though.  The Good, the Bad, and The Ugly!/Which one's good, which one's bad?/The Good, The Bad and The Ugly!/These three characters are the choices we have.
    Okay.  Last paragraph time.  Thanksgiving is kind of a passive aggressive holiday.  Hey, nice to see you.  THANKS, GIVING...  Excuse me.  Don't mean to interrupt your precious, precious giving-time.  The good news is the entry is almost over.  Gotta finish it up in style, though.  One would imagine.  I wanna write The New Monkees.  I don't care if we have to write a screenplay or not for my winter class, I'm gonna use what I learn and write it either way.  It's a story that needs to be told, and is as relevant as anything I can imagine in our current time.  And I may even leave out the zombies.  They'd be stealin' the show, don't need that.  The only problem is, I might have to write music for it.  I can't write music.  I'm a fiction writer!  Anyway, that's how that goes.  I'll keep ya updated, for sure.  See ya later.

-3:33 P.M.                                       

Saturday, November 15, 2014                        

I'll B- You...

Hello friends.  Its the guy who you read on a semi-regular basis.  Because your life is empty and lacks direction.  Not like me.  I got a blog on the internet.  Check, and check.  So, what's the good word.  And how come there's only one of them.  I say, there's plenty of good words.  Basketball.  Tournament.  Placebo.  All good words.  I could probably think of some more, if you gave me some time.  Anyway, got my third paper back.  B-.  Hey, I spent a good fifteen minutes on this!  How dare you.  Another week in the books.  There should be a weekly book review column called, "Another Week In The Books."  Because that's what it could mean, literally.  There should be a jokemaster general who revokes my comedy license after that joke.  I can't believe I shelled out fifty dollars for my comedy license.  And I got it through the back channels, and the guy I bought it from was pretty nefarious.  Turned out it was just a joker from a deck of cards.  I blew fifty dollars on that joke.  Or something.  This new background isn't half bad.  It's sixty percent bad.  Aw.  I like how when I'm reading it, it looks like some words are crossed out, and some words are underlined.  And it's totes random.  Totes!  Random.  Random!  Period.  Exclamation Mark!  Ex-claymation.  Or something along those lines.
    Alright.  Wrestling.  Mexicans.  Dorito Sponsorship.  Why is, "Dorito Sponsorship" a word.  Hey, it's not just a word.  It's a good word.  I should be the face of the new Dorito ad campaign.  Dorito!  Snap Into a Slim Jim!  That's how that might go.  I was looking at the nutritional information of some beef jerky, and the calories actually aren't so bad.  However, the sodium is 10000% your recommended daily dose.  Feline.  Isotopes.  Sweet and Sour.  I had to use the bathroom several times during class, as per usual.  However, I've started saying, "I NEED TO USE THE BATHROOM" before running out of the room.  You know, to gain respect.  I don't get the term restroom.  There ain't no resting in there.  Bath makes sense, because your droppings are taking a bath in the toilet.  Also, cause they sometimes have baths in them.  But mostly the part that allowed me to use the term, "Droppings."  I remember in one dorm, I wanna say Lafayette, they actually had bathtubs which you took a shower in, but there was no plug for the drain, so you couldn't take a proper bath, but if you let it run, you can get about two inches of bathwater goin'.  I might be thinking of when I was in the hospital.  Or, it's possible both places had that sorta dealie.  That's a fun story.  Not sure what makes it a story.  It's more of a declaration of uninterestingness.  I once took half-way baths.  Good for you, now shut it.  Power Rangers.  Floridians.  A third thing.
    Selfie.  That could be a third thing.  Tens of millions of things could be the third thing.  Maybe even hundreds of millions, or billions, if you wanna get kooky.  I don't want to get kooky, though.  I remember I once liked a song by The Kooks.  I wanna say it was something like, "You Can Go Your Own Way," but not that.  She moves in her own way?  Yup, that's it.  If I heard it now, I'd probably be pretty disinterested in it, though.  Things change, and my tastes change with them.  Domino.  Pizza Hut.  Papa Johns.  Oh, I know!  What Is pizza?  I'm sorry, the correct answer was, What Isn't pizza.  I just slammed the entire pizza chain industry.  I'll never work in this town again.  I'm so tired of Big Pizza calling the shots.  Why is it Papa Johns, I don't want pizza from a guy named John.  It should be called Papa New Guineas.  At least Guinea is Italian.  That's an offensive joke. It sure as Hell ain't a defensive joke.  That's a defensive joke.  Let's get kooky.  Anyway, what else is going on.  We gotta write some more words to put on this website.  That's what we gotta do.  That's what's important.  I need to entertain the funny people with even funnier comedy.  Oh yeah, you guys are hilarious.  Hey, here's a photo of me with my friends, or hey, here's a photo of me at my job.  What losers.
    Pancake.  Dumpling.  Free Side With Any Order 15 Dollars Or More.  I'm really using the word, "Word," loosely.  Loose lips sink ships.  Especially if you're lettin' people know, "Hey, I may or may not have a battleship from B4 to B9."  You're just askin' for a sinkin'.  As far as I can tell from Battleship, battleships sole purpose are for being sunk.  They don't do any offense.  They're just dead weight.  I guess, theoretically, when you call out a coordinate, that's a battleship doin' the firing.  This is all very theoretical, though.  I used to like Stratego.  Standard setting of bombs/flag?  I would say, Flag in the bottom left or right corner, surrounded by two bombs, then three 5-7s around those, then four bombs around that.  That was standard in my games, at least.  Seems like it probably would be universal.  After setting up our pieces for thirty minutes, I would always go, "Are you sure you don't wanna make a truce?  All this fighting is silly."  We can both go home winners.  Or, tiers.  That's how that word works, right?  Anyway, entry winding down, a paragraph to go.  Bread.  Pasta.  Pudding.  This is what I've devolved into.  Great.  Maybe this is what I've evolved into.  People want words, without the hassle of there being a narrative or any connection between them.  Let's face it, the general public just can't get enough of words.  Gotta give the people what they want.
    Final paragraph, here we go!  Is acting stupid, and then acting like, I know I'm stupid, pretentious, or unpretentious?  A little of both.  A lot of both.  But what's important now is finishing this entry.  Either I finish this entry, or this entry finishes me.  That raises the stakes a bit too much, I think.  Oh well.  How come there's so many people going to jail in Monopoly.  That's sort of a socialist commentary the Parker Bros. were up to.  And how come business tycoons are entering Beauty pageants?  I'm not quite sure what's going on there.   Yeah, I guess.  Anyway, see ya later.

-6:11 P.M.                            
   
            

Friday, November 14, 2014                        

Even I Don't Like Reading These

Hello guys and girls and boys and ladies and men and women.  It's me, who is two or three of those things.  Guy and boy, sure.  Man?  That's open for debate.  Hey, I became a man at my Bar Mitzvah.  Hey, I'm about to celebrate 50% of my life being a man!  Alright!  Now, Dear Diary...  Anyway.  Hey, I tried shaving myself yesterday.  If that doesn't make me a man, I don't know what would.  Anyway, I was unsuccessful, but that's not the point.  Slap some shaving cream on there, drag the razor to and fro... what am I missing?  WHY ISN'T THIS WORKING?  There's probably some surgical procedure they can do, or hormones or something, that can make it so that you never grow facial hair.  And, if there's not, there will be soon.  I'd get that done over my moustache area.  No need for that nonsense.  Anyway, what else is goin' on, and stuff.  Signed up for the screenplay writing class over the winter.  If we have to write a screenplay for the class, I've decided what I want my first project to be.  It's called, "Movie Time."  I don't know the details, but that's the title.  There's a reasonable chance that doesn't make sense.  If something just doesn't mean anything at all, does it qualify as not making sense?  There needs to be some sense of confusion for something to not make sense.  Something that means nothing, there's no confusion.  It's just nothing.  That's how I feel.  Read more about it in my upcoming teleplay, "How I Feel."  Not sure exactly what a teleplay is.
    That's how that goes.  That's the sequel to, "How I Feel."  If teleplays can have sequels, I don't know.  What was I talking about.  Oh yeah.  You gotta be able to shave in order to be a man.  It's not fair, though.  It's not my fault I'm incapable of the most simplest manual labor.  It's someone else's fault.  Probably yours.  Well, anyway.  When I was in the hospital, they have a nurse shave you.  There's something particularly emasculating about being held in a place against your will, being forced to have a strange 50 year old guy shave you.  And acting like I'm the strange one.  Hey, I'm just here on a whim.  A lark.  A vacation.  You're the guy getting his jollies shaving an innocent 23 year old boy.  Where is justice.  Probably in my facial hair.  That's why I can't find it.  Not sure that joke makes sense.  Good, I don't want it to.  Not my problem!  It sorta is my problem, though.  The more I say things that don't make sense, the less people will think of me.  And my intuition tells me that people already think pretty low of me, so yeah.  That's how that goes.  Movie Time.  Hmm, what could it be about.  Probably something to do with movies.  And time.  Ok, what if it's about a teenage girl, and she has to choose between renting a vampire movie, and a werewolf movie.  Maybe not.  But something to do with renting movies, or there being a set, "Movie Time," that people are gonna watch a movie as the climax of the movie.  Nah, scrap it.  I don't like it.
    She should just rent Twilight, satisfies both options.  Quiet, you!  What if she's already seen Twilight?  Then she should rent Twilight II.  Eh.  Movie Time... Movie Time...  Let's let it sink in for a minute.  What comes to mind.  I wanna pick a new title, that's what comes to mind!  Hehehehah.  What if a rich guy dies, and his last words are, "Movie Time?"  And it turns out, "Movie Time," was the name of his childhood sled.  That could be something.  Sounds familiar though.  I don't get why it's called Citizen Kane.  Yeah, we're all citizens.  I'm not impressed.  I don't think the original Twilight had werewolfism.  I never seen it.  That's what makes me a man!  Never having seen Twilight!  I did it!  Hmm, I wonder if Twilight is any good.  Next movie time, I'll give it a chance.  Alright, anyway.  Tomorrow, I have class.  That's a good ol' time.  Last class, there was a break in the middle, and as I returned to the room, there was a girl resting her legs on my seat.  And I was like, "Can I sit here?"  And sparks instantly flew.  She rolled her eyes and moved her feet.  Man, I'd like to get into her Movie Time.  I'm talking Down-Town!  Right... right.  Anyway.  What is this, the third paragraph?  Yep.  I was right.  I was right!  That aughta seal the deal on my manhood.  Bein' right about the number of the current paragraph.  What if Movie Time is about, like, they're forcing people to watch movies at a certain time.  Sorta like Clockwork Orange, but 80-90% less sadistic.  Kinda sounds like Clockwork Orange.  But I said 80-90% less sadistic!  I have to write 90-120 pages based on that crap concept?  No way, man.  Not gonna happen.
    Yeesh, anyway.  What else is going on in the world.  Another day down, almost.  Set em up, knock em down.  It's only 3:30.  Yeah?  I guess so.  There's a decent chance we won't have to write a screenplay, anyway.  It's only three or four weeks long, he can't possibly teach us at a rapid enough rate for us to be able to write a complete movie in that time.  He'll probably just make us read Raiders of The Lost Ark and The Odd Couple.  You know, the two best scripts of all time.  I'm pretty sure if they just had a blank screen and played The Odd Couple's theme music for two hours, people would go home satisfied.  I was kinda bored, but it really picked up near the end!  Alrighty then.  Movie Time.  It's too abstract, that's the problem.  Also, the title.  That's a problem.  But, once you get rid of the title, there's some good stuff there.  Real good stuff.  I'm down to drinking one beer, twice a week.  It's not a terrible arrangement.  It's also not an edible arrangement.  You can't eat beer, can you?  Nope, can't.  I've gotten a reduced fat blueberry muffin twice over the past week.  Twice!  As stated in the last entry, I'm out of control.  I also had a banana.  Because food is important, gotta eat it to live.
    Okay.  You can eat salmon.  I will prove this during dinner.  They should make a crossover food called salmond.  Nah, they probably shouldn't.  The size difference is too large.  After I said, "Can I sit here?" and she moved her legs, I should have sat on her lap.  Because it's fun.  Teacher would be confused.  Everyone would be confused.  I'm confused now, just thinking about it. Movie Time.  Movie Time.  It's about a group of friends, and they're always gettin' ready to watch a movie together, which they call Movie Time.  And there's Ross, there's Rachel... that's original.  Yeesh.  I've never seen Friends.  I've never even had friends.  I assume there's always a Ross and a Rachel.  Anyway.  I just had a great idea for a movie.  It's called, "King Asshole."  Loosely based around my life.  Normally I don't like giving validity to the voices in my head, but I'm gonna make an exception on this one.  King Asshole is great.  I'll figure out the rest later.  For now, I Gotta Title!  I'm not gonna write a script.  I took a poetry class in the Summer, and didn't have to write one poem.  I have a feeling this is gonna be like that.  If I do, I'm probably best going to my old favorites of possible movies, "The New Monkees," or, "Homeless Wife."  Or, even further reserves, "The Cartoonist," or, "World's Greatest Grandpa."
    Time to wrap it up, I guess.  Also, The New Monkees may have zombies.  All of them may have zombies.  Homeless Wife may have a grandpa.  The Cartoonist may have monkees.  It's a free-for-all.  King Asshole.  Changed my mind, I don't like it.  Too negative.  Thanks for running it by me, though, voice, instead of subtly convincing me of it through using my subconscious, and making me think of it that way, and thus give it more consideration.  That's how that goes.  Anyway, this was an okay entry, right?  Nobody got seriously hurt, some jokes and yukk-yukks were made.  All in good fun, though.  All in good fun.  Anyway.  Homeless Wife.  Man, how great would it feel to write a 120 script called Homeless Wife.  Pretty great.  I just need that extra motivation, to do it for a class.  Int. Homeless Wife-- Day.  That's how it starts, I guess.  What a maroon.  See ya later.

-4:36 P.M.                                                                                                         

Wednesday, November 12, 2014                        

Look, If You Wanna Entry, You Gotta Have The Title First

Hello friends, it's me.  Jerkoff Jerkofferson.  I'm going to write an entry, because that's what I do sometimes.  I'm most likely gonna break my months long abstinence from seeing movies in theaters to see the dumb and Dumber movie later this week.  That's a great father-son movie.  Too bad he won't be there.  I will be taping it with my Go-Pro and show it to Papa later on.  What's a Go-Pro.  Probably something about the Grand Old Party, am I right?  I hope not.  This entry, I am making a conscious decision, will be terrible.  A throwback to the old days, back before I made conscious attempts to be entertainment.  Back when I would write entries for the malignant person of making the reader suffer.  What's that?  I said a word wrong?  Not My Problem. Oh, wait, I did say a word wrong.  Malignant was intended, person wasn't.  Meant to say reason.  There we go.  Why.  Let's start over

Hi friends, it's your faithful guy who never does anything not worth your time, me!  It's a Wednesday afternoon, and you know what that means!  It's after noon!  And Wednesday!  Let's get straight to business.  I used to know a guy named Jefferson.  He taught me about, I don't know, I forget.  He was my friend, why was he teaching me.  Life is full of lessons.  I wanna write a calender, where each day is a life lesson.  January 1st-- Eat Your Broccoli.  January 2nd-- Keep Eatin It...  And so on.  I guess.  I sometimes get broccoli in a salad.  Because I'm out of control.  I saw a license plate that said GOP-RO57.  No I didn't.  I'm out of control.  I heard they make license plates with prison labor.  That's crazy.  Prisoners are in charge of doling out licenses?  Why should criminals be on charge of who gets the quality licenses.  They'll just give all the good ones to their friends.  I signed up for two Spring classes, including a Yoga class.  Imagine, me, doing Yoga!  That's what I did, once I registered for the class.  I also may take a screenwriting class over the Winter.  I like to imagine all the time movies.  Listening to the radio.  Hey, imagine if I made a movie... this song would be great playing in the background.  I've got it worked out to a science.  Another thing I think about a lot is starting a podcast.  Man, this would be the geart opening song to a podcast.  AAnd there's so much to think about.  Should I introduce the podcast before the song starts?  Should I Not?  So much to think about.
    Anyway, we're writing a website entry now.  That's what I need to focus on.  I'm into it now, no going back.  Today is a Wednesday.  All day.  That's a Dad joke.  What's today, Wednesday?  All day.  AndAnd byAnd by, "A Dad," I mean my Dad.  The Dad.  He wouldn't want that personal information out there on the internet.  I'm a rebel, rebel, though.  I'll put it out there on the internet like it was nobody's business!  My Dad drinks tea.  How scandouls.  Anyway.  I guess I have to keep writing the entry.  Does that first paragraph count as a paragraph.  I guess we'll find out.  Today we are exactly a month away from my 26th birthday.  Exactly a month away doesn't really carry the weight it should.  Exactly a month isn't anything.  26 isn't exactly carrying the weight it should.  I'm acting like a eleven year old.  Hey, you gotta give the people what they want.  First rule of show business.  Second rule, don't talk about show business.  Man, I hated making that joke.  But I had to.  It's in line with the character I'm playing.  Damn, if I continue with this character, the rest of this entry will continue to suck.  Maybe I can change characters.  Hmm.  We'll see.  Probably not.  Once I'm in a zone, man, you can't get me outta it.  I assume.  Nobody's ever tried to get me out of a zone before.  I know, I know.  I'm 28-31 days away from being 26, and I still haven't gotten out of a zone with somebody before.  I bet one day, there'll be a month with 32 days.  I would put money on it.  It's bound to happen eventually.                               
    Okay.  Here we are.  Paragraph number 3/4.  Let's get into it, alright?  So.  Every now and then, I get a faint smell of marijuana outside my window.  I call it the gangrene.  Because, why not?  If you could somehow buy something that produces the smell of marijuana, without being able to inhale or consume it, I would probably get it.  The smell alone would take me back.  Back to the day.  The day I smoked marijuana.  Ah, there's that smell.  Probably just in my head, though.  I don't imagine my neighbors being smokers.  Also, there's grass outside my window.  Regular grass.  Could just be that.  I like the phrase, "Your ass is grass!"  What does that mean?  I mean, vernacularly, I know what it means.  But its literal translation is just nonsense.  Also, vernacularly, not sure what vernacular means.  Something with words.  I know Mini-Me was Verne-acular.  Him and Jules.  When I was ten, I wanted to MEET Mini-Me. I mean, it felt like I was ten.  I remember, when I was thirteen, I had a joke about Goldmember that I couldn't stop repeating.  What did the Jew say to Goldmember?  I LIKE GOOOOLLD.  It's okay, I can say that.  I'm a Goldmember.  Anyway.  Let's put that joke behind us.  It's time to move on.  To bigger and better things.  I wonder what the next joke is gonna be.  Probably something involving humor.  That's my favorite kind of joke.  My comedic sensibilities are like the ice cream-- Good Humor. Two for two, Dad.  Two for two.   
    Alright.  Good humor.  I get it.  Okay.  What else is going on?  Two thirds or so through my Fall class.  That's nine credits over the year!  That's practically 1/12th of my required credits!  Not bad, not bad at all.  It's pretty bad.  By the time I graduate, I'll be taking classes with people a decade younger than me.  That's wrong.  I remember I had a friend my freshman year in college who told me she was messing around with a 29 year old.  And I was like, That's so wrong.  Now I'm like, So I guess it's okay, then.  Also, I haven't talked to a girl in seven years.  That's the real sad part of that story.  Okay.  Lets keep the entry goin'.  A paragraph and a half left to go.  Can't stop now.  I'm in a rhythm.  One would imagine.  So, yeah.  Yup.  Yip.  I guess this is the end of the entry.  Oh well.  That's not so bad.  We can all return to more pressing business.  Anyway.  What else is going on.  Oh yeah, ending the entry.  Now's not the time for introducing new subjects.  Maybe it is.  Would that be in line with my character?  I don't know.  Probably not.  I still need to write a few sentences, though.  I guess that's sort of an OCD thing, having to have each entry roughly the same length.  Oh well.  I'm down with OCD.  You know me.  My character is not happy with that.  I'm not happy with it, you're not happy with it, my character's not happy with it at all.  Still, we must persevere.  Alright, peace.

-4:49 P.M.                  

Sunday, November 9, 2014                        

Oh Yeah?  I'm Gonna Start MY OWN Title!

Wahello.  It's your friend, Mr. Crazysheet.  I had class yesterday!  That means I don't have class until next Saturday. 
It's a big deal, because I can finally devote some time to my true passion, aiming my finger at things and mock shooting
them, not unlike Mr. Shooter Mcgavin in Happy Gilmore.  He's an inspiration to all of us who eat shit for breakfast. 
Anyway, what's goin' onwards and upwards?  There's a few breakfast cereals that truly disgust me.  Cheerios?  Kix? 
Probably a third one, one would imagine?  Eegh.  Kid Pix?  That's not a cereal.  Sounds like one, though.  Probably
thinking of Kix.  Most of the time I'm confused about something, I'm probably just thinking of Kix.  Oh, Crispix. 
There's some disgusting crap.  Lucky Charms!  That might get me some hate mail.  Probably not.  Rice Krispies. 
I think we're finding that I may just have a phobia of breakfasts I'm not intimately familiar with.  Crispix is just
Kix with runners in scoring position.  You get it, right?  Right?  Good for you.  You got a lot of stuff goin'
for you, if you can get that joke.  You're goin' places.  Also, a teen-sex-comedy movie about teenagers who do track
and field called, "Runners In Scoring Position."  If you get that joke, you're goin' places, really.  On the realz. 
The tagline could be, "They're There To Settle The Score!"  Because they also have to defeat the rival bully school,
who had beaten them last year, in a track and field competition.  And the sequel is, "Runners In Scoring Position
II: Coming Up The Rear!"  Bingo bango bongo.
    Anyway.  What else is sort of going on.  It's the weekend.  Yup.  I oughta quit runnin' my mouth.  Nobody likes
that joke.  I mean, nobody liked the previous jokes.  Negative people liked that joke.  Ha!  Imagine-- Negative
People!  Great.  Negative people tend to not like anything.  Anyway.  Anyway. Whattado.  Whazzup.  Entry writin'.
How'd I get myself into this mess.  And, more importantly, how will I get myself out of it?  And, tangentially
important, should I start wearing a paper mâché head on top of my regular head?  Then, in response to anything,
I can say, I'm of two heads about it.  And people will give me six minutes of applause.  Or, if I get tired of that,
I could say, Hey, two heads are better than one!  And I can go to baseball games and be like, How bout a double
header?  That's about all the things I can do in that scenario.  I don't think I've ever done anything with paper
mâché.  It sounds dangerous.  It's been a while since I've told a story from my youth.  Lets see if I can dip into
the memory banks a little bit.  Hmm.  There was the time, the summer before Junior High School, me and my friends
went out to see a dead body.  I believe it was called Stand By Me.  Wait, that was a movie.  It having a title
was a dead giveaway. Hmm.  I believe the sequel to Stand By Me was called Take a Seat.  Mehzehweh. Huhzahwuh?
We have fun.
    There was that time I had fun.  That's a good.  Egh.  I was reading through one of my first journals, from
fifth grade, which I had to keep for class.  It's pretty sad stuff.  Dec 8-- I'm looking forward to my birthday
party!  Dec 14- six people didn't show up for my party.  I mean, two or three, that's to be expected. Six?  People
are going out of their way to not show up.  And here I am, all the time, thinkin' I've always been Mr. Popular.
Not the case!  Oh, and if you're one of those six people?  Dead to me.  You're dead to me!  You coulda played all
the arcade games at Peter Pan Arcade that you wanted, you could have had delicious birthday cupcakes, you probably
could have finagled a goodie bag out of the whole ordeal.  But, even with all that, I'm not worth your time?  Fuck off!
Also, I spend a lot of time documenting the 1999 season of the bowling league I was in.  Our team is doing great,
we're in fifth out of seven!  Self delusion at aptitude at sports is reasonable for a nine year old, I guess.
Hey,
I'm still self deluded about a bunch of my attributes.  But, actually, it turns out that I was just a really great
guy.  Because, I actually was pretty good at bowling, but a couple of my teammates kinda brought down the team,
but I was still really positive about it. Also, I nicknamed my journal, "Mickey."  Hey Mickey, it's been a week. 
How precious.  How precarious.  How presumptuous.  Yeah, I took it there.
    Also, I wrote in cursive.  That's impressive.  I can't write in cursive now.  I can sort of scribble my signature,
but the only reason it works is because it's acceptable to have a messy, individual signature.  Also, when I learned
it, we called it script.  None of that, "cursive" crap.  I musta picked it up from T.V. or film.  Anyway.  What
else is going on.  Things, and yeah, probably things, right?  Anyway, time to close this up.  Enjoy a closing comic,
won't you?  See ya.



-6:12 P.M.

Wednesday, November 5, 2014                        

That Reminds Me, I Have To Write The Entry

Way to go above and beyond your duty, title!  Not only did you let people know exactly what the entry will be about, but you reminded me... I have to write the entry!  Best title ever! 

Now, let's take a look at the titles that didn't quite make the cut...

I, For One, Welcome Our New Republican Overlords

Where's My Motorized Wheelchair?

Go Play Foosball With Your Friends!

I Think We Got Off On The Wrong Foot

I Like To Name Things, Including Diaries Entrieses!

You're Not Very Good At Bowling, Are You?

If You Don't Shut Up, I'm Gonna Throw The Biggest Pizza Party...

    There's a little part of my brain that's broken.  It starts to laugh at the most stupid, mundane, unoriginal jokes.  They're not even jokes.  They're brain farts.  Stupid, smelly, brain farts. It's crippling, crippling for a comic mastermind such as myself, to be able to satisfy my own funny-bone with pretty much anything he (re:me) throws out there.  And you know me-- I hate anything with cripples.  Can't walk?  Not my problem!  Also, dough.  Re:me Fa-so.  Boom knocked it out of the park!  ALRIGHT!  Let's celebrate that joke forever. Hittin home runs, like I was Joey Votto, now listen to me scale, do-ray-me-fa-so.  Hey guys, looks like I'm the next big thing!  Shut Mitch McConnell the shut up!  Once the Republican Senate starts bustin' out some ill rhymes, maybe I'll give them some credibility.  Until that day, nobody cares!  Mitch McConnell doesn't read this, right?  If he does, I imagine he would put his hand out, in between a thumbs up and thumbs down, with the verdict indicating whether I live or die.  Then, hopefully, he puts the thumbs up, so I live to fight another day in this Colosseum we call the internet.  The senate is in charge of the death panels, right?  Probably!  You need to pass both houses of congress to be able to be put to death.
    Hey, at least the Democrats still control the house!  Wait, what?  No.  You're kidding.  You're kidding!  No!  At least Democrats still live in houses.  That's pretty good.  I say, you're living in a house, you're doing pretty good for yourself.  Anyway, so, if you haven't noticed, I shook things up, format-wise, here at the ol' crazysheet.  It's great!  I totally like the blue.  It's so original!  Nobody website-backgrounds better than me.  Except for maybe God.  I haven't seen what he could do, though, website-designing wise.  As far as I know, he hasn't entered that arena yet.  But, once he does, it's up to Mitch McConnell whether he lives or dies.  Cause arenas are coliseums.  And Mitch McConnell is emperor, now, in this scenario.  And, in this scenario, I guess I'm court jester.  You're mixing up ancient Rome and the middle ages, Michael.  You're mixing up SHUT THE HELL UP and FUCK OFF.  I'm angry!  Fired up.  I'm beyond fired up, man.  I didn't do enough to stop the Republicans!  I coulda set bear traps and stuff around Bed, Bath, and Beyond.  Or Ikea.  Whichever of those similar references you feel rings truer.  People of all political parties need to purchase things for home improvement.  Maybe that's one issue we can all rally around, that we can agree on.  Probably not, though.  Because, huh?  What's... huh?
    This website has jumped the shark.  That's what's happened.  This is a conspiracy.  That's what this is.  I'm gonna start throwing rocks at a poster of Raquel Welsh.  I bet there's no hole in the wall behind it!  Whoops!  I was wrong.  There's a hole.  Yeah.  I call masturbating, "Throwing rocks."  Because huh.  Anyway.  So, that happened.  Who cares.  Time to move on.  It's almost 2016!  And you know what that means!  Time to start thinking about presidential candidates for 2020.  No robots.  Also, one thing Democrats and Republicans can hopefully agree on-- don't give robots the right to vote.  Cause you know they're just gonna vote robot.  And then where would we be.  In twenty years, the two political parties will be technocratic and biologic.  Us biologicals gotta stick together.  Also, if you're a search engine reading this website, nobody needs ya!  Search engines are probably my biggest demographic.  I shouldn't be isolating search engines.  Also, now that I mention it, I kinda do wanna give robots the right to vote.  Robots seem like they've got it together.
    Luckily, that's not up to me.  I'd give dishwashers the right to vote, I'd give doorknobs the right to vote, I'd give plastic bags the right to vote.  Everything gets to vote.  I'd like to see a plastic bag president.  Because I like to see idiocy.  Not really.  I just say it to make myself sound more idiotic.  It's a character I play.  I call him, "Idio."  I don't need to eat lunch, jerk!  Get out of here.  I need a new background.  This one ain't helpin'.  Ain't helpin' one bit.  It's too stimulative!  I need a background that'll mellow me out, man.  I'm writing a website called crazysheet.net.  I'm supposed to sound like an angry mentally ill person.  One would imagine.  I wish I had multiple personality disorder.  Me too!  Thank you folks, I'll be here all week.  Because I got nowhere else to go.  Search engine.  Hmmph.  This is the first day in a long time I've had the feeling, "Well, the people in charge don't represent me."  President's still in charge, though, right?  He represents me.  Not me, personally, but my ideals, and stuff.  That's pretty good.  Also, I'm out of Camel Blue.  I'm out... of Camel... Blue.  If that ain't a metaphor for what's happened to this country, I don't know what is!  I still have Newports.  So, that means, what?  I can still rely on Ralph Nader?  I don't know.  That doesn't sound right.  I'm drinking bud light, though.  That means, we still got buds, lightly.  And I have a window.  That means we can see things.  I've got a guitar pic on my desk.  That means, we can still pick guitars.
    Alright, here we go with the last paragraph and whatnot.  This website is an exercise in futility.  If it weren't for exercises, no one would ever use the word futility.  Wonderful.  Great.  I need a new website.  Fresh start.  And, instead of a website, a life.  Like, if I had a life, that would lead to better website.  Sometimes I look in the mirror, and just think, this guy does not have it together.  It's a shame.  I ain't giving up, though.  Maybe in 2050 they'll cure me.  And I can live my final decade in peace.  If I had created the name crazysheet in 2012, after mental illness, I'd have been a supreme idiot.  Why accentuate my main negative?  It's just been carried over, and it's served me no good.  Oh well.  Maybe that's a sign I should get things going in other areas of my life.  Like, outside the internet.  Like, educating plastic bags, and teaching them how to read.  Or teaching doorknobs how to pull levers.  You can't vote if you can't pull a lever.  Anyway.  Gettin' dishwashers to unionize.  That's how that goes.  Alright.  We need some good news.  Somethin' to turn my frown upside down.  Ghandi's back!  He's a good guy, that would be good news.   He'd bring balance to the force.  Anyway.  I guess I could do anything else now.  See ya.

-2:43 P.M.                                    

Tuesday, November 4, 2014                        

You Got That Right

Hey guys and girls.  It's me, me.  Happy to be here.  It is the morning.  That's interesting.  I was wondering what time of day it was.  The good news is, my credit card still works after bending it a little while trying to jimmy the door open.  Turns out, you can only jimmy it open from the outside, anyway.  So it was all for naught.  We got rid of the door knobs and the middle part, so I can close my door.  I remember my parents used to do that sometimes when I was a kid, because I would lock myself in my room, for some reason.  Probably to avoid punishment.  Not really sure what the point of that woulda been.  You don't need to be face to face with someone to punish them.  The only reason I could think of was if they would beat me.  But I'm pretty sure they didn't.  Unless I blocked that memory out.  Nah, I'm fairly certain I wasn't beaten.  They're not the beating type.  And if they were, I would never share it on the internet.  That would just lead to more beatings.  I'm no dummy.  Anyway, I just got a haircut.  Good for me.  I look like crap.  And that was before the haircut!  And after it.  And probably even after I die and decompose, I'm gonna be one ugly corpse.  I like how the barber shop has mirrors on both walls.  It's like I'm in a carnival attraction!  That would explain why I look like a clown now.  If I was a barber, and I was cutting the hair of a comedian, and he said something bad about it, I would say, "Hey, I don't come down to where you work and start heckling you."  I turn'd the tables on 'em!  That's how that goes!  And that comes up because my haircutter must have thought I was a comedian.  You're doing this as a gag, right?  That's him thinking.  Man, does he have low self-esteem if he thinks his regular haircut is a gag haircut.  But, he persists in doing it.  Good for him.
    Alright it's election day!  The only way election day has impacted my life is when there was a lady completely lost in the park, and wanted to know how to get to the polls.  Did you think they were in the middle of the park?  What are you doing here?  Is this where you started off?  Do you live in a public bathroom in the middle of a field?  And of course, when she asked me, I just said, "I don't have time for this!  Find another sucker!"  All I had to do was point in one direction.  Can't be bothered.  If I make just the right facial expression, the haircut isn't so bad.  It's sort of like a 30% commitment to a Robert De Niro face.  Not all the way, not even half way, but a little bit in that direction.  Hey, whaddya cut my hair for, hey, you talkin' to me, hey, I have a cat Greg, could ya milk me, heyyy.  That's right.  My generation's reference point for Robert De Niro is Meet The Parents.  Either that or Anger Management, which he wasn't even in.  Anyway.  Maybe the reason I look like a clown is because, most of the time, my face just has clownish tendencies.  While I was getting it cut, it was okay, because my face was, "All Business" around the Russian barbers.  I get home to my 66 year old parents, who I live with, I become a clown.  It's all about the framing of the face. 
    I have a cat, could you milk me.  What an idiot.  I mean, if you're gonna have a crappy haircut, better short than long.  At least, if it's short, you could just say you don't give a damn how it looks, that's what you're going for, you want the convenience.  If it's long, you're making some sort of an effort to produce that image.  Maybe I have it the other way around.  If it's long, you're too lazy to get a haircut.  I don't know.  This is a very confusing issue for me.  Anyway.  What else is up.  Things, and stuff, probably.  You know how that goes, am I right?  Right.  I guess I could start putting my hat-wearing-abilities to good use.  I look okay with a baseball cap on.  I could even wear it backwards.  For fun!  Man, just thinking about that sounds like a like a lot of fun.  Well, thinking about it isn't fun, but thinking about what it would be like if I were wearing it, fun-having would be involved if the scenario ever comes true.  Alright, what else.  C'mon, think Michael, think!  I'm not on trial here!  I don't think so, at least.  So, today was a productive day.  I got my hair cut.  I ate a tootsie pop.  Two for two.  I'm two for two on the day.  Still gotta paper to write for Saturday.  I predict I'll do that Thursday.  Tomorrow is Wednesday.  Monday's a day.  Already happened this week, though.  That about sums up that.  I'm always paranoid that the haircutters give me crappy haircuts on purpose, because they insinuated that I was some sort of jerk.  A jerk who also can't personally deduce the quality of a hair cut.  Probably because I am a jerk, and can't deduce hair cut qualities.  But they don't know that!  Maybe they do.  They probably do.  But, even with that information, you gotta imagine they'd still try to do a decent job, right?
    You don't have to imagine anything.  You're not on trial here.  The barber is.  I really got into barbering after I read that Shakespeare story.  You dummy.  Up until I was a teenager, my mom would take me to her hairdresser, who really was there for middle aged women, to get my haircut.  What a female jerk.  Men need to be seeing men hair-cutters.  Then, when I went to school, my English teacher was a woman.  No way.  Men need to be learning English from men.  Then I would go home and watch The Exorcist.  Not cool.  Men need to be entertained by male conduits of evil.  Anyway, what was I talking about.  Haircut.  Right.  I got my haircut today.  Yip.  I'm always scared getting a haircut, because I'm scared I'll accidentally wink at the guy, or something.  I lose control of my facial muscles.  Getting my teeth cleaned is even worse.  I have to make extreme efforts to not lick the hygienist's fingers, and it's impossible.  Every cleaning, I get a good two or three licks in.  I mean, your mouth is open for thirty minutes, you gotta do something with your tongue.  Also, I sincerely hope dental hygienists make more money than actual dentists.  They do all the work, then the dentist comes in, pokes your teeth for five seconds, and sends you on your way.  Doesn't seem right.  Does not.  Seem.  Right.  Sure, if there's actual surgery, the dentist does it.  But in this day and age, with the internet and everything, who really needs dental surgery.  People have a real do-it-themselves attitude about things in the 21st century. 
    Because I'm an idiot.  So, we replaced my door knob and stuff, only the new one doesn't lock.  Whatever.  Who needs privacy.  Every twenty minutes though, I except Michael Richards to come barging in.  That's pretty much the only way my life would change.  Oh, and no more locking myself in my room.  That's a plus.  Anyway, entry is winding down.  Three for three on the day.  Pizza, haircut, tootsie pop, entry.  Wait, four for four.  I almost forgot about the pizza.  Anyway, peace out.

-3:57 P.M.               
                      

Monday, November 3, 2014                        

No Way!

Hello friends and jerks.  Mostly friends though.  Why should I bother greeting jerks.  I got no time for it!  Anyway, today is Monday.  That's the first day of the work week.  The day before Tuesday.  Usually comes after Sunday?  Is it starting to sound familiar yet?  Good.  Today is still November.  Great.  I'm countin' the days until 2015.  Metaphorically.  If I host a new years party and don't have a banner that says, "Welcome To The Future!" ... I have no follow up to that, because I will not be hosting an new years party.  Sorry to disappoint you.   I can't host a party.  My room is too small and cluttered.  Yeah, I think there's some space to stand between that pile of papers and that pile of clothes.  My room is so messy... My room is so messy...  My room is so messy... that... umm... well.. ya, see, it's messy... so much so that... the point is, no New Years Eve party.  I can't have people in my room.  They'll get bored.  Look at my DVD collection.  Let's look at it for an hour.  What?  You want to watch a DVD?  Sorry, DVD player's broken.  You're just never satisfied, are you?  I have a VCR in my room, which makes no sense.  I moved into this room in 2003, long after I ever used to a VCR.  But, for some reason, I musta brought a VCR player with me.  I also have a bunch of VHS's over in a corner, somewhere.  Sometimes I browse through them and reminisce about old times.  With myself. That's never happened.  Now that I mention it, though, sorta sounds like fun.  I would watch the VHS's, but, guess what?  VCR's broken.  Door's broken.  My life is falling apart.
    Anyway, let's get it goin'.  This entry, I mean.  The last few times I've had friends over, in 2010, we would just get high and watch cooking shows and The Sopranos.  Which I hated.  I mean, I went through with it, just to get high, but that sorta stuff bored the shit out of me.  Whose that asshole in my chair, watching my T.V., invading my space.  I just want to get high in peace!  In general, there was definitely a theme of me getting high with people just so I could score some weed.  God forbid my friends just give me weed and say, "Adios!"  These jerks actually want to spend time with me.  Got no time for it!  No time!  If I could go back in time to 2010, right after we get high, and my friend puts on the Travel Channel food show, I'll just stand up and say, "No!  I'm not gonna have it!  Get out!"  Because throwing a tantrum is a great way to solve one's problems.  I think, yeah, half the problem was being anti-social, but the other half was just, I've seen this Sopranos episode.  These cooking shows are boor-ing.  This is a complete waste of, "High" time.  Anyway, how'd I get here.  New Years Eve party in my room.  Right.  Eh.  What else is going on.  Writin' an entry.  Who cares.  Highness is in my past.  Clean and sober livin', that's the way to go.  What else is going on, though.  There must be 3.5/5 more things going on, otherwise this entry would be a lie.  My crazysheet book has been falling apart.  Cover falls off, some of the insides of the book fall apart.  I thought that was gonna be an family heirloom for generations to come.  Oh well.  Hey, remember that time I joked about 9/11?  And that time, a year after that, I joked about 9/11 again?  And then, the year after that?  Oh well.
    Yikes.  I used to be a lot more, "Edgy."  I would always be on that edge, boy.  You show me an edge of something, and I'd be there.  Yesiree.  Now, I'm more, "Paragraphy."  That's the main thing holding these entries together.  Old crazysheet, most of it wasn't even in paragraphs.  It was just one big blob of bull shit.  And a lot of, "I'm failing chemistry, I need to get this done tomorrow in school, gotta apply for colleges."  Snooze!  Although I do appreciate it now, nine years later, for providing a little snapshot of myself at the time, even if it's not interesting to others.  Anyway.  Yeah.  Let's move on.  What else is going on.  This incarnation of crazysheet has just been, "I'm drinking this, I'll be drinking this tomorrow..."  Until now.  What will cray-cray sheet be like in the upcoming months?  I bet it'll be something like this...

    November 2014

       So, Thanksgiving's coming up.

    December 2014
 

    So, December's coming up.

    February 2015

    So, I can't believe I missed Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

    March 2015  

    So, I can't believe I'm peeing blood.

    April 2015               

          So, I can't believe I started that forest fire.  On purpose.

All that work, and absolutely no pay-off.  The on purpose part, that's a three.  Rest of it?  Crapity crap crap.  It was just gonna be, So, it's this holiday, but for December, I accidentally typed, "December," instead of "Christmas," so I figured I better come up with some other stuff for the remaining months, as well.  That took me two hours to format.  Great.  The good news is, whatever.  You know how to prevent forest fires, right?  Close the door.  Yes, indeed.  Were there really that many kids starting forest fires that they needed a national ad campaign to combat it?  I musta missed that in the history books.  The greatest generation's kids goin' out and starting all sorts of fires.  Don't remember hearing about it.  Also, I drop my lit cigarettes in the park near my house all the time.  Not one fire yet.  I do avoid smoking cigarettes by the gas station, though.  That's just common sense.  Alright, anyway.  What else is going on.  Only about a paragraph more to go.  Good news.  That's how that goes. 
    Okay, let's get it goin'.  Just remembering having to sit on my bed and having to watch some guy eat a big hamburger while stoned... ugh.  I'd rather do anything else.  Anything else.  Right now, though, what do I wanna do?  Close up the entry.  Alright!  Anyway.  What else is going on.  November is shapin' up to be a classic!  Door-gate yesterday.  New Years Eve Party-gate today.  I may not be understanding the addition of, "-gate" to words.  I know I liked the 1987 horror movie, "The Gate."  And I may have liked the sequel, too, but I only saw that once and don't really remember it.  I like gate-or-aid.  Too bad they don't make diet Gatorade.  That would be pretty good.  Anyway.  I'm an idiot.  But, an idiot who can write five paragraphs.  Most idiots couldn't do that.  I'm in the upper echelon of idiots.  Anyway, see ya later.

-1:31 P.M.           

Sunday, November 2, 2014                        

Here I Am!

Whattts up.  I kept the first six letters from the last entry.  That explains that nonsense.  Anyway, a wonderful Sunday afternoon.  Peaceful, quiet, everything you want your Sunday to be.  My door is broken.  The one that leads from my room to the outside of my room.  A.K.A. my hallway.  I woke up last night, had to use the bathroom, and, to my dismay, found I was trapped.  I tried banging on the door.  I tried yelling at the door.  I tried crying.  Nothing seemed to work.  Finally, I called my parents, to see if they could get it open from the other side.  Finally, two cups of iced coffee filled with urine later, we got it open.  But it's still broken, so I can't close it.  That's how that goes.  I have to use my AC/DC book as a blockade to make sure my door doesn't shut.  It's the biggest book I have.  Anyway.  That sucks.  It sure ruined my morning masturbations, I can tell you that.  Anyway.  It's a new month.  That's great.  Just great.  I can't believe my luck.  Whattami supposed to title this month in the page header?  Didn't anyone think of that, and to consult me, before changing the month?  How about, "Next Comes December!"  Yes, I think that'll do just fine.  Just fine.  I truly thought we were gonna have to call the fire department, and my Dad would be like, "Yes, my son locked himself in his room."  Like a four year old, or something.  And then they'd see the cup of urine.  I'd be like, "Uhh, that was there when I got here."  It came with the house.  I didn't have the heart to spill it out, what if the previous owners came back and wanted it?
    Anyway.  That's how that goes.  Am I right?  Probably.  Because that's just how it went.  I'm merely reciting facts here.  Anyway.  Registration for Winter/Spring classes is next week.  I'm planning on taking one winter, and hopefully two Spring.  That's nine credits overall, in half a year!  That's a lot of credits.  Also, I tried using my credit card to jimmy the door open.  To no success.  At least, I thought, if someone breaks into the house and wants to kill me, they're gonna have a tough time gettin' through that door.  Sure, my parents will be long gone, but I'll have ample time to jump out the window.  Of course, once I break my legs by jumping out the window, it's only a short trek for the murderer to my backyard to finish me off with some stabbin'.  I remember, there used to be a commercial about fire prevention, where they ominously repeat, "Close the door.  Close the door.  Close the door."  Because, if there's a fire in a room, and you close the door, it prevents both the fire from spreading, and, probably even more importantly, the smoke.  You should probably get out of the room before you close the door.  Don't be a dummy!  I don't have a backyard.  Well, I sort of do.  My backyard is reserved parking spaces for me and my fellow people-of-my-development.  Sometimes I hear people talking in the backyard, even when there's nobody there.  The More You Know.
    Alright.  It's a new month!  Have a party.  It's a new paragraph.  Have a party.  Man, you're on pace to have a lot of parties.  Alright.  It's only a matter of time before I close my door by mistake.  It's going to happen, it's just a matter of when.  That's what the AC/DC book is there for, it's a constant reminder to keep the door open.  But sometimes AC/DC books just aren't enough.  Anyway.  What else is going on in my life, that's non-door related.  Not much.  Not much.  I'm writing an entry.  That's going on right now.  You might have noticed.  Well, to you, I'm not writing an entry, to you, I've already written it.  But here, right now, this is happening.  Yeah.  I guess.  The treadmill in my development's exercise room is broken.  You go on it, walk for four seconds, and then it powers off.  Whatta jip!  You mean I have to use the elliptical, like I originally intended anyway?  Not in my backyard!  Well, it is sort of in my backyard, it's like, the equivalent of my neighbor's backyard.  Two thirds through exercising, I was really dehydrated and thirsty, so I went to the bathroom sink to drink some water out of the sink's fountain.  I've done this from time to time, like, if I wake up at night, don't wanna go all the way downstairs, so what, go to the bathroom sink, make a cup with your hands, and drink.  I never really thought about it enough to be self-conscious about it, but since the exercise room has security cameras, they saw me go into the bathroom for ten seconds, then walk out.  And they gotta be wondering, What's he doin' in there?  Don't mind me!  Just enjoying some bathroom water!  Hey, it's the exact same water as the kitchen sink.  There's nothing to be ashamed of.
    Yeah.  Yeah!  Yeah.  Yeah?  Yeah... Yeah.  What else is going on.  Plumbing is really impressive.  Like, the sewer system, and all that?  I couldn't figure that out.  I think ancient Rome was the first place with plumbing.  That fact sticks in my mind for some reason.  Good for them!  Blumping is a thing.  It's like plumbing, but my-last-name-ified.  How terrible.  How... terrible.  The good news is, only one and a half more paragraphs.  You mean I gotta finish this crap?  I guess.  That's what I've deduced.  It's kinda fun peeing in cups.  That's how I feel.  I don't get why they televise the NY marathon.  Look, it's thousands of people, going in the same direction!  Let's watch this for three hours!  It's boring enough running yourself, now I have to watch other people run?  Would they let handicapped people in the marathon?  You'd think they'd be pressured to.  But that takes guts, a guy in a wheelchair lobbying to be let into the marathon.  That guy has got to have cojones of steel.  He'd be rollin' along, with a smug smile on his face, while everyone he passes is just like, "Who the Hell is this asshole?"  No point.  There's no point to it!  No point.  No... point.  No... point.  No point.  No, point!  No point.  Nope oint.  What was I talking about?  Oh yeah, the worst joke in the history of anything.  Wheelchair guy in marathon.  Terrible.
    Alright, let's last-paragraph it up!  Whattami gonna do for the next week.  I gotta book I need to read, and a three page paper to write.  I can do those things.  Because I am a competent adult!  To some extent, it's true.  Anyway.  Anyway.  I have several more sentences to write.  How'mi gonna get myself outta this one?!  By writing several more sentences.  Pretty straightforward stuff.  I do over three miles every day on the elliptical.  That means, I do a marathon every week.  Where's my recognition?  Hey, I just recognized myself!  There's my recognition!  I found it.  Anyway.  Gotta make sure to continue not closing my door.  It'll be hard.  But, if it ain't hard, it ain't worth doin'.  That's why I stopped breathing.  Too easy.  Too... ... wuh?  What a moron.  Anyway, see ya later, folks.

-4:29. P.M.