Why do we frown upon the prostitutes?

Have you ever had that moment when you're super-drunk and all of a sudden you see everything clearer than you ever have before? More importantly, have you ever had that moment when you're sober? I had that moment today, sober.

It was a quick realization. We sell ourselves. Yep, that's why I went to college for four years. There was a time when you could say that and people just thought you were a dirty whore. Now, I'm a professional! I've got a degree. Don't you forget it! I'm still a whore, I just cost a lot more and do things the call girls at the W can't do...

It's really funny. I used to work at a grocery store in the produce department. My manager, who was about forty at the time used to tell me, "that's the trick, today you have to be specialized." Well, I'm specialized. I don't sell any products; I just charge people for what I do.

There was a time that if you just charged people for what you do it meant one thing... Well, not any more. Today, you sell yourself for all that you are. That's what you do. I'm serious. Find the nearest millionaire and ask them what they do. They sell them self. But you wouldn't dare call them a prostitute. So, why do we frown upon the prostitutes?

An open letter to the Sun

Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun... eat shit.

You're never there when we want you to be, while Seattle is blanketed in a two-month long veil of gray. You screw with our minds when you poke out in the morning, only to hide behind clouds for the rest of the day.

Then, once you finally decide to come out for an extended period of time, you have the audacity to blaze hotter than most of our pasty white bodies can handle. Thanks for that.

Does the American Association of Dermatologists have you on their payroll or something? You go around blazing your damn rays down at us puny beings that go months on end without seeing you and burn the living crap out of us, giving us blisters and farmer tans, not to mention melanoma. You make leather seats too hot to sit on and you melt my damn ice cream (which I paid for, thank you very much).

Mr. Sun, we're tired of this lopsided relationship. Either commit to it or pack your F-ing bags for good.

Peace.

If the Stars were Aligned

Sometimes I wish I was a Jedi. Oh man, life would be so much more simple if I was a Jedi. Plus I'd have a light saber, which would be pretty sweet. I don't really care which Jedi--Quagong Jim, ObeeWan Kanobee, princess leah (technically she was a Jedi), it really makes no difference to me, just as long as it's a Jedi. Well maybe not Anikan Skywalker; that guy kind of gets screwed in the end. Hell, I'd even be one of those crazy-ass aliens with all the dangly-shit on their head!

What I'm really getting at is the Force. I want it! Think of it, the power to move things with your mind ("that's telepathy Kyle!").

And then, of course, there's the sheer sex appeal. If Jedi existed, they'd be the socially imagined children of Brad Pitt, Natalie Portman, Maggie Gillinhal, and that new guy that plays James Bond. Yeah, it's pretty safe to say I'd be dripping in pharamones.

As my first order, I'd revise the Jedi uniform. Those robes are dank. Unless your name is John and you're hanging out with Robin Hood, that brown cape needs to stay in the closet. I think Jedi could probably start charging this capitalist world for all their good deeds. In which case the dough would start rolling in. I'd be suiting up everyday! And I'm not talking about the Men's Wearhouse. Nope. Only the premium, top-shelf stuff. And yes, I'd rock an ascot.

They say the average American makes at least three significant career changes in their lifetime. I'm still pretty young and only on my first career, so I think there's still hope of becoming a Jedi.

May the Force be with you.

I think it's going to be a good day

Is no news good news? Today I think it is.

Usually this is only something you want to hear from the elderly. No broken hips or shingles; no news. That's great! Granny's going to live another month.

But here, in my early twenties on a Friday, I'm preaching the same message. No news today is good news. Hell, it's great news! The papers don't have much to say, it's approaching 8:00 a.m. and I only have a few new messages in my inbox. Hizah!

There is however one thorn in my side today that I could really live without, well, maybe two: unaddresed emails and people asking for things they don't understand. If you don't know what you want, don't ask!

Happy Freakin' Birthday America!

Dear America,

On this, the Fifth of July, I'd like to wish you a belated happy birthday. I would have said something earlier, but I was a little busy trying to avoid all those rednecks who like to celebrate this great day with explosives and other annoying humb-dingers, cat-chasers, and dixie-whistles. I mean come on, do we really need all this noise? People loose fingers, pets, eyes, and only god knows what else on this supposedly majestic day. Why? If I took a bullet in the War of Independence, that would be the last think I would want people doing.

I get it, sort of, you've had a few drinks, you're feeling pretty good. Maybe you even feel invincible. So you decide to blow up your neighbor's mailbox. It was fun last year and got a laugh from your friends. But really...

And America, while I'm at it, who came up with the idea of fireworks anyhow? Yeah, I'm asking a lot of rhetoricals; but isn't that what this country was really founded on? Our founding fathers signed our Declaration with the fact that they would "hang together or hang individually." But they had the patriotic pairs to look to the queen and say, "what are you going to do?" They knew damn well, but they did it anyways.

Well, until next year, America, happy birthday.

Regards,
One of your many citizens