Because I don't want to open too many windows.

I already have Fireworks, multiple Dreamweaver windows, and Firefox open. Can you blame me for not wanting to open Word for proofreading?

I can't say it has been a crazy couple of weeks, and that could be my problem. Okay, that's definitely my problem. I'm broke. I don't have anyone I can relate to in the Peoria area (not to say anyone can), and no way to meet new people. I can affirm that after my accidental credit slip up on Zoosk.

It feels like I'm on a countdown to extinction. If I can't make something work by the end of the year, it'll be two years of worthlessness, and even with all the drama I've experienced, I've never had two consecutive years of being fucked. I'd say the dead-pun-line is 12/31 because I don't want to be one of those assholes who do the died at age 30, 1980-2011.

If anything that is reason enough to jail Michael Jackson's doctor. I'd show leniency if he would have postponed the OD a couple of months, so that MJ would have been 51 (1948-2009). Maybe that's why the obsessive compulsive shouldn't pass judgment.

Then again, that would make this website the ultimate hypocrisy. Suppose I better get to the blog then, and skip discussing the kitty suicide notes and the depressed chick hair cut I nearly gave myself. Do pawn shops take beard trimmers?

Check out the rest of the blog at MainEventOfTheDead.com and envision how my movie reviews and satire could develop a zombie pro-wrestling B-Movie comedy.

No one has the nerve to care

I own a cynical T-shirt (imagine that) that mocks Twitter with the blue birt spouting out, "Nobody Cares." It's ironic in a sense because I love to tweet, and for the most part believed to to be a true statement based on the lack of constructive feedback from my 300 friends on the Internet.


My seemingly pessimistic (I'll still stand by realistic) outlook may not be unjust, but it leaves me pondering when my cat will let an A&E camera crew into the apartment while I'm at work for a surprise intervention. The little furball is sneaky like that.

Check out the blog at HARSHSIDE.COM

Do you think the Nazis want to claim a tattooed turd?

I will like to take this as a chance to promote my new website MainEventoftheDead.com, otherwise this is my way of typing up homework without at Affina blocking my communications with my home computer.

“The Soup” is the ultimate source of covering the irreverent. I’d like to say it is the “Onion,” but I want a formal apology for any part of their film that did not feature Steven Segal.

Perhaps I don’t watch enough real news, but it has been fairly free about stuff that pisses me off. It isn’t 2012 yet, so I’m not going to take Sarah Palin seriously for a while. My optimistic view of world affairs may actually come from moving out of a house where my mom watched nothing but Fox News.

Maybe I just have a lot of deep issues with anger, so I need to find stuff to get angry about when I write, and thankfully my DVR allows me to keep track of the decadence of this consumption-based society. Something that may need to be explained after my experience with the limp-wrested strip club assholes I met weeks back, but that is another story (last weeks to be precise).

Since the stuff I’m watching is irreverent, one can argue that there is no need to be pissed about it. I guess I’m angry at the fact we cover ridiculous, water skiing squirrel free stories. People watch this coverage and want to get involved with it, and that’s wrong.

No one wanted to water ski after the squirrel, so why do they want to prove that Jesse James is a Nazi makes no sense. Thus, we got to get angry, and slap some sense into those who are satisfied despite not owning a digital cable box.

Pedophiles vs. War Criminals

So...the editors at the Harbinger, Illinois Central College's newspaper, expects their contributing clolumnist to walk by their office that is two stories above the only class he's attending this semester. It's funny because he's only had to enter the office once in his three semesters of contributing.

Enough of this 3rd Person bullocks, makes me feel like those right wing twats who were offended at my "Destroy Popular Culture, Rebuild, Repeat" shirt...at a strip club. Did one of the girls pay them off just, so I'd plead for one of them to take me back for a dance?

The editor had told me, if they could pay me for my reviews and my opinion pieces, they would. Personally, I like not having the hastles of showing up to meetings, and if that cost me a few bucks, that no big deal. All I expect is an e-mail telling me when I have to get my shit finished.

Maybe it just slipped their mind, maybe the A&E editor saw a flick and wants my space, or the editor-in-chief didn't like Ghosting my last opinion piece. Whatever the reason, I feel a little put out by a newspaper that hardly updates its website.

Yes, I guess I maybe taking the inevitable "sorry, we were so busy e-mail" to hard, but I have an ego, and when I don't do too many things well, failing to get published hurts.

After receiving the e-mail, it was a reality check. The staff simply had college things to do, the stuff that will further careers. Writing for a college newspaper is kind of a secondary thing in comparison. Like it or not, that is pretty accurate.

C'est la vie, I guess. With a Polanski movie review, that seems appropriate. As long as my works weren't published for making an observation about pedophilia in this critique, everything will work out fine. I bought a domain for a reason right?

Check out the review at my new website MainEventoftheDead.com - Satire, Movies, and Anarchy

Please offer a fucking clue.

Where/how am I suppose to develop a relationship with a girl? I offer nothing that is appreciated, and fuckin douches seem to get rewarded for being what they are.

Can't stand bars. Online is shit, and college...fuck the only interesting chick from class is helping out the MassCom Reverend with his Christian online radio.

I am not trying to take a shot at you, but Stef, you were trying to set me up with Sam. Not exactly and ego boost. Am I really that hopeless? honestly?

And please be solution oriented with your response.

I guess I've just become the ultimate douche. But fuck, at least I'm honest.

I got a person for each finger on one hand who really truly give a shit if I'm gone. Look where I'm at. Right now, my only hope is to get famous with my writing. Fuck. You didn't believe in the wrestling, this isn't any better.

I had my window to get my shit straight, and no one has said anything otherwise. They just hope it will change for me.

Fuck, Hope is for the terminal. I'm inevitably going to off myself. Sorry to drop this e-mail on you. I don't know when, "the GREEN scissors" aren't sharp enough, so I have no clue. I don't see any reason why shit will end well for me.

I am through with hoping.

What needs to be changed?

Obviously my environment? I can't justify developing my next website idea while I only have a week left before moving out.

Attitude towards my job? Only in the idea that I should just say, "If you don't think I'm working out, fire me now, and I'll respect you for it sense." With ideas that are coming to mind for my extreme leftist blog, it would be best to handle me this way instead of waiting till I'm stuck with a fucking lease.

My abrasive nature...really? People still have a sense of humor right, or is everything taken personally? Am I just a shitty guy to introduce to people?

Or am I just shitty looking? With the baby-face there are times when I think I look too much like Private Pile from "Full Metal Jacket." I'm to the point where I'd appreciate an Am-16 for my birthday.

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.

Hope = Death, a bleak observation

The problem with last night's blog was that it was too repetitive. A struggle to figure out what more can be said about how shitty my existence is. After plenty of calling God a sadistic bastard and thoughts to Frank Miller's "Sin City," I think I may have received a divine answer.

It doesn't get that douche bag Iehova off the shit list, but it is a lesson that I think all should learn and the sooner the better.

Nothing good can come from hope. There has got to be a fucking game plan and the knowledge that the game will end.

This is probably why the Cubs never amount to champions. Cubs "fans" are too busy hoping that this will be the year they will end a century (it's still early in this one, so I'm rounding down) without a championship instead of figuring out how the Cubs can win it.

I think I went over this in my Harbinger article "Why are Chicago Sports Fans Restricted to Hoping." Of course, they have a shitty web adviser, so finding it on their website isn't going to happen. No worries, I'll post it tomorrow on http://harshside309.blogspot.com

Back to the bitching about God failing to give us a reach around. If you are restricted to hoping something good will happen in a situation, it won't. Name one person you've hoped from their death bed?

Look at Baby Dax. We were hoping he wasn't going to cash it in. We hoped a miracle would save his butt.

We hope when something is impossible. We got to stop doing that.

Look at "Sin City". Bruce Willis's character says it best after telling Jessica Alba justice will prevail and tells her to run off:

And after I pull off that miracle, maybe I'll go punch out God.

Our hero then promptly blows his brains out because the game is over.

It can even be traced back to "Fight Club".

First you have to give up, first you have to *know*... not fear... *know*... that someday you're gonna die.

Characters occassionally get lucky like Clive Owen in "Sin City," but in the end, "City of Men" found a way to make a downer flick even more depressing.

Perhaps this is why writing has been difficult for me right now. What I write is creationism. If you don't love god, how can you play one. This is killing my fiction, my screenplay, and my return to the wrestling scene.

God is a dick, but I'll give him credit to his wisdom. He gave his detractor some of it to try to get me over him.

But I'm a fucking Cubs fan, and like the trade of Lou Brock, I don't get over shit.

Let it be 2010 because 2012 is too far away.

No, it's not a resolution. With my depressed mood, I'd like it to be a documentation till extinction. Saves on writing a suicide not.

So I've been assigned my work station which is pretty much out on it's own. Yes, this should be a good thing when you dislike most people, but when you don't have any friends and positive social interaction is a necessity I'm plenty fucked.

A lot of you may interpret this as a fuck you, but it's more of a compliment. Why would anyone want to hang out with this downer? This isn't a blame either. I put myself in a position where I have no real connections. Still, there is kind of a feeling that I've been given up on by those who can actually hang out with, but that ain't right since all of you have moved on to better things.

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.

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.

<---i a="" at="" can="" feminist="" have="" here="" href="http://harshside309.blogspot.com/2009/12/suck-my-left-onea-tribute-to-teen.html" in="" it="" popped="" rant="" target="_blank" that="" view="" you="">Harshside309.blogspot.com

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.