Coffee Shop Meditations

The reason for the Season.

I just want to note right now, that I am high as fucking giraffe pussy, straight posted at the coffee shop I frequent almost daily during the work week. I did this because that is the shop I am most comfortable with and well, being this ripped and at a new place would trip me up. I mean this place will as well because… well I don’t have a fucking excuse. When I go out and interact with people, it’s like a new ball game every time. It feels like a place that is brand new. Of course it feels brand new right now because I have more than efficiently severed the connection between my short term and long term memory, thus everything is brand new, thanks to the half of the retardedly strong ganja cookie I ingested about an hour ago.  I feel like my dog. I want to watch everything going on and I want to hear what people are talking about. But I figure it’s a few things they talk about; school related, work related, money related, pussy related, god related. Haha! Who am I kidding? I don’t know what the fuck people are talking about. Looking someone in the eyes seems a heinous crime sometimes. But it’s a comfort zone rupture I am going for so just sitting out here in this heat in the shade with an iced coffee and a slight hangover, David Hasslehoof ripped, is a fucking ordeal. Next time I will post up in a new coffee shop and not be as fucking high.


Truth is, I figured it might be a good time to post up at my local joint and actually get to chill outside for a change. I am always, 5 days a week, boxed up in a closet outside a closet. No gateway to Narnia, no stargate tower. I used to believe in the boogeyman. He had a white horse nose that came to a point. His face looked like a stretched joker from Tim Burton’s Batman. Jack Nicholson. He had hoofed feet, white fur, and he wore a purple blazer. He used to freak me the fuck out, but he really looked like the boogey man off the 80’s Ghostbuster cartoon “The Real Ghostbusters.” I was terrified that he would come out of my closet when I was asleep.  His lair was one crazy Alice in Wonderland through the rabbit hole nonsense and the walls were covered with doors that opened to bedroom closets.  His whole purpose was to terrorize children because he fed off their fear.  I’m sure I gave him a good meal or two.   I would line up the stuffed animals I had to stand guard. But they weren’t only standing guard against the boogey man. They were standing guard against the possibility of creatures of netherfield searching through the portal underneath my bed. I was just that tasty and yes, I had stuffed animals. I named them. I still have one that I was given when I was just one, I guess. I named him Doggie.

I remember one night I was sleeping and the boogey man came out of the closet, because that’s where you get to his world. His world was animated too. If I wanted to make my dream even more terrifying, I would apply today’s special effects. It would be an animated character, but he would have an electrostatic aura about him. He would glitch in and out quickly like a television antennae coming into focus. Or it would be the visual equivalent of a cd skipping, only he’d be moving forward. All cartoon on reality. Like when the chick came out of the television on the ring. At any rate, I was dreaming under the covers asleep on my pillow. Mister Boogey came out grabbed me by my hands and started dragging me to his lair. I felt my lip being dragged against my bed sheets. When I woke up I was completely opposite my original sleeping position. I was on my stomach, on top of the covers with my feet where my head was supposed to be. True story.

The Bogeyman

The Boogey / Bogey Man. Yes they had two different spellings.

An ass just walked by so nice that it made me want a cigarette. I don’t understand the correlation. However I cannot have a cigarette right here, because this joint doesn’t allow smoking on it’s porch, plus there’s a dude and his daughter chomping it up right next to me. I hate smoking around kids, I won’t do it. Just get away from me. Sometimes I find myself in a situation where I will be doing my damnedest to get out of some area, away from anyone under 18, to have a fucking smoke and lo-and behold, there I am with some droolbucket huffing my second hand destruction. That’s something I hate.

I was thinking about things I hate and I couldn’t come up with much.  Even the lady who hassled the land manager to get my moving truck out of her parking spot when I moved into this joint and he turned to me when she left and said, “She ain’t got a car right now.” Nice. I don’t hate her either. She’s getting a 30 day notice for being a crazy bitch. Apparently, she has super sensitive hearing, I’m sure there’s a word for that, hearing that only mutes out her own voice and actions. Her intolerance of my neighbors slight music making, in the afternoon, offends her so much, she has to throw a tantrum the equivalent of a tiny child that has teeth coming in. Just pissed the fuck off. I don’t hate her, she’s just a racist.

I hate bad dog owners.  That shit grinds my gears like no other.

Pictures of little kids. Save them for someone who cares.

That feeling when you sit down to show someone a song, riff, or something, and they immediately tune out and don’t listen. I hate that feeling. (Also, I am inherently guilty of the doing the same thing.)

I definitely need to explore more coffee shops around here.  This place has no talent. Funny though, as I say that, someone who belongs in the “Coffee Shop Caf-fiend Chronicles” the High Duchess of Falootingtonshire, here for a serving of the queen’s royal pudding, who is a mind reader, or something, shows up, tea in hand, pinky finger extended.  She seems like a talented individual.  She definitely believes she has an audience. One day she said the name of someone I was thinking about right as I was thinking about it. Tripped me up for a second, then she explained I looked like some guy who had that name. Not me.

High as goddamn giraffe pussy. Retarded son.

The High Duchess of Falootingtonshire is lecturing her servants, or parishioners  or giving a historical account of the courts back in her hometown.

And I just sat here for about 10 minutes not writing a goddamn thing. Time to walk the dog.


Work Related: Aesthetics Edition

I was working today. I barely made it to work on time. They have a new system of rounding times so it essentially allows one to clock in 7 minutes prior or ahead of their actual time. It’s a fuck you sort of practice. Clock in 7 minutes early, and 7 minutes late, and you gave these miserly cunts an extra quarter of an hour. The new dietitian calls me. She’s got a gobbler on her neck like a turkey. She likes salads. I talked to her yesterday and mentioned I like to cook. She makes colorful salads. Her salads are not helping her turkey like appearance. I wouldn’t take diet advice from someone looking like that, and I am sure no one would take diet advice from me either if it was the first time they met me.

I remember reading something (I think it was on twitter, you know, because that is where hard truth’s are dispensed. In 140 characters or less,) that talked about HR rep’s discriminating against “attractive” people. The last few hires at my place of employment are borderline troglodyte and AARP members. I mean, really. I don’t need to be fellated at my desk by by the Ghost of Scarlett Johanson’s secretarial past, I wouldn’t be mad at it, but I wouldn’t mind seeing a decent ass walk by, bounce side to side and make it’s way somewhere. It does’t have to sit on my face, or do any other sort of thing, I just want something nice to look at. Instead we’re left with the 6 last hires, who are all the kryptonite of boners. Except for the lizard who really isn’t a nurse, but is called a nurse. She’s could be kryptonite to boners, if you listened to what she says, but I have an impeccable noise filter. Huh? She was probably pretty darn good looking before she progressed to where she is today. I want to pull her hair. She’s older but I’m a dog and dogs don’t give a shit most of the time. NO fatties. I want to be the fattest in the bedroom. At any rate, she has skin like a leather jacket left out in the summer sun for days on end and a voice like a fairy on a helium bender. She’s pretty crunchy as well.

Crunchy: A term to identify levels of commitment to bullshit such as only shopping at the co-op, buying organic, most of the time vegetarian, really fucking inspired by eastern religion, wearing flowing pants. Pants like the pastel river of Ganges,  Mutherfucking hemposity in a blouse. More than likely or possibly owning some sort of soap made out of patchouli. Rides a bike EVERYWHERE, Loves the fuck out of Quinoa*. This term came into use to break up the dichotomies from patchouli-funk hippie to psuedo stoner hippie, etc. Full granola, to stale crunch.

Lookin’ Pretty Crunchy

Anyway, chick is crunchy. She’s not full granola, but she’s got some crunch. She’s not my former somewhat sometimes stinky, armpit hair having, LGBT advocating, super lesbian office mate crunchy, but she’s got some crunch. She’s got small lips too. You know, like pencil thin lines of lips. Lips not made for kissing. You want giant flesh pillows of lips to kiss on. It’s a projection though, I don’t have full lips either, though I fancy myself an astute kisser. Not ass kisser, I just mean those little things you do to get those panties off quicker without having to take them off yourself. In any event, I would like our crunchy nurse to fellate me in my office or hers, or whatever. I’m ok with that.

The last 6 hires here have been overweight to obese, old, or a combination of both. In fact, since this new cunt HR manager came on the job, all our hires have been full trog. Not a single attractive person, both male or female have been hired. We’re becoming a place where ugly people come to work. Fucking jumping jackflash jesus, I am an ugly person working at the place for ugly persons to work. Nah fuck that, I have pizazz. Actually, I don’t but I’m witty as a cancer cell and I’ll help you smoke your cigs to get there. HR hates pretty things. She’s a ghetto bitch too. Her life consists of some pathetic fucking male, who I assume never fucks her and if he does, his half erect phallus spews it’s dry cough of a money load on her belly rolls approximately two times a month, two pitbulls and three cats. I actually assumed she has cats because I bet she gets some sad satisfaction being a fucking GIGANTIC rodent and ruling over cats. I’m not talking ROUS’. I’m talking full blown, that one super fat rat from Cinderella with a sex change and a whole lot of greasy fries.  A guy here got written up for sexual harassment by this HR cunt for telling a co-worker/friend of his that her eyes look pretty today. This guy had no sexual intent. The compliment receiver knew it, he knew it, but HR troglocunt heard him say it and now it’s on his permanent employment record. The chick he said it to didn’t even file the complaint.

*Please note, bike riding is a fun and invigorating practice.  I love riding a bike, I also dig on Quinoa, however, I do not feel the need to plug that into every conversation I have.  Just saying.

Rojo’s Road to Fitness: An Update.

Well as I promised a month or so back, you can see here the effects of one month in the gym for yours truly.  The changes are subtle but noticeable.

Images are reversed on the left is the one take early April, on the right is the one taken early March.

The left is the one taken early April, on the right is the one taken early March.

For the span of the time between the photos, it was almost exactly 31 days.  I snapped the April bathroom shot before going to workout that day because I didn’t want the pump to throw things off.  After all, this is about being honest for me, and with you readers.  I worked out in the gym 3 days a week for the first month.  The program I followed was the beginners routine out of Victor Pride’s “Body of Spartan.”

I’m not going to go into gritty details of my routine as you should pick up his guide if you want that information.  I found Body of Spartan to be very helpful for me as a gym noob. I lifted about 10 years ago, but I didn’t know what I was doing at all.  This book has illustrations of starting and ending positions to lifts, descriptions of the amount of weight to use, and suggested routines.  For beginners he had these words which have stuck with me throughout this path (emphasis mine):

“There is a lot of bullshit advice on the internet about how beginners “overtrain”.  BEGINNERS DON’T OVERTRAIN. IT DOESN’T HAPPEN. Beginners have a unique opportunity that only comes around once. If you fuck it up and workout like a pussy you’ll never get the opportunity again.”

The last sentence of the above quote is what I said to myself, over and over.  I still repeat it in my head.  It was evening workouts in the beginning, however, I soon switched to 5am workouts as access to the Olympic bar and power racks is  better in the early morning as opposed to later evenings.  How a major gym, two fucking stories tall, has only two squat / power racks, is beyond me.  Though, I did notice that majority of the people in the gym are shambling around on stair climbers, ellipticals and treadmills.  They are diddling their skittles on weight machines and these hanging rope looking things who’s practical use is beyond me.

That’s not to say the place is missing any #swole people.  In fact there are plenty of muscular physiques there.  They just aren’t the majority.  I definitely fit into the fatty category, but dammit, I am doing something about it.  In fact, some cats I hadn’t seen for a few months even commented on me saying “You look thinner,” or my favorite “Dude, your arms are huge.”  That shit feels great and to be honest, I focused on full body workouts for the first month, so there was minimal isolation exercises.

I haven’t actually lost weight through this either.  I went up to 256 pounds and as of this last two weeks, I am at 248.  My diet consisted of mostly proteins and veggies.  Lots of eggs, bacon, asparagus, zucchini, mushrooms, avocado, chicken, beef, pork, etc. I had more veggies than Victor recommends for fatties, and I did imbibe on occasion during the month, however, I am more than pleased with the results.

To illustrate some of the gains I’ve made, we’ll have to extend our time reference to 2 months.  At the end of March I switched up my routine from the beginner routine in Body of a Spartan, to the intermediate.  Although I have not been able to lock in a 6-day a week routine, I just augmented my workouts to include more exercises.  I’ve been doing that for the past three weeks.

My first day in the gym, I was dead lifting 135 and struggling for reps.  I was squatting the same and for even less reps.  My bench was pathetic.  I was curling a 40lb bar.  Now, I knew I was going to struggle, and to check what ego I could muster at the door, however, I was not prepared for the gains that were coming my way.

“If you fuck it up and lift like a pussy you’ll never get the opportunity again.”

That is what I kept telling myself.  “Hey Rojo, this is your body calling.  I’m totally sore from you abusing me in the gym, and trying to choke myself during sleep. Let’s skip the gym this morning, you can hit it tomorrow.”  “Hey Rojo, don’t bother adding more weight there, you should conserve your energy so you can perform better at work.”  “Hey Rojo, you don’t need to hit the gym this Saturday night, you can go out with some friends and have a good time instead.”

“If you fuck it up and lift like a pussy you’ll never get the opportunity again.”

It’s like running.  I seriously believe that it is 90% mental.  When I go running there’s always this voice trying to tell me I can’t keep going, or I am too tired, winded, weak.  It’s only after I have screamed at that voice inside my head a million times in the span of a few minutes that I can push through and carry on.  The difference in relation to lifting weights is similar, but I know that strength does have big part in it.

Yesterday evening, I hit a new personal best for dead lift.  My one rep max is now 315.  Yes, you read that correctly, I went from struggling with 135, to 315 in the span of about 2 months.  I am more than pleased.  I am squatting 245 as a one rep max, and am working on increasing that as well.  When I go to bed I picture what my workout is going to be the next morning.  All of it goes through my head, the weights, the movement, the exercises, the rest time.   Yet, when I get under the weight, or attempt to bring it up, I am always surprised by how heavy it is.

My one qualm with Victor’s guide has to do with form.  I can look at the pictures, and he tells you what muscles to contract at which points in the lift, but I found my self searching google for proper form for some of the lifts.  If anything, this drove me to be more motivated in my search for direction in the realm of lifting weights.

I also want to comment on what a mood changer lifting is for me.  Things at work have been more than infuriating lately and I will probably post on that in the future.  I get reamed at work, get pissed off, angry, and then I head straight to the gym.  The head change that occurs is better than anything I have tried, and I’ve done most under then sun.  I plan on sticking this out the long haul to keep improving my physical fitness.  The compounded interest it has on my own mental state is just a bonus, and one I am ever thankful for.

I pick shit up and put it down.

A Tale of Two Titties*

The speakers on the back patio at one of my favorite dives was blasting hits of the 90’s.  I was people watching, barely participating in the conversation with the group of girls I had opened.  Inebriation had been reached accordingly, downing one PBR tall can after another.  The girls weren’t very good looking, but due to my b.a.c.  I was quite content.  I was about to light up another stotch, when my friend came stumbling out of the bar. His hackles were raised resembling the way my dog reacts to unknown creatures in the night.

This is a whole different story

This is a whole different story

He sat down and started slurring out a story.  His woes began when he walked up to the bar to get another beer and was positioned right between a cougar and a fat chick.   The cougar took an instant liking to my friend, pawing, being wrinkled and trying to get his attention.  The fatty and cougar were in cahoots.  Like two vultures waiting for the carcass to stop breathing, they circled my friend, feeding him drink after drink.  It was probably around three in all reality.

My friend said he knew he had imbibed a bit too much so he decided bring his head up for a breath of air, reeling against the uncertainty of his balance in response to the impending gravity.  His reprieve was brief for as soon as he wiped the fog off his beer goggles another fatty had him pinned against the wall.  She grabbed his beard and pulled, smiled up at him.  “You’re Irish, you’re cute, I like you.”  The manatee groped at him with her sausage like flippers.  She grabbed his dick.  Fortunately for my friend, she was too short to get her face up to his for some salami flavored face sucking.    Apparently, oompa-loompa grew tired of his drunken master styled deflection and shambled off to other pursuits allowing my friend a hasty escape.

Hey Baby.

That poor bastard was so upset.  I tried to make light of it, saying, well you still got it ol’ chap, but he denied any positives in light of this one, stomach turning fact:  He said when she rubbed his flaccid member, it moved.  He almost hurled his fermented hops right then and there.

The chicks had picked up on the laughable exchange and started to ask him questions.  Was she cute?  Did you like her?  Why are you so upset?  What’s wrong with you?

Choking down a vurp, he muttered, “but she groped me.”

“So what, she liked you, she was just trying to show you some love.  You’re such a hater.”

And with that final remark, my friend did the unspeakable.  He wandered into territory that could have landed him in jail, or worse.  The dastardly terrain he began to trek, similar to Will Navidson discovering the Five and Half minute hallway,  would possibly necessitate him to say things in a similar vein as “Megan’s law requires me to inform you…”

He reached out towards the bimbo berating him for denying the advances of the recently spurned barrel with arms.  The contempt welling up in his glassy eyes was palpable.  I knew where this was going.  In one fell swoop, he reached, grabbed the sweater puppet of that beezy, gave it a squeeze and pulled his defiant claw away.  She squealed with indignation.

“You perverted bastard,  you filthy pig.  How dare you?. You’re a piece of shit, you can’t do that to a girl.”

And on and on.

I still don’t think they understood his point.

*This post was only about one titty.