Apparently no one told you...

...But sex is a good time. No shit (and feel free to take that in more than one context, ya’ miserable deviants). Yep, fucking is pretty much the only reason that most men even bother getting out of bed in the morning. You could say that they wake up in order to go to work, but that’s just part of the trip. See, men work to support themselves, and having a place is part of supporting one’s self. Why? So we have somewhere to bring back the chicks who bought into our attempts at being charming and, thusly, plan to spread their legs while we grunt and sweat all over them for an hour or two.
Unfortunately, there are a great many issues that women, for whatever reason, seem to think merit not having sex. For those in a hurry, I’ll sum up this entire blog in one very simple statement: Unless your vagina is resembles some sort of hideous B-movie space alien, it’s a safe bet that we still wanna’ stick and stir you. For those of you who aren’t in a hurry, proceed below for...

Rem’s List Of Stupid Things Women Overreact To In The Bedroom

1. You forgot to shave your legs that day. So you forgot to pick up a new pack of Lady Bics on your way home from work last night and got a little stubbly. It’s not the end of the world. Honestly, unless you’re some kind of hippie scumcunt who found money under your pillow for a baby tooth more recently than you trimmed up, we don’t care.
2. You don’t think it’ll be special. Sex isn’t special. It isn’t some magic pagan ritual signifying the union of two hearts that beat only for each other, and honestly, every time you call it ’making love’, the world gets a little more gay. Make what? No, you fuck, and then the room smells weird because all you really made was a mess. I’ve used that line once before in my blogs, I know, but it fits. Put away the romance book, close your eyes, I’ll get a towel ready and we can get to work.
3. You have to be up early tomorrow. Ladies, there is absolutely no reason at all why this sentence shouldn’t be the best thing any man can hope to here. Sex isn’t always a long process. God blessed us with The Quickie for a reason; wham, bam, thank you ma’am, no I’m not cuddling because you’re not the only one who has to be up early tomorrow. Go to sleep.
4. You think we won’t respect you. Personally, I respect someone who doesn’t deny herself a good time a hell of a lot more than someone who turns it down for fear of some non-existent stigma that a woman who sleeps with a friend/a boyfriend/a husband/me is a sloptwat. Remember, no one likes a prude; we just pretend to until you put out and we mount our cumsoaked sheets on the wall as a tribute to our unerring tolerance for puritanical bullshit in the face of potential naked feel-good happy time.
5. You have morning breath. This is another one of those "We don’t give a shit" situations. Honestly, if you’re that concerned about it, keep a box of Tic Tacs by the bed and let’s start the day out right, damn it!
6. You have a headache. Well, my nad ache is worse, I guarantee it.
7. You’re on your period. Are you fucking kidding me? The other three and a half weeks of the month we swap spit, semen, sweat and God only knows how many germs in more capacities than even I’m comfortable thinking about, and you’re worried about a little blood getting on the sheets? Every time I hear this I wonder if there’s a way to tell someone to stop being a fucktard without hurting my chances of getting my cock wet. Seriously, have a little common sense.
8. You’re afraid the neighbors will hear. That’s funny, because I’m hoping the neighbors’ll here. The wife’s kind’a hot, and I’ve got a reputation to think about.
9. You’re afraid the children will hear. Though not something I’ve experienced personally due to the fact that all the single mothers I’ve had sex with came to my place and left their children with someone else, it does come up. Not to contaminate you with that nasty logic stuff, but it didn’t seem to bother you when you were horny and your partner’s cock was probably a quarter’s width away from little Timmy’s face as he was nestled snugly in your womb. Seriously, which do you think is worse: hearing the headboard hit the wall a few times, or staring in wide-eyed terror as your first introduction to the outside world keeps trying to hit you in the forehead and, upon failure, spits at you and leaves?
10. You’re still angry over an earlier dispute. Look, I understand grudges better than anyone, but what the hell? What’s the point in both of us being miserable because I didn’t like the toilet seat cover you thought made the bathroom so much prettier? Besides, when you get right down to it, when the hell else are you going to get a free pass to do so much damage? Have you ever once, in your entire life, heard a man complain because you left too many claw marks on his back? It’s the perfect solution to the domestic confrontation! You get to draw blood, I get to grudge fuck you, and both of us get our rocks off and feel better afterward.

In closing, I have absolutely nothing more to say. Good night, good luck, and good grief, put out a little more often!

I have a theory...

...Regarding my love life and the attendant disasters thereunto. While at one time I assumed that there was just something fundamentally wrong with me, I’ve since learned otherwise.
It’s your fault, you rotten bastards.
No, honestly. Every time the proverbial shit hits the fan as a result of my developing an interest in someone or vice versa, one of you shitheads ends up either A) finding a metaphorical long-term parking space for your genitals, B) having some life-altering epiphany that leads to finding a metaphorical long-term parking space for your genitals, or C) fucking someone so far out of your league that, were I not so miserable, I’d be tempted to give a standing ovation while screaming "Grand Slam!" at maximum volume.
Seriously, enough with stealing my love karma, folks. I ain’t gettin’ any younger.

Then again...

I know there was that whole jumpin’ the gun and assuming the worst about yet another woman who seemed genuinely interested in me thing earlier, thus dealing yet another blow to the possibility of ever bridging the gap between genders and ending the battle of the sexes once and for all, but y’know somethin’? It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia is a damn good show. I don’t think I’ve stopped laughing since I started watching it on Veoh two hours ago. Yup. All’s well again. Thanks, fictional television situation comedy!

...I am so gonna’ rot in Hell.

Okay, which one of you chuckleheads brought the voodoo doll?

So here’s a list of everything that’s happened to me today.

-Found out one of my grandmothers is dying.
-Found out I have a court date after all.
-Found out my brother is in jail. Again.
-Found out I can’t work at Circle K for at least a month because of a fucking computer error.
-Found out I got the job at Wal-Mart (whether this is good or bad I’m still trying to determine).
-Found out that if the two aforementioned jobs fall through, pretty much the only thing I’ll be able to do is work at Subway.

Oh, the best part? I’m pretty sure I got blown off. Again.

Psst, hey life. Fuck you.

Damn it, but I'm getting old...

Note: This blog has been obviously seamlessly edited to reflect certain changes in the state of things, as well as my m4d 1337 ever-increasing proficiency with HTML.

...And have thus begun to ponder the question that I’m convinced is what leads people into that ulcerated, xanax-dependent period of their lives called adulthood. Once upon a time, I was content to wake and bake, drop a cinnamon raisen begal into the toaster, slap a few dime-store slices of turkey on it, reach for my keys...and realize I had nothing better to do than plant my skinny ass on the couch and watch season 1 of Invader Zim on the idiot box because, let’s face it, nothing’s on TV at 2:00 PM anymore.
What now?
Well, in the immediate sense, now I feel like I’m incomplete because I don’t have a job. I’ve been psychologically kicking the shit out of myself because I’ve been in southern California for a whoppin’ week and a half and I’ve only had four interviews, and only have two scheduled for this week. What the fuck happened to me? Well, the answer’s fairly obvious. Scroll up if you’re too dense to figure it out. I grew up, and boy, does it suck. On the plus side, there’s all of the nifty shit that comes with being an adult.
Apparently, friends don’t set you up on dates, you don’t necessarily graduate from college before getting pegged with a lame-ass drug charge that disqualifies you for financial aid, and your cars still go through the same bullshit problems they did when you were fresh into eighteen. There are leases, electric bills, overdraft fees, credit card statements and permanent records (they do exist, only mine’s called a rap sheet). There are piss tests at every decent job to be had which, ironically, aren’t that common. There are bad dates in the rare event you can take enough time away from worrying your ass off about everything else to actually have one. There are friends you still think about but, when you run into them on the street, haven’t the foggiest notion who you are and if you’re lucky, the feeling’s mutual. Dental plans you dream about but can’t land a good enough job to pay for, medical insurance that doesn’t cover the damage of the assraping they deal you on a monthly basis, and social security that’s taken out of your check even though you’ll likely never see a dime of it because the assholes you didn’t bother voting for don’t give a dead rat’s testical about you. Cleaning the gutters, getting by, looking ahe--
Sorry, Irvine Welsh infected my brain with an overwhelming fear of getting older long before life did. Moving on...
Obviously, I’ve been overanalyzing the hell out of my existence, and so far the only thing I’ve got going for me is that I made it to California and have a marginal chance of being able to survive out here. Plus. My car is still in one piece after the trip. Plus. I’ve managed to party with a group without pissing every last one of them off (even though one of them made a snide comment about my shoes). Plus (minus the bitch who was one hundred percent all style and no substance). There’s a few people who’ve been blowing up my phone ever since I got out, namely Jenny, Scott and Stick. Even got a phone call from Will, and that never happens. Plus. The icing on the cake only indication that I'm still, in fact, living my own life as opposed to having taken over someone else's is that this chick got ahold of me who, I shit you not, may almost have as many geeky interests as I do, despite being the single most adorable female I’ve ever seen a bitch. Definate plus standard operating procedure.
I guess what I’m trying to get at is that getting older is always going to suck, no matter who you are. You could have a claim on every dollar in America, and getting on in years is still going to eat ass. There is, however, solace to be found in that even though aging sucks, life doesn’t necessarily have to. You can piss away the idea of a career, live in a low-class part of town, drive a car that’s almost as old as you are, and still find a few smiles here and there.
No matter who you are, what you do, who you know or don’t know, if you play your cards right, you can still make it and have time at the end of the day to curl up next to someone of your gender of choice, and pass out secure in the knowledge that the sun will more than likely rise tomorrow, and so will you.
Keep your chin up, people. Phoenix out.

The world abso-fucking-lutely did NOT need...

...Another Harold and Kumar movie. Honestly, if this turns into another shitty trilogy, I’m taking over the White House and declaring eugenics as a national policy.

Because the copyright's free.

Started out hard, born screamin' loud
I was a punk rock kid 'cause I loved the sound
Never cared too much for the quiet life
There's a world out there, wonders abound
A poor Indiana boy with a lust for more
Sight's on Vista, California, walked out the door
Thinkin' now that that I'm here, never look back
Don't matter if I hit it big, or drunk, passed out on the floor

(Chorus 1)
They say it's hard to make it out here
Fifty a week, just gettin' by
And y'know I miss my Indy people
Sometimes so bad I think I might just die
But then I look up at the Cali sun
Look side to side, left to right
Smile to ear to ear, got people here
I know it'll be alright

Wake up at 4AM, two hours of sleep
It's a mad world, I'm in so deep
Drug charge over my head, gotta' keep it clean
Gotta' P.O., gets his rocks off bein' a creep
Pay my dues and a pack of smokes
Hope whatever's left gets me to the show
A couple smilin' faces, hit the streets and roam
Trouble out here, get clear, no worries, I'll make it home

(Chorus 2)
It ain't so hard to make it out here
Fifty a week, it flies right by
Still miss my Indiana people
Got love that'll never die
'Cause I got that Cali sun
Got my crew on my left and right
Smile ear to ear, I made it here
I know it'll be alright

(Chorus 2)

Alright, alright
Y'know it's gonna' be just fine
Alright, alright
Y'know it's gonna' be just fine
Alright, alright
Y'know it's gonna' be just fine
Alright, alright
Y'know I'm gonna' be just fine

I Love You (Please Send Money)

So I'm in California, relatively no worse for the wear. It's fuckin' beautiful out here, if a little warm. The summer's gonna' be interesting, given my tendency toward not drinking water.
First and foremost, a lesson in irony. Hopeful youth leaves Indiana and all the people he loves there behind with a clean record, and arrives in California with a speeding ticket and pending U.S. District Court charge, the specifics of which I'm omitting for the sake of someone close to me. Granted, class A misdemeanors rarely culminate in anything but probation and fines, but federal involvement has got me massively spooked. After all, Uncle Sam is sneaky; who knows what he's packin' in those star-spangled shorts?
Legal difficulties aside, I've got an interview at a Starbucks tomorrow, a mental image that my brain flat refuses to form. Remmy Phoenix working at Starbucks. Can you say "Large, Tall or Vente, you pretentious yuppie fuck?", boys and girls? Because I imagine we'll find out soon enough if I can. Nah, it actually seems like a pretty decent job, as far as service gigs go. Now if someone would be so kind as to tell me exactly what the fuck a scone is, I think I'll be set.
Last, I'm broke. The speeding ticket cleaned out what little I hadn't spent on food, cigarettes, gas, and a bullet bracer that I had no one to tell me not to buy (shiny things be damned). It's cool, though; I'm pretty sure I'm still getting my disbursement from Ivy Tech. If that's the case, I'll be alright for at least a month or so. I guess the slim and skinny of it is that I'm alive, I'm not sleeping in my car, and most of all, I'm here in SoCal where I've dreamed of living since I was old enough to figure out that Pennywise kicks ass. Love at everyone who blew up my phone during the trip, and I still refuse to apologize for the message. I had to keep ya' a little worried, after all. Be good, folks. Phoenix out.