Anti abandons the internet.

it's finally over, thank fucking god.

Thursday, July 31, 2003

string cheese is my favorite food. i like all food that's easy. but i never tried go-gurt. i'd rather eat a rice krispy treat anyways.

i don't eat the string cheese all stringed out, and that bothers people i know for some reason. i eat it like you'd eat a banana, or snickers bar.
fascinating, isn't it?

i think reggae should be spelled raygay. and sometimes, if i've been walking around too much, i get jealous of the handicapped people i see in whell chairs. because i'm so fucking lazy, i can barely handle ordering myself a pizza. i mean... the phones way over THERE anyways... what am i? a marathon runner?!

will someone please call 310-546-5833 and order me this pizza, and charge it to their credit card? email me for my address

until then... i'm gonna sit here and be disturbed of how short my hair got cut, and watch it grow...

there i was, in santa monica...

the mission? sit and watch "Shrink Rap" the movie because our friend, la loca, was in it. her character got the-guy-obsessed-with-blowjobs's pubic hair caught in her tounge piercing. awesome. that pic is from later in the movie when that-bj-guy actually has vaginal sex. it was a funny assed movie.

then we ate sushi across the street with la loca. oh yeah, and la loca is like married to wee-man or something. now you know.

i'd write more for you blog-thirsty vultures out there... but i'm too busy fantasizing about some chocolate milk from the fridge. never let me know you have chocolate milk in your house, i will drink from the carton without shame. bank on it.

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

this is the vincent thomas bridge. they filmed charlies angel's here and like umm....

gone in 60 seconds, and like, other shit prolly too...

BUT my point is. well i have no point. i just drive on the same bridge and like "whoop-tee-frigggin-doo" man. noone cares. not even me.

and like the worst part of this shitty bridge is that it's almost always got a million big ass 18-wheelers all over it, and one end of the bridge is in san fucking pedro, and one end is on terminal island.

terminal island always reminded me of the name of a place that should have a prison on it. like rikers island. then maybe it'd be coolio. i hate the Los Angeles harbor area. but then again, i hate everything.

and i'm finding it hard not to get busted picking my nose while i drive. it's my favorite thing to do while i drive besides smoke cigarettes or bite my nails. can't people mind their own friggin business, like what... i'm not supposed to do as i please in the "land of the free"? they better just be glad that i'm not flicking that shit on their car, and like, sometimes, they should be mad that i DID. die yuppy scum.

know what torture is? i do, man. check this shit out:

#18. a home has 1,750 square feet of living space plus a garage of 450 square feet. The cost of the living space is $65 per square foot and the cost of the garage is $25 per square foot. The location multiplier is 1.04. The house is 25 years old but has an effective age of 18 years. The total economic life of the property is 60 years. The lot value is $75,000. What is the appraised value of the property using the cost approach to appraisal?
(A) $166,000;
(B) $162,500;
(C) $150,833;
(D) $91,0000.

like seriously... i'd rather have my toenails ripped off with rusty tweezers, or have my nipples sliced off with an exacto knife... ANYTHING BUT MATH!!!!!
and math WORD problems?!?!?!?! thank god appraisers don't have to go to REAL college, i can barely handle this shit as it is...

oh and i think i'm gonna live by the beach again afterall. because hollywierd will be too far from work,
and san peeeedro? living in san pedro makes me feel like i do when i'm doing math.

Sunday, July 27, 2003

my cell phone is BACK. it's been a delincquent account for months now, and having it back is like having my nuts re-attatched. pay phones are annoying as all holy fuck.

now the picking-up-of-the-pieces and a lot of the putting-back-together stuff are just starting to gel. now re-secure my income... that's like easy as hell though. no sweat.

it's the finding a new place to live part that i hate. and that i am "looking for my new place" all the damn time. and i'll have to use some shit like this... or the breeze

now i think i'm gonna go shower, like for a long time. if ya know what i mean, short-stack...

i know these people by the way.

Friday, July 25, 2003

so man. my arm is feeling shitloads better, almost normal. and things are looking up except that i have bad luck like a curse of death over my head.

like today... i go to the bank to handle my shit, and the older-than-dust lady who has been my teller since forever needs my id. that's when i realized that 1. she has lost her mind. and 2. my ID is so totally lost.

so i go thru hell, rattle sleeping people awake out of their comas to search their couch cusions, and other people to pick up everything off their floor, all to no avail. this shit was really fucking lost. like forever lost.

so in a last ditch effort i try the random gas station i bought parliment lights at (buy one get one free), i found it. they had everything too, cuz i keep my wallet in a tiny little plastic business card holder thing, and cash just gets crumpled into balls all over my pockets. they had my Social Security card, my credit card, my AAA card, even my godamned costco card.

so great, right? i can show that idiot teller at the bank how retarded she is, right? well, i didn't even get the old-sea-hag, i got the overweight darkhaired one. and yap, lucky me. the computers "magically" shut down, and all operation ceases. like my bad luck even has a magnetic field in case i come close to getting anything done. like, "oooh shit, he's about to pull it off!" and pow. my whole day wasted.


how i went to get a haircut today, and the chick totally ignored everything i told her. she's all, "do you wanna shampoo...?" i tell her no. so she leads me to the shampoo hair sink-things, i let her wash my hair, like... what's it really matter? then i told her what i wanted... "please just clean it up slightly, but don't make it all short, and don't cut the top at ALL" so she starts cutting the top first. and cut it all short. and cleaned it up, yeah, i guesss...... but more like butchered me to death.

so i did manage to get one thing done. make sure by the end of the day i looked as much like a retard as i felt.

i'm not even gonna talk about the computer issues. dail up on someone's ancient monster-pile-of-dog-puke-computer, nuff said? i can take a shower, a crap, and a cup of joe (not in that order) before anything loads at all. so it sucks when i use up all my little kill time tasks. i can only take SOOOOO many showers/craps/coffees before i go bonk my head against walls with delirium.

Wednesday, July 23, 2003

my arm still huurts... it's getting slightly better. i'm gonna get a free x-ray, maybe, from the chiropracter that wee man goes to. unless it just goes away on it's own. that's more my style anyways. to just let it disapear

i still can't drive... and it's officially haircut time. i am feeling a little mullet-ish. shit needs help.

and anyone who rents "phone booth" is, like i am, a fool.

my arm needs rest already. done.

this is sorta my question to the world.

listen to whitey, either (1) get accupunture or some chiropracter to fix my disfunctioning shoulder,
or #B, get a injection like whitey's mom said
or lastly just keep popping alieve like it's candy???

please weigh in on this subject. this shit is wayyyy time-sensitive..

Tuesday, July 22, 2003

i drove for 19 hours straight. and my "bad" arm became my "useless" arm. i'm literally surviving off my mom's leftover painkillers and muscle relaxers... that and icey hot.

los angeles feels lonely. everyone's done good at moving on with their lives without me... but that suits me just fine. who needs 'em?

i need to shave, i have really bad BO, and i'm piss broke. so what else is new?

whitey got me high, and that was cool. my first time using a bong in WAY too long. i miss my old bong, it was a zong, with the spill-proof design. but i'm just happy to smoke any pot, any way i can.

raymi will be here soon too. as soon as i can fetch for her. this LA trip should be better for her this time, seeing as there will obviously be less police car rides for her. we're aiming for none ,time will tell

in the meantime i'm busy being a beard-farmer, getting my arm back to useable, and eating bowls of cocoa pebbles with my left hand. meh.

Sunday, July 13, 2003

dr. phil says, "people who get bored are boring..."

well dr. phil can doctor-fuck-himself. and so can anyone who has quoted that bald lonely hillbillie to my face. that human knows who they are. nuff said on that.

if i was just some person that knew me, i'd totally look up to me. i'm it. i can do everything, and do it better than everyone else. effortlessly.

like the data entry job i had outta highschool. i didn't even know how to type when i got that job. then i got so fast, and had such good audits that they recruited me from the swing shift to the awesome as hell day shift, and labled me the fastest hands in the west. but got paid less than co-workers who sssssucked, because, according to management, "they'd been there longer" Bullshit!

or when i was at the charthouse restaraunt, and i was too good at expo, so they promoted OTHER people to server because they NEEDED me to be the expo guy. if it wasn't me as expo they'd be fucked. (i strategically planned my resigning from that place the same day the other main expo guy went on vacation, HAHAHHAHAHHAHAHA.... sweet sweet revenge....)

or in my appraisal office where everyone had to come to ME for the answers they needed because only i would know. even trainees that had been there 5 times as long as me would ask for MY help and advice... because well, i rule. i work smarter not harder, and in the end i realize, it's a HUGE mistake.

being good at something sucks. it just means that now YOU are the person that has to do it everytime. or YOU are the person who'd gonna get dicked. or YOU are the guy that's gonna get harrassed with mundane questions you don't have time for. and then the minute your over-achiever-ass becomes aware of the plainly retarded world we live in, and take it down a notch, it's either too late and you're stuck, or you just have to abort entirely.

the only time i got to capatalize on being useless was when i worked for my dad. MAN... those were the days. it was in between getting disowned the forst time and getting disowned the second time, before he LOST his company. but it was tight. i'd show up late, hungover, do NOTHING all day except write my friends emails and post dribble in online message boards (a.k.a. looking busy), have my dad buy me lunch at some fancy shmancy restaruant, then take a nap in my truck maybe, and go home early. AWESOME. all while making the most money i had ever made up to that point.

appraisal eventually paid better, but whatever, i actually had to DO stuff for THAT gig.

tonight's my last night in canada. this american, no-- this californian, no wait-- this Los Angelino is on his way home. roll out the red carpet, windex the hollywood sign, and change your bong water... or at least take a shower stink-faces. and this time, i'm coming raise some hell, kick some ass,and take some fucking names. and if i still owe you money, "the checks in the mail." nuff fucking said.

Saturday, July 12, 2003

i took 4 solid years of woodshop in highschool. i know a LOT about furniture, how to biuld it, take it apart, and move it and shit like that. there wasn't a day in highschool that passed that didn't include deafening table saws, wood glue on my hands and clothes, and saw dust everywhere.

whup-tee-doo, right?

SOOOOO... as a result, when it's time to move shit around, i'm the resident expert. i'm the one that has to do the dirty work, and i'm the one who turns into a sweaty pile of know-how. like when we just moved this heavy ass wooden bed from one house to the other. two beds actually, no wait... it was three beds. it was the first one that was wood though.

and having a truck doesn't help the me-not-moving-other-peoples-shit-thing any at all.

"oh but anti, YOU have a truck, how fabulous!"
ummmm yeah. fabu-fuckin-lous, just what i thought too.

maybe sometimes it IS better to just ride the bus...

Wednesday, July 09, 2003

here i am looking a lot like a guido. there's enough hair gel in that slicked back mess that if i got too close to any sorta lighter or lit match, i'd blow up canada. the glasses don't help the mafia jokes either. fuck it right?

i'm going back to LA. i just can't ignore job opps that are offering up to $800 bucks a day. and i'm piss broke right now anyways.

real estate appraisal... i've missed you my friend.

now that i've already driven the distance once, i know what i'm up against. nebraska and iowa are LIVING HELL to drive through... nebraska alone feels like an eternity, and well, i slept thru iowa last time (thanks whitey), but this time i might be as lucky. but the rest is fun as fuck. still...

it would be so much easier/faster to just fly home and have my truck shipped. but what who am i... Scrooge McDuck? if i had a money bin like he did, i'd be swimming in my gold right now not writing on my faggy little blog.

by the way, blogs ARE gay. most are anyways. i ony started mine to try and be funny, and getting feedback was kinda cool. but needing feedback? that's totally lame, how weak is one's ego for chrissakes? i find it hard to believe anyone truly reads this trifle-ass of a blog, and i could care less. the only good shit i write anymore is done with paper and pens anyways. fuck a blog.

now imma go an smoke

Monday, July 07, 2003

the only sucky part about someone visiting you is feeling like you failed at showing them a good time, regardless of how much that visitor swears they enjoyed themselves. such is life.

jamie is the perfect house guest though. he's low maintenance, funny, and a dear friend. i'm so glad we all got to see terminator 3 as a team. by the way, that movie kicked some fucking ass, man. i already wanna see it again.

oh and we learned that in MY blog crew, i'm the mini put champion. (my score was -11)... it's all in the wrists... and watching too much happy gilmore...

my new ID came today. finally. the envelope came tore open, so i guess the canadian post office thought it was drugs, or anthrax, or maybe some sheets of acid... who knows? i bet they took photo copies of my extremely handsome drivers license picture, we all know how flattering those can be. i think it's funny how pissed off and annoyed i look in all my driver's license pics. fuck the DMV man...

Thursday, July 03, 2003

my cross country trip photo album

so i know the gods love me, it's true. they love me so much that this tree i park under like everyday... that NEVER has any birds in it... somehow gets a cool enough bird to magically appear... and hit the sweet spot.

great, thanks, perfect.

and the bird's shit was ONLY on my car's door handle, and yet... ALL over the handle. it's totally embarrassing too, cuz like... fuck man... it's like walking around with "fuckhead" written on my face... except it's driving, and has nothing to do with my face. ok it's not really embarrassing as much as it is annoying. or even maybe a sign. even if the sign is only telling me not to park under trees.

BAH! who gives a rats ass about my shitty luck anyways?

totally unrelated, and just as confusing:
i have no idea what this chick is talking about.
maybe cuz i don't speak icelandic.
but SHE linked me first, and she's hot. so what do i care?!
i just hope "pessi gaur er steik" isn't talking shit...
cuz if it is...
bring the ruckus blondie...
bring the fucking pain.

Tuesday, July 01, 2003

i'm not sure where i belong.

somewhere air conditioned is obvious.

i have my truck with me, my cigarettes on my person, and a fist full of change. that i know. knowing feels nice. it's something i get less of everyday. for shame.

it's nice to hear the word shit on tv and radio, and see tits on late nite television... but is that the end all be all?

i got my newly non-expired ID and the picture is cool... lucked out there.

not to get too zen on yall motherfuckers but, maybe, it's that where ever you go there you are type shit. maybe i need to find happiness within. maybe i'm feeling the buzz off this NyQuil.

and SHIT man, that stuff tastes like death. green death flavor. see you when i get outta this soon-to-happen coma.



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Tony Pierce