Primal Scream!

I’ve been telling her for three and a half years now. Not directly. We men save direct for car salesmen and strippers. No, I’ve been telling her passively, aggressively, don’t cut your hair short.

She cut it Friday.

99% of me has no problem with it, it complements her round features, her almond eyes. But she disobeyed an indirect order, and there’s a part of me, 1% to be exact, that is enraged at her insolence.

I’m as far from a manly man than you can get. I cry, love Pixar movies, bawled when I watched The Notebook (Damn that Nicholas Sparks!). I don’t drink and have very few guy friends. In general, I shake my head at the male gender, but this is a violation against something primal, something raw.

I said no.

Of course rather than express it, release the rage, and process it in a healthy, productive manner, I want to punish her, shut down, make snide comments, and deny her affection. Sing along guys, you know the words!

She brought the castrated hair home, wrapped in elastic, to donate to cancer kids. Cancer Kids! Now what kind of fuckbucket complains about his GF cutting her hair when one, she absolutely loves it, and two, it helps dying kids?

This kind of fuckbucket.

Maybe I should re-grow my mullet, all business up front with a party in the back.

Agent R

There is something wrong with me. No one is up in arms over this statement, I'm sure, but now more than ever I know it to be true. After more than three years of hoping, dreaming, and working for my dream to become a reality, I'm one giant hurdle closer.

Last Monday I signed and dated a one year contract to have my memoir represented by the Pratt Literary Group. It came with a letter of congratulations. I'm on their site as an active project, along with a bio.

My name in lights, so to speak.

Then why do I feel numb?

Part of it has to do with the fact that, other than my super supportive GF, I had no one to tell. The reason my memoir is attractive to agents, and hopefully publishers, is because of the extraordinary circumstances that has lead to Christmas being just another day, and Thanksgiving a time to be grateful for the fact that there is no Thanksgiving.

It's like an atom bomb blew my family to pieces, leaving shards strewn across two states. Dad lives with grandma. My brother's back inside. And my half sister lives in NH. We haven't been in the same room together in I don't know how long.

My agent asked me what my vision was for the book. I promptly answered, "To use it as a tool. To travel around to high schools and give talks, maybe reach a student like me, and let them know that change is optional: here are your options."

Technology Sucks!

My F'ing Playstation 3 crashed. AGAIN! Sunday I switched it on, prepared to sacrifice a few brain cells carjacking Corvettes and beating up hookers playing GTA 4 when a message appeared. I knew instantly what it was, it happened a year ago, almost to the exact day. "Hard drive has been compromised and needs to be rebuilt. Rebuild now?" And the friendly OK glowed like a beacon. Only when I pressed it, it just rebooted the system and brought me back to the same message over and over again. No GTA 4, no Corvettes, no hookers.

Shit!

So I called Playstation and they informed it will cost me $150 to fix. "But this is the second time it's happened, I barely got a year out of this new one you sent me."

"Sorry, the warranty is expired." The customer service rep said.

That's where Rachel grabbed the phone.

I snickered, thinking, you're in trouble now, dude.

She took the diplomatic route, bulleting the particulars:

• Only a year old.
• This happened to us once already.
• Boyfriend takes impeccable care of said device. (I didn't even take the plastic off the top, it kept the dust off the console and was easier to clean).
• He doesn't download off the Internet, pirate games, or play burned CD's in it.
  

She met with what I can only assume was false sympathy because she asked for a supervisor. Things went from bad to worse.

He essentially accused us for the meltdown siting the unlikelihood that the problem could happen to the same person twice, a rarity according to Mr. Supervisor.

So she tried logic, "Could you give me some examples of how a hard drive could be compromised? I mean, we live by the ocean, is it the salt air, the dust, humidity? I mean if it is our fault I'd like to know how we can prevent it from happening again so our $150 investment isn't wasted."

He offered some crap explanation about getting regular updates online, which I got, but essentially we're screwed.



After the crushing disappointment of knowing there was no other recourse, I added insult to injury. Online were numerous blog posts and forums that described the same problem happening to others, like me, just wanting to shoot some drug dealers.



I'm angry, of course, but mostly disappointed. I hate feeling helpless. PlayStation should be ashamed of themselves. Even car manufacturers recall faulty vehicles regardless of the expense. Maybe there's more at stake being behind the wheel of a improperly built car, maybe I should start carjacking or beating down hookers, that might get PlayStation to do the right thing.