When all is said and done, I guess I'm glad to be back home, back in the land of the Roast. Seriously, Pork Roast, Pot Roast, Rump Roast; my mom is on a serious Roast bender.

The trauma of moving is finally over, which means that all my stuff is still in boxes, but now it's only in one place. So far I've had some luck fitting it all into my room, the basement, and my sister's room. I know I'm still going to be trashing, selling, and condensing things for weeks though.

Funny side note on my sister's room. Once I had decided to move back home, we had to take the fold out couch out of my room (converted into a guest room). I really can't figure out why my room became the guest room only two months after I moved away when my sister hadn't lived in her room for FIVE YEARS. What the hell?! I guess I always wondered about that, but Chris was the one who pointed it out.

I'm sure many of you have tried calling your own house in order to check your answering machine. Have you ever wondered, knowing that you're not home, how freaked out you would be if someone answered the phone?

I was having a conversation with Andy today and he made a joke about inflatable women. I laughed, but on the inside I shuddered. The honest truth is... inflatable women scare the living shit out of me.

If you haven't seen one, just imagine a life sized ventriloquist dummy that looks like it's about to hurl. Dosen't just picturing that make your skin crawl?

I've seen one once. I had stopped in an adult video store to ask for directions to the church. I just turned around and there it was. I wish I could say it didn't phase me, but I freaked the hell out. I staggered backwards with a look of horror on my face (kind of like the look on the doll). Suddenly I felt dirty and nauseous. It not only made me feel bad about being in an adult video store, it made me feel bad about sex in general. I left the store as quickly as I could.

I will forever carry the scars with me.

Today I called my health insurance company to let them know I was moving. They told me that by moving to New Hampshire my insurance payment will now be $100 less. This further proves my theory that living in Massachusetts is hazardous to your health.

Today someone told me that I have a good look for comedy. Um... thanks... I think.

I'm a materialist. I often find spiritual comfort in my scads of cool shit. The down side to this is that moving is always a bitch.

In retrospect, I should have rented a U-Haul truck. Transporting my life between Waltham and Manchester is all the more difficult as we make several slow trips with my van and my parent's van. Right now I'm spread across two states and it wreaking havoc on my feung-shui. I've got boxes piled in my room and I can't unpack them yet because I still have more crap to fit in there. I've tried to thin out my possessions to make room for the new stuff, but after hours of sorting I've only managed to throw out a casette tape and two 2003 calendars.

Right now it does, in fact, feel like a step backwards. I feel like I've left the womb, and now I'm going back in, and I'm bringing a bookcase, computer desk, and several boxes back with me.

Anyway, a shout-out to Charlie for pointing me in the right direction for putting comments on my page. I'll put up a link to your blog as soon as I'm back on my own computer.

Buying the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue has always been something of an ordeal for me. I happen to be one of those insecure losers who worries that everyone in the checkout line will think I’m some kind of pervert. Suddenly I feel like the only man in the world who buys this magazine. The slightest glance from others feels like an accusing stare that says, “I know you’re going to go home and do dirty things with that magazine, and then you’re going to worship Satan!”

OK, I’m exaggerating, but I do feel kind of guilty when I buy it.

Today I went to the drugstore for a single item. My knuckles had been dry and chapped and every time I knocked on a door, I wanted to cry out in pain. It was even worse after I cleaned my apartment yesterday morning. I had just run out of the tiny sample tube of Curve Hand Moisturizer that my sister had given me last year, so I went to the drugstore for more hand lotion.

I picked up a medium sized bottle of the cheapest brand and headed to the checkout line. On my way, I noticed the Swimsuit Issue on the magazine rack. I looked around; no children around, no young, attractive women at the checkout counter; it was safe to get it.

I got in line behind two other people and waited. Suddenly, my paranoia addled brain caught up with me. “Hey, pervert! What are you going to do with the Swimsuit Issue and a bottle of hand lotion? He he he.”

I nearly jumped out of line, like some action movie star leaping out of the path of a speeding car. I was going to put the hand lotion back, but my hands were in desperate need of moisturizing. I thought about putting the magazine back, but then I came to my senses. “Stop being a wussy. Just get the damn magazine.”

Suddenly I felt guilt free about buying the magazine, but the magazine and the lotion together was still pretty sketchy. I wandered back through the store and began picking up random items to add to my purchase; hoping to draw the cashier’s attention away from these two potentially naughty products.

In the end, I bought the Swimsuit Issue, hand lotion, a loaf of bread, a box of Q-Tips, a pack of sticky notes, and a red dry erase marker.

I've finally added comments to my blog. You must have JavaScript and popups enabled to leave a comment. Please use them freely, I'm a lonely lonely man.

I wish I could say I hadn’t intended to go on stage tonight. I wish I could say that I’m such a good comedian that I just pulled one of my best sets so far directly out of my ass. That wouldn’t be true. I had my notes in my jacket. I knew that Rich, the guy hosting the show and kind of my comic mentor, would ask if I wanted to go on, even if it was late. I also knew that I might not have many more chances to do a Wednesday night show in Dorchester if I moved to New Hampshire.

Have I mentioned on this blog that I’m a comedian? Well, not a professional, strictly amateur. Of course, I’ve been unemployed for three weeks and all I’ve done is play Nintendo and do stand up comedy, I guess it’s kind of my job at the moment. A non-paying job. Just like my last one.

I haven't combed my hair in four days.

Don't get me wrong, I'm clean, I still bathe daily. But looking into the mirror today I realized that my hair was free as a bird. It curled and sprouted in a multitude of directions. I had stepped out of four days worth of showers and not once tamed my hair afterwards. It had almost become its' own being, going wherever it wanted and doing whatever it wanted, despite the rest of my head.

There just hasn't been any reason to comb it. I haven't gone out anywhere. All I'll I've been doing for the past week is make calls and send out resumes. I'm begining to wonder why I even get dressed in the morning. I could easily be networking in my underwear. Hell, I could be naked right now. But, it's too cold.

I wish I could say my hair looks good like this, but it looks like a deflated soufle. I'm starting to look like one of the children in Mad Max: Beyond the Tunderdome, minus all the grease.

I have a doctor's appointment today, so I guess I'll comb it. Not that I'm trying to impress my doctor, but there's usually a hot receiptionist at the front desk.

I recently switched Hotmail accounts. The only reason I use Hotmail in the first place is as a “junk mail account.” You know, the address I give when I order stuff online. That way all of that company’s “affiliates” send their credit card offers to an address that I simply empty out every week.

That’s the catch with any company’s, “Privacy Policy.” They say whatever information you give them is kept private… and used only by that company or any “Trusted Partners.” Of course, “Trusted Partners,” are ANYONE who will pay them for your personal information. These "Trusted Partners," then send you ads and sell your info to any other company that will pay for it.

Blocking addresses won’t work because they create new accounts with various companies and use them only once before moving on to another. Blocking specific words in the title won’t work because they butcher the language and misspell everything so you can’t block them. AAARG!

But this time I started fresh, and so far things are OK. I actually created a new account and deleted my old one. If you listen closely, you can hear the weeping of 3 million penis-enlarger salesmen.

Things were getting weird towards the end there. They used the subject headings to trick me into reading them. I started getting letters whose subject was something like, “Where were you on Monday?” Then I’d open the letter. Porn. And others like, “Important message from your credit card company!” Porn.

After a while they dropped the misleading subjects and just laid it all out. I got letters like, “Nancy gets Nookie from an Ardvark,” “Suzy Screws a Rodeo Cowboy,” and one of my favorites, “Check out Brad’s New Boobs!”

One of the last letters I got before I closed the account said, “Beautiful Women Keep Their Clothes on and Have a Meaningful Conversation!” Out of curiosity, I opened it up. Porn.

I should have known it was Valentine’s Day. I was wondering why I felt so shitty. I thought I had some bad nachos or something.

I keep telling myself that I shouldn’t sit here stewing in my apartment, but going out is worse. I went to the video store and I counted 37 happy couples along the way. Rotten bastards.

I know I should go out and try and meet people, but where? I’m open to suggestions. I could go to a bar and nurse my bitter beer while I watch some sport that I couldn’t give a fuck about. I could cruise the mall for jailbait. I could stand outside of McDonalds with a paper cup and a cardboard sign, “Need to Meet New People!” Wow, I have so many options. Besides, I’m moving soon. What good would it do to meet new people then move away a week later?

And of course whatever that vibrating thing upstairs is, it’s been going almost all day long.

I’m sorry if I seem a little distraught, two dear friends of mine just broke off a long, seemingly happy relationship. I was so certain that they were perfect for each other, but they just decided to call it quits, right out of the blue.

I supposed I might have missed some of the signs that are so obvious now. She loved her work, she probably loved it more than she loved him. He was always kind of tagging along, following her lead. He didn’t ever really get to be his own man, but he did it to make her happy, and that made him happy. You just couldn’t see past the smiles when they were together. You almost felt like something weird was going on, but they just looked like they were enjoying themselves.

I was so emotionally shaken by the announcement that I had to confront them about it. I sat them both down and said, “Look, Ken, Barbie… What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re both toys! You can’t break up with each other, you’re two pieces of plastic! That’s like the dish-rack breaking up with the garbage can, it doesn’t make any fucking sense!”

But they just looked at me and smiled. Barbie went out that night. Rumor has it that she already hooked up with an Australian surfer. I hope all her coworkers at the office, clinic, studio, theater, and school find out what a slut she is.

I felt bad for Ken, so I took him out to the bar that night. When we walked in and took a good look at the crowd, Ken leaned over to me and said, “Dude, if I had a penis, I would bang every chick in this room.”

What has this world come to?

It’s been over two weeks now since I left my job. Things look pretty optimistic and a new job may be on the horizon, but I still kind of like being unemployed.

Two weeks ago I was asking myself questions like, “Are my designs good enough? Will they hire me full time? Will I be able to afford health insurance?”

Yesterday the only questions I asked myself was, “Have I brushed my teeth yet today?”

Let’s look through the help wanted ads today, shall we?

Assistant Snow Removal Supervisor

“OK, now tell them they’re doing a good job and to keep shoveling.”

Dance & Cheerleading Instructor

YES! Sign me up!

Buyer Wanted

That’s me all over!

Store Floater

Employees please remember to flush.

Press Brake Operator – for production work. Must be able to read simple prints. Set-up experience a plus.

“Let’s see, set up. Place foot on pedal, then press brake. I can do that!”

Amanda Punch Press Operators – 1st & 2nd shift. 1 yr experience a must.

“What did Amanda ever do to you?”

Full time position – working 1:1 with a young woman with challenging behavior. Experience helpful.

“I can handle challenging. I’ll bet I can kick her ass at chess.”

Reconditioner wanted. Exper. Pref’d. full time. Salary negotiable.

“The fan on my air conditioner broke, now it’s a reconditioner.”

Sewer – Experienced sewer wanted for varied and interesting work.

“I’ll bet you take a lot of shit as a Sewer.

Hospitality Sales

“Personally, I specialize in hostility sales. Now buy something, bitch!”

LNA and MNA training as well as openings for RN, LPN and MA.

Umm.... wtf?

We need you, we want you, we’ll pay you! No nights no weekends, earn $10-12/hr. + tips. $150 hiring bonus.

This is how I ask a girl out.

Fish Cutter – PT Pay up to $20 per hr. Mon-Fri. Exp & Skill a plus.

“My lifelong dream come true!”

Last night I made the world’s best non-dairy shrimp scampi in angel hair pasta. I’m usually a modest person, but tonight the world can just kiss my ass because I made the best meal ever. If I had made more, I could have used it to end wars. Just sit the world leaders down at a big round table and serve them my awesome shrimp scampi, and viola! They’d be laughing, and telling jokes and stories over dinner. And no one would ruin the mood by being gassy, because it’s non-dairy, baby!

Of course, such a masterpiece came at a price. I made a total mess. I had to wash the dishes that I used in order to use them again. The sink is piled high with ten times more dishes than the recipe called for using. I know why I used two plates, but I can’t remember why I used the other three. The counter is covered in globs and powder, it looks like a model train table. I just got done mopping the floor, that’s how messy it was.

But it was worth it.

I'm sure that playing the PC video game "Call of Duty," on the harder difficulty levels is fun for some people. I'm sure that there are some people out there who wonder what World War II would have been like if the Germans never missed a single shot, had somehow built up a resistance to ammunition, and they were only interested in killing just you.

Don't get me wrong, it's an excellent game on the lower difficulty levels, and I do like a challenge. But, when you turn the corner and you see Fritz down the hall fill you with thirty bullets before you can complete the "Point" phase of "Point and Shoot," then it just stops being fun.

I suppose it's easy to say that's how real war was. However, I would never assume to guess the horrors of war, or compare it to anything I know. I wouldn't be one to say that playing a game even gives any indication of what war is like. Trying to play Call of Duty on the hardest difficulty level is really nothing like real war. It's just simply irritating.

It bothers me that I'm lactose intolerant... again.

Back when I was ten or so I was declared lactose intolerant by my doctor. This deprived me of all the wonders of dairy products throughout my youth, unless they were pseudo-dairy (goat cheese, tofu ice cream, etc.) or immediately preceeded by "Lactaid" pills. After several years, when my periodic stomach problems showed no major improvement, I was actually physically tested for lactose intolerance. The results were negative; my body was apparently producing all the enzymes it needed to.

I felt betrayed. I felt deprived. I felt a huge fucking urge for a pizza.

This time it's self-diagnosed. I've been reading several different books on gastrointestinal disorders, you know, "Me and My Colon," "Being One With Your Bowels," and whatnot. More importantly, I've been studying my diet very carefully the last few weeks and I see a solid pattern.

So far it's been working. I'm noticing a slight improvement already. The hard part is reading the ingredients on EVERYTHING to see if it has any kind of milk in it. I'm finding it in weird things too, like Nutri-Grain Bars and Animal Crackers.

I think as long as I eat smart, I should be able to get a handle on my stomach problems. Of course, I've never been one to do anything, "Smart."

Something about my parents' house causes me to build up incredible amounts of static electricity when I move. I had reached the point where by moving a few feet across the living room, I had built up enough static to short circut a phone.

I kid you not. I touched the phone, it shocked the living hell out of me, and then it stopped working. I had to run upstairs and get another phone. Afterwards, my dad informed me that the phone did, in fact, short out from time to time because of static electricity.

That should be the first sign that something is wrong, when my body is producing enough electricity to destroy household appliances.

Also, my mother was getting upset that I yelled, "Ow! Motherfucker!" every time I turned on a light switch.