Big Movement and Another Dumb Masterpiece

A curious case of moving ten hours away has suddenly come over me. I've decided to move to Portland on Oct. 1st, along with a gaggle of close friends. I vacationed there recently and found myself thinking about the move in the midst of the fun I was having. I almost couldn't have fun with all the fun about me because despite the fun-ness, I was always contemplating and weighing the emotional and financial stress it would cause. I, however, realized rather quickly that these factors were null and void (despite the added manic-depressive bonus of the visit being effectively sandwiched by San Francisco and Fort Wayne, my two true places to hang my hat, my awesome hat that holds reign over my lion's mane) in the face of a new adventure. Something to truly rescue me from the soup. Something like half of my friends finally living in the same city again! Quite the anomaly for a group of my friends, really. All of them actually wanting to see each other once in a while, I mean, let alone living in the same place. I blame myself for being so damn clever and handsome. The attraction to me is, in fact, so strong that it has an inverse effect on others' reactions, causing them to flee in terror from my antics. Just kidding. If you really know me, I blame everything on everyone else. Even after the recent earthquakes and floods I managed to carry around an "It wasn't me. I didn't do it." kind of attitude.
Moving on...
This is totally going to cause my wallet to collapse into black hole status. If anyone has a way for me to make quick money, short of murdering someone (well...), then give me a heads-up. You'd think that being repeatedly called a "pimp" throughout high school would open up brand new vistas of career opportunites. Especially in the pimping field. Nowadays, you have to have a couple of degrees and a heap of pro bono work under your belt (under your belt? really? like in your pants? I never got that) and recommendations, community service, internships, socks, you absolutely have to have new socks, haircuts, multiple haircuts, a photo album, a swiss army knife, the ability to recite Murphy's Law under pressure and more haircuts. Oh, and gel for your haircut. All for a job. A pimping job. I'm not even sure I know exactly what a pimping job entails. I think it's something like what I did on the previous article. You know, my butt making noises on the bus and all that. In fact, I would go so far as to say that this blog is pimping. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you are witnessing literary pimping. What if I were to tell you that you could do this, too? All it takes is a hangover, a scatterbrained personality, and underwear to sit around in (there's enough right there to ensure bachelorhood for another few years). Then, just let the magic happen. I just wave my bookish wand (yet another nickname bestowed upon me at the bars, in addition to "fat cobra" and others; thank you young ladies) and ShazAmmm! Another dumb masterpiece!
But, oh yeah, I was going to say that I need money. There's only one option left. I think it's ultra-obvious and obviously a potential hit. Obviously.
Kissing booth! Step right up and taste the Extra Polar Ice! Your soft, moist lips against the barren, Arrakis-like desert planet that is my mouth. I can see it all now. The smell of Jamieson thick in the air and the sounds of quarters dropping into an old coffee tin with a spaceman or something else stupid drawn on the side. The women lined up around the block. One of those big New York city blocks, too. The satisfied customers staggering away, crying "sweet awkwardness, why must this end? He totally kept his eyes open the whole time!", only to end up right back in line. Now this is all I'll be able to think about all day. I blame you, the reader. Asshole.
Needless to say, I'm very excited about this move, as many barriers were broken for me over the course of the week I was there. This, of course, was all aided by alcohol and it's watchful gaze over me, but I couldn't very well do this anywhere else besides Portland. I might even meet people my own age in Portland. Probably not.
I'm sorry it took so long to get something new up, but I have many new ones "in the works". One about my pale skin and the problems it imposes upon me and one about "woman troubles". Weird.

Almost always sincerely,
Craig.


P.S. I would just like to note that when I made reference to my "lion's mane", I originally mistyped and it appeared as such: loin's mane
I thought this was pretty funny but couldn't bear to detach the reader from my obviously seriously, importantly, super-serious heart-stabbing-with-a-sharp-object-that-is-smaller-than-a-knife-but-still-hurts-really-fucking-bad post.
So I went ahead and corrected it, but made a note to let you all know. I'm sooooooo glad I did.