Your beautiful and your god is an asshole

So things once again have hints of improvement in my life, but lord know I ain't sold on it. Why? Because the last couple things I've written have just been plain angry. Not satirical, no humor, just pissed off because I think it's a load of bull shit that I'm suppose to hope. When do I get something to hope about? After I get pissed.

Faith, fuck that.

I'm sorry, but it feels like I've been awarded for passive aggressive behavior. Even if I'm in the right by telling all my friends to grow a fucking backbone [and it's only inadvertently passive because so many phone numbers have changed and I don't have many tangible relationships (and some could say I have zero in that category)], anger was the prevalent emotion.

Perhaps too much Eastern pinches of philosophy, knowing that the poser named Jesus (not the piercer but the pierce one known as the messiah) never got angry (he just got tough in the temple), and Stacia making sure that I would never get angry (and if I took her lead, I can only be angry if I was cute about it), but it is the one emotion I cannot tolerate.

Unless it's about the fucking White Sox, I am out to be the mother fucking Jedi master. Fear is something I have enough problems dealing with. Do you think I can really handle anger...let alone hate and suffering?

What I am getting to is that the power that be is an asshole, and lets face it is really undeserving of anyone....

Just pausing because I am confused where to place this blog. Should be on this personal blog one because I am talking about the ways of my fucked up maze? Should be on http://harshside309.blogspot.com because I am attacking the fabric of the most hypocritical of society? Or should be on http://rohmobile.com because despite the flaws that almost make it as bad as "Pirate Radio," watching "Persepolis" fuels my discontent with the big guy.

He is either rewarding me for being a prick or he is keeping up with his sick sense of humor. If putting me in a house where I can't have a cat and a racist mother who doesn't want me to leave weren't torture enough.

Either way, God is an asshole. Never reward the cunts, tax the fuck out of them. And if someone tells me to lay off certain jokes, I'll go out of the way to knock that shit off (no guarantees of course).

So, I'm confused, and I need some fucking guidance, and I do not want to take it from anyone who wants to put God in their bibliography. Can somebody please step up?

If you are pissy about how I'm acting towards the big fella, helping me out may be God's will.

I guess it would be nice.

Thanks for the abandonment assholes

I thought I had written in my last blog that I need people to just accept the fact that I am fucking hopeless. To tell me just to fuck off. I forgot that I'm so much easier to just fucking ignore.

Hey, I'm sorry that most of the shit I blog about is how shitty my life is. Sorry you won't take the time to accept that this is more than a pity trip. Just fuck me for my opinion pieces being dedicated to ICC's school newspaper that won't fucking help itself.

The world is fed up with me, I should get that, but again I hate relying on fucking implications.

Read the rest of the blog at MainEventoftheDead.com and let me know if my humor, satire and movie knowledge can translate into a B-Movie comedy about zombies and pro-wrestling.

Is it that hard to say fuck off?

Been popping more ativan and it isn't just because of the new job. It is just because hope keeps trying to prove that it exist. I'm not saying it doesn't exist, but to me it is nothing more than a cruel mistress. Like I need anymore of them.

Perhaps things are turning around for me. I can move out of the cell that my parents and older sister provide me with, I can finally have a cat of my own, but in the end the inevitable question is what is next.

Does anyone really see me making friends at a call center? Everyone who doesn't understand that the cog in the in a functioning machine doesn't get to tell the operator shit just seem to sensitive. The training class turned on me for being a true Cubs fan (which demands an abandonment of the Southside) and being a gentlemen.

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All the friends I had from local wrestling have abandoned me. My best friends seem to have just grown up. Others have wisely moved beyond Peoria, so every time I go out, I'm alone.

It was Soul Asylum who said "Nothing attracts a crowd, like another crowd"

Read the rest of this blog and determine if I am well enough to produce a B-Movie comedy about Pro-Wrestling Zombies at http://maineventofthedead.com

A week off unemployment. Another week of zero production.

I just can't do this day shit. Work 8.5 and then go to bed to do it again? It isn't like that gives me time for fun since older sister is territorial as long as she's awake. I just need that second shift, bar, bed.

Which I won't be getting till freaking January. Five weeks of training at Affina/Ryder, two of which are orientation. I like getting paid to do nothing, but it is painful when we nothing is produced from it.

With how things are shaping up, I can't get the fuck out of the folk's place till February. Since we will just are training till January 4 (at the earliest) we can't get paid for the holidays, so I'll have one check as a deposit from this month and the rest goes towards bills. If Mom gets a piece of this as rent for living here (thanks big sis for setting that standard), I'll be lucky to move out by March.

Oh yeah, China's a no go. That clears me to beat the crap out of Maris right^_- Can I at least air freight his butt back to the Soviet block? I'll put holes in the box. Or maybe I can use his accent and knowledge of five languages to accuse him of being an Al Qaeda recruiter.

So when it comes to transferring to U of I, well that's gotta wait till 2011. At least till my lease or I run up. Let the countdown to extinction begin. I see myself either ending up as the crazy cat person, or like Tommy from "Trainspotting". Hell, I may start breeding kitties for the toxoplasmosis. Better that than ending up in "Dog Soldiers"

This is my life, and it is ending one day at a time. Any suggestions on speeding it up.

An Effort to Steer Wrestlers Away from Peoria

This is being reposted just as an example of how the business can be on the small town level. These were my feelings about the promoter at the time, and I am over holding ill will towards him, but the personality expressed at that time is pretty universal when you have creative that tries to isolate themselves from the rest of the independent scene.

As for myself, I could have just walked away from the situation before it affected the promotion. Do I feel like I was in the right? Yes, but if Alex thought wrestling fans were paying attention to my personal website, I didn't need to do it. Hind sight, but I was willing to bury a place for guys to work over a grudge with one guy. That makes it a selfish act regardless if I thought it would help everyone who had greater aspirations.

What this situation came down to was neither Alex or I was going to address the issue hoping that professional courtesy will come through.

The promoter of NGW, Alex Larson, has barred me from their shows until June (2006) for my attempt to shoot on him (tell the truth to the fans) at the last show.

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

Mickey Rourke Ain't Got Shit on Me

The last time I was out of Next Generation Wrestling (for reasons that were all business and were understood and made clear by all parties involved), I decided to see how I compared to everyone in 2004.

To motivate me to out perform. That was the goal. Of course, I realized that actual wrestling ability was not the promoter's concern since I was suppose to be in a comic angle and jobbing to those who the crowd thought were cool.

You cannot improve if no one wants to believe you can.

I guess I had my moments, in 2005 with the Kyle Rich feud, my return match against Brett Gakiya, and the "Star Wars" gimmick, but refusing to play the roles NGW wanted me to forced them to put me in a position of just putting me in meaningless matches. The win loss ratio made it so statistically that I was a push over, but when you are not in the premiership, how many limeys give a shit about what you do?

With the realization of this and my best friend trying to kill me, I admit, despite the great matches I had, it was not my best year. But when I look at why certain people got to where they are in my rankings, it was not much of a year in Peoria Wrestling.

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

03/16/2006 A Work of Fiction

I sit back watching Chasing Amy, my favorite Kevin Smith film. When a film is one of my favorites it touches me and I can just feel fulfilled and not have to finish the film.

Over the past six months there has been a lotta drama in my life. Alex Larson, NGW's promoter, is surprisingly not the only source. Of course he did spend four months of it challenging me to survive Saturdays. Thank god for true friends who have always been there for me.

It's a correlation I guess. More drama, more thought. Brain damage would be bliss.


Supporting the bull shit that society finds acceptable and encourages would be bliss. Me, I just get pissed.

The point is dramas are depressing and comedies are fun. Do you really want to fully comprehend the details a Law and Order SVU episode. That's depressing, thus you should avoid thinking about drama, when you can wish you were as cool as Dane Cook.

Again what are true friends for. Drama from them is sucking my drive to make it through the weekend. If these friends read this, watch Chasing Amy. My sense of humor is justified.

My thoughts tonight. Why do I relate to every Smith film? Hell, I've yet to finish watching Jersey Girl. It got to me so quickly.

Actually, courtship in these films seem to parallel my life. Catch a girls interest with my personality (a side from my ass, I ain't much of a looker). Become best friends. Let it go to shit when Love comes around (fuck you BB King and that Irish save the poor fuck).

All of whom I love seem to follow this pattern. Except Stacia, but watch the "Original Love Story" deleted scene on the Amy disc, and she fits into that.

I stop and think about my journal. Stefanie wanted me to write it because I was like a comic book character. My last friend to read it said she could fall in love with the me that I write about.

My conclusion, I am a work of fiction. I exist for the dreams of the underweight/overweight shut in adolescents.

The inimitablerc and Russ Bradley are not too far apart. Fuck, I'm a super hero with an alter ego.

Maybe that's not too bad. But thinking that I live as Affleckian character and I'm not dick deep in pussy right now, oh the thoughts of suicide. Too quote a sound byte from a They Might be Giants track, "I don't want the world, I just want my half (Man, how bad did Stefanie fuck me up. Weren't the scars enough)."

10/5/2006 The Nipple Piercing Story

Today, I thought I'd have gotten all of my head on straight. With one needle and a lot of booze, surely I'd have found all of the answers.

I have not had the adrenaline rush I've craved for 10 months. Ink or piercing. One of these must serve as a fix.

For the fourth day of October, the 14 gauge needle was to be my savior. I hope Raul gets some promotion from my choice.

My sisters were scared about my actions, and that's before they knew I wanted the kanji tat of "To die young", and showering unbeknown to a "boil order". I should have realized with every rush there is a crash.

I made my best efforts with a new girl at Al's. She was beyond totally cool. Hopefully my company didn't cost her too much. Again I receive the, "Hang in there, it will all work out," as she told me I was so much like her current boyfriend.

Oh for the age of chivalry. Kick the dude's ass and the "girl is mine."

This is what I got from a good friend Monday. This is what I've been getting from my best friends for 3 years.

That or, you gotta be an asshole.

I went and gave my all today, but no matter the needs I fulfill, I am still left craving more.

I just want to find someone who will give back as much as I put out, and after seeing all those I work harder than get that, I can't stand to put out my best without reward.

I do have to apologize to the girl tonight. For not knowing me at all, you gave a shit. You gave all you could to help me feel good. Thanks.

I just wish I could always count on that at the end of each day.

PHP 03/15/2007

PHP: Soylent Green is Staley

PHP 03/15/2007

Currentmood: crushed

My case manager says I'm convicting myself of being flawed. It seems to be based on circumstantial evidence, but I bet if Sam Waterston was the ADA, he would seal my fate.

In group therapy, a discussion about aggression and assertiveness led to a discussion about emotional needs. You are trying to obtain your needs, and these are the polar opposite ways of obtaining them. One of those needs is a sense of purpose. How to work towards the future.

You may not have a grand purpose. That's good because after my broken wrist, I don't think I could be supported from a crucifix. But every moment has something that you should set your mind on accomplishing.

Maybe I'm suffering from delusions of grander. Probably not. This dilemma would have a simple conclusion if that was the case. It seems so much easier just to call myself crazy.

Then I would at least have a purpose. Surely there is a market for village idiots. I could have a monopoly on Central Illinois in that field if I can remove Willy York from the scene.

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

PHP 03/16/2007

PHP 7: Acceptance (about me not the booze)

Suicide risk assessment at it's highest. Too bad the scoring is like golf.

I ended up dominating my group therapy session today. Kind of an asshole thing to do when you are constantly being reassured that you are a good guy. How we got around to me I can't remember?

Either way, I'm going to blame my crying on being emasculated from the excess of estrogen in the group since I'm the only guy.

When I think about it, it was probably me reassuring everyone else they could succeed while I was a lost cause. As I have said, I feel used up. There is a sense of completion in that. A justification for ending it all. That I'm in PHP to talk my self out of that.

You're afraid of failure. You're afraid of the world. Accusations the therapist threw at me, and that the group backed up. Worst of all, they tried to relate their problems to it.

All I want is someone to be supportive. Not to relate their problems to mine. Just to back me up.

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

PHP 03/13/2007

Futility of Partial Hospitalization:

I hate to be pessimistic with any of my blogs. It just doesn't feel right to not have anything cynical or clever to entice the reader.

I'm the Silent Bob in my Kevin Smith-inspired world, and I'm in need of a chuckle head to kick off the conversation. I can tell that Amy story forever after that.

I am learning from the program, and was able to apply the lessons...I should say display the lessons learned over the weekend, but these lessons also lead me into further reinforcement of my negative beliefs.

Having to deal with other people car troubles over the weekend. Picking up Skullkrusher to park two blocks away from the building, and not having a match kinda tested my patience.

Add a parking ticket to pick up Mexican food after the show slid a disc in this camels back (question: pain or paralysis?). For 30 dollars, thank god it was more authentic than Taco Bell.

I left for the road from PHP with the group saying that I need to change something to enter the main stream to get the relationships I need to carry on. Hoping that fate or chance has anything to do with it is pointless. Fit in the mainstream or be miserable.

Almost sounded like be a sheep to get laid. What? You don't expect me to trivialize my issues in the name of humor?


Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

PHP: 03/20/2007

PHP: My issue isn't just a lack of twat.

I had to struggle to get to the keyboard to type up my latest blog.  I warn you that it isn't going to be very optimistic. It may feel like you had to deal with me in person.

Wake up an hour late for PHP today. With that statement, I now hope this was just a case of the Mondays.

This pissed me off because I actually got to bed early last night.  Got to bed for a shitty sleep, waking up several times and having pessimistic dreams as I slept.  What was the point?

I get to PHP in the middle of group therapy.  Last one there, last to talk.  That was my choice, and probably the better choice judging that the group wouldn't give me a chance to go into what I wanted to deal with.

What can I say?  I'm over with the group.  They want to know about the adventures of Russ Staley anyway.

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

PHP 03/14/2007

Blood pressure: Up. Suicide risk assessment: Up.

New group members see me down, so they are even more afraid that the program won't work for them.

Well, I guess I've always been known for heading the wrong way. Just like my Chicago Cubs.

Life imitates art. Scary when your favorite film is "Trainspotting". Choose Life? Why would I want to do a thing like that.

I am really in the mood to find my old cell phone that my dad took out to put one of those sun lights by my bed. If this PHP doesn't work, I might need the numbers to Carrie Clifton's old dope dealers.

To make matters worse, PHP might end tomorrow. Fuckin' Blue Cross Blue Shield. It's not like I haven't heard time and time again, "you should have kept working at Caterpillar."

Today was about relationships. I have some strong ones. I have some weaker ones. More importantly, I have confusing ones.

And of course frustrating ones like my little sister and Mom who'd like to force feed me a solution to my depression. These aren't bad relationships, but they can't help me right now. I may need to step back from these for a bit.

Did I follow through with that lesson?

"Hi Russ. I gotta pick up your sister from work. We're going to dinner after that. Do you wanna come?"

I have to be stronger. Lord knows I should be able to resist a free meal.

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

PHP 03/21/2007

The Last PHP: My life: is lame Smashing Pumpkins

Again, another journal that was a true task to write. I had to stay up a few hours to let my computer cool down from my last blog. Hope I can budget a Dell into the tax refund.

I knew the mood I was in, and wanted to maintain it to write this. So I watched "The End of Evangelion", an anime about a Revelations like apocalypse with giant robots.

Call it a sixth sense, but I think everyone would have preferred that I'd just watch "Family Guy" and "Aqua Teen Hunger Force".

I let it out as soon as I could in PHP today. My therapist asked me to go here to regain an interest in life. Find a reason to live. Just because the meds work, doesn't mean that I can justify going on without passion.

The battle again came about my need for a significant relationship. To finally be the significant part of another life. But they seemed to say it's about finding a girl when I wanted to talk about the bullshit of being everyone's friend in wrestling to get booked instead of busting my ass in the ring.

How do we jump from the wanting to be pounded in the ring to the wanting to be pounding in the bedroom? Okay. They are related as I established. Sing along if you know the words:

"If I can't succeed socially, I can't accomplish anything."
"If I can't succeed in the ring, I can't accomplish anything....better yet, if I can't accomplish anything with my passion, how can I accomplish anything?"

If you haven't caught on, I'm not big on affirmation. I know I'm a good person, but I know I can't get my needs met by being myself. Fuck Stewart Smally.

"Talk to everyone." "Play pool with strangers." "Don't observe to find a place to fit in." "Just throw yourself out there."

Excuse me, it's not hard to tell the pretentious hip hoppers, red necks, and guys who growl to show their love for guys who growl into a mic and make seven figures.

"How can you not demand attention in social settings? You do it in the wrestling ring."

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

PHP 03/15/2007

PHP 03/15/2007

Currentmood: crushed

My case manager says I'm convicting myself of being flawed. It seems to be based on circumstantial evidence, but I bet if Sam Waterston was the ADA, he would seal my fate.

In group therapy, a discussion about aggression and assertiveness led to a discussion about emotional needs. You are trying to obtain your needs, and these are the polar opposite ways of obtaining them. One of those needs is a sense of purpose. How to work towards the future.

You may not have a grand purpose. That's good because after my broken wrist, I don't think I could be supported from a crucifix. But every moment has something that you should set your mind on accomplishing.

Maybe I'm suffering from delusions of grander. Probably not. This dilemma would have a simple conclusion if that was the case. It seems so much easier just to call myself crazy.

Then I would at least have a purpose. Surely there is a market for village idiots. I could have a monopoly on Central Illinois in that field if I can remove Willy York from the scene.

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

PHP 03/08/2007

Current mood: pessimistic

Kinda in a pissy mood. Can't really think of anything overly worthwhile to report from day two of Partial Hospitalization.

OK. A lot of worthwhile stuff happened, or not.

Hitting the same brick wall of being worthless. The solution...accept that?

No, don't accept that I'm a worthless husk of a man, accept that I'm a good person.

We have an issue with verb tense. Am should be (oh god, now I'm reminded of the bad nature of could, would, and should) was. There is nothing left of me.

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

PHP 03/21/2007

Current mood: chipper

In PHP, they had us write journal entries about pictures.

As peaceful images lead to heartache, Disney World was discovered to be unimportant in child development, I took a Kincade/Rockwell esque painting as a chance to stick it to the man.

Serenity sometimes seems stereotyped.

Bright sunshine, the home, the lack of businesses to interfere with the shiny happy people. These people with their 1.5 kids and flee-ridden pet(s). Throw a steeple into the scene, and dare we say that we have obtained perfection.

This is serenity. No trouble thus no emotions to screw things up.

Read the rest of this blog and other stories at Main Event of the Dead.com and determine if this thought process can be translated into a B-movie comedy about pro-wrestling zombies.

PHP 03/07/2007

My first day in partial hospitalization
Current mood: blank

If you know me well, you probably know I've been having a tough time the last couple of months. Now I'm undertaking a partial hospitalization program to deal with my depression.

What to report thus far:

I have been placed on a substance abuse program (my friends who get drunk
text messages rejoice). Drink three nights a week, and you are deemed an addict
I guess.
How can any Asian person have a name with an "L" in it? The program's
psychiatrist is a doctor Lee. Cool guy. He's curious about my wrestling (wait
till he sees Tigger Mask). He is an Asian immigrant.

It's a fair assumption, my little brother dated one of the Linn Buffet daughters. I wouldn't suspect a second generation Asian American to speak like he did.

When it comes to Asian languages (prior to my two years of Chinese), I don't know any language that actually has the letter "L".

In all of the Chinese films I've seen, I never heard Jet Li ever be cast as Jet Li. In almost every film with Jackie Chan, he's usually cast as Jackie. Just think of Kim Jong Ill in Team America: World Police, if you don't follow me.

So is it just an English thing? As long as it starts their name, they can say "Lee" instead of "Ree". Not to sound insensitive to the good doctor, but in the case is this, good move. Imagine his getting picked on as Ree Ree (obscure down syndrome joke).

As for progress in the program, I can't say I know right now. It's inciteful, but would have probably been a lot more fun if Dr. Ree gave me a prescription to Xanax. At least then we would have a reason to put me in the substance abuse class.

My Pseudo Dead Haikus

Up one night thinking.
Awake remembering pain.
Thoughts of the insane.

Haiku : the efficient, eloquent way of being pretentious. The concept of efficiency, perfected by the Japanese. 17 syllables, no need to rhyme.

It's no wonder they can do everything better in the manufacturing fields than Americans. This gives them more time to count their money and beef up their math skills.

haiku is to efficient as soliloquies is to boring.

At least, that's a perception I have. Come on. How many of you could get into any Shakespearean works beyond Romeo and Juliet? You know that play with that "lovely love me" shite.

So I wanted to get the troubling thoughts about the junky who led me to financial ruin, and I wanted to be as efficient as possible to catch up on sleep.

These haikus had the opposite effect. You know that Jedi shit.

Anger leads to hate, hate leads suffering. Yoda like a motherfucker.

I also got stuck on a dilemma I've been battling for a while. How does haiku translate from Japanese to English?

Here's an egrish sample base on my haiku from the beginning.

Okite ichi yoru kangarue. 10 syllables.
Up one night thinking. 5 syllables.

Yes, I own a Japanese to English dictionary. No, I'm not going to translate the entire poem. This blog is about efficiency, and that would take up a too much time.

I guess it may not be about the sounds. It may be about the kanji, the oriental characters. We do seem to mock their love for pretty pictures on a frequent basis.

The point of this long winded rant (again, I'm inefficient) is that it led me to write haikus that really sum up the constant gloom I radiate through out Central Illinois.

Chicago and the Quad Cities should be glad I'm taking time off from wrestling. It makes it tougher to keep this grumpy bear routine up everywhere. God/Science bless the Internet.
So here we go, what you've been waiting for: MY PSUEDODEAD HAIKUS!!!

I am a zombie,
But I feel my memories.
Damn this fucking pulse.

I am walking dead.
Empty, but I still flashback.
And no taste for brains.

Shotgun to my brain.
This pseudo corpse curses Cobain.
Stuck here with my pain.

I have loved and lost.
Gone through all my wants of life.
Left only with needs.

Hungry for something.
Left to wander endlessly.
Not to think, just feed.

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