I'm Like, soooooo Content with Impending Doom Pt. 1

Barf (I always wanted to start a post like that; sometimes I do, mmmmmmmmjust not in writing). Another debilitating hangover and a bewildering case of "bar-pocket". Oooh, gather 'round, friends. Let's see what we have here. We've got a couple of bus passes, a Pilot G-2 pen, a pack of Extra Polar Ice gum, some change, camera with pictures on it that I don't remember taking, drawings of the Cassini-Huygens Probe on a cocktail napkin, more cocktail napkins (none of which have numbers written on them), fuck- more cocktail napkins, my glasses that have been welded back together twice in the past 3 years, a cut-out of a "Get Fuzzy" comic strip, my cell phone with an overabundance of text messages saying "where u at?" and voicemail messages that can be summed up with "Don't come back." or "Hope you have enough money to pay for what you did.", drawings of the Galileo Probe (RIP) on a cocktail napkin, a collection of state quarters, a copy of the warrant for my arrest, a Polaroid of Robin Williams and I doing lines of coke, and finally, a lightsaber. I totally made up a couple of those last ones, and I'm sure you guessed as much, but most of those can truly be found in Craig Phillips' pockets on any given morning-after-the-bar. These are helpful clues as I spend many-a-morning piecing together the previous night, trying to remember whose life I ruined or how much property damage I managed to rack up. And you absolutely have to be quick in this business, the business of documenting everything silly, making no money, and avoiding as best you can the involvement of your friends. This particular summer's morn, I feel totes dry and nasty, but not so much that I will pitch forward and projectile vomit. That hasn't happened in years. I feel pride in this and disgust at the same time. I cannot deny the advantages of the hangover, though. This heart-slowing, brain-numbing, gag-inducing (much like my sweet embrace, ladies in Ladytown, Pennsylvania) effect seems to facilitate passage through my synapses, allowing me to write comfortably about the stupid things I say around women and even speak freely about my overbite. The hangover also acts as a sort of catalyst in whatever part of my brain likes to rant about things apart from the subject that I'm addressing and whatever other part of my brain likes to make really, really dumb lists. Whatever those parts are called. Whatever. What I'm trying to convey is that it brings about a sort of brain-storm, like my 5th-grade teacher used to call it. Not hangovers, I mean, but thinking. My 5th-grade teacher wishes you to know that she does not condone drinking in excess or underage drinking or talking to your class about drinking, especially when you're a teacher of 5th-graders, or even being hungover without having anything to drink the night before. I apologize for that (especially that last one- a bit nonsensical, really), but she likes to sit with me in my room, about 3,000 miles from where she lives, and proofread my stuff. That is, I think she's still alive, maybe. Back to the other thing about the stuff I was writing about before. I do, in fact, wish very much that my brain would actually storm. My reasoning behind this is that there is actually some semblance of organization in a storm. More so than usually occurs in my brain. My brain-storm would make my art (I know, you're wondering what my art is... it's this stupid. Quit being so fucking insensitive) like a storm as well. That's right. My writing is like a storm. Making the news. Causing people to hide in basements or bathtubs, avoiding windows and other things made of glass. Tearing the tops off of houses. Picking up farm animals and placing them elsewhere. Displacing record numbers of families. Prompting people to chase my writing around in a van with cameras, like in that one movie. Anyway, brain-storming is not my forte, nor is cooking anything besides pasta dishes. Once again, you're shit-out-of-luck.
Despite the hangover's effects on me, I manage to feel stressed and ecstatic at the same time. I'm merely a week from my big move. There is still much to do and many, many people to see. I'm getting a little emotional as well. If you notice an increase in "emo" activity on my last.fm (proxima1022 is my username, befriend me, get it, share it!), it is not because I attend high school or was recently dumped. It's because I have a great many memories in the Bay Area and made some ridiculous-awesome friends. I believe I will reminisce for a moment. A long moment.
I remember subletting with a close friend at 108 Shotwell, while a young gentleman freed up his room to us while he was on tour for a month. Waking up in the middle of the night to one of the roommates screaming and pounding on the door of another roommate's room. He was near splintering the door's wood, shouting "I'm gonna fucking kill you, you motherfucker!" This went on for close to 20 minutes, I believe, when he suddenly gave up, came to the room that my friend and I were staying in, politely apologized for the ruckus and slipped off to slumber. It turns out, as was explained the next day, that he was completely justified in wanting to kill the motherfucker. He had done something rather terrible. The aforementioned "motherfucker" then proceeded to move out in record time, and burn every other bridge available to him in his circle of friends. Good riddance, blighter-of-the-century. I hope you get horribly disfigured in a hot-air-ballooning accident.
Not long after that, a completely different roommate in the same place got very, very sick. We all knew that he was missing some work and definitely did not look very good, and when he emerged from his room occasionally for food or water, he smelled less-than-desirable. We did not, however, understand just how sick he was until it was almost too late. My roommate and I were sitting around listening to the subletter's records one afternoon, when there suddenly was a frantic ringing of the apartment's doorbell. We said "What the fuck", got up and went down to the door. A group of paramedics were asking us, "You from 108?" and we were like "Yeah, what's going on?" They looked at us like we were fucking out of our minds. They rushed up the stairs, ran in to our sick roommate's room (with our direction) and helped him out with a stretcher, if I remember correctly. A fucking stretcher. The dude couldn't walk. It just so happened that the smell that would burst forth from his room when he would venture to get a glass of water was indeed, piss. He was so sick (I forget what kind of sick) that he more-oft-than-not didn't have the energy to muster a walk to the bathroom and had been sleeping for about a week in his own urine. We felt terrible and neglectful but also wondered why he played it so cool when he would get a glass of water, like nothing was up. Shortly after, my friend and I moved into that room for a month. It was thoroughly cleaned beforehand, I swear.

To be continued...

Stormgren's List of Do's and Don't's (is that right?) During Intercourse

Don't:

read the Times
forget to stretch prior to
wear a baseball cap turned to the side
cough
sneeze
put your elbows on the dinner table
clap and celebrate afterwards
laugh because you were "just thinking about something funny, don't worry about it."
chew gum
wear socks
tell someone sarcastically "slow and steady wins the race" while trying to compose yourself
put it in her bellybutton
eat (...well, food)
stare
sob uncontrollably
fall asleep
do it in microgee (though this sounds cool, the logistics are truly terrifying)
under any circumstances lay a synth-harmonica track over a pop-ballad

Do:

(and this is very important) role-play Asimov's "Nightfall"

Example:
"Hey, so it looks like we're not gonna see any six of the stars in our stellar system for a night and the Apostles of the Flame want to self-fulfill an apocalyptic prophecy. Whaddya wanna do to pass the time?"
" Mmmm... throw your sex at me."

Oh my god, hot.

I would post more "Do's" but if I suddenly start dating (what does that even mean?) and she found out about this blog, I would no longer have any tricks up my sleeve. My sleeve with the sex list in it. I don't wear the shirt often because it's "dry-clean only", but it's really really nice. Came complete with multiple sex-lists inside the sleeves and beautiful faux-pearl snaps. That was a good description! Maybe after I retire Penis, I could put the sex-list shirt on Ebay.

Regretfully,
Craig

Since Times Medieval

Hello, all. So nice to see you again. I can't actually see you, but I'm sure you're all very smart, attractive and successful if you've chosen to read this. I am in excruciating pain right now. I am lying prone on my bed, staring (in typical drunk-Craig fashion, though I'm sickeningly sober) at my ceiling. My skin is on the verge of peeling and most readers might be surprised to find that I somehow manage to look white as hell, yet rather similar to a lobster, my prodigious red beak (or in lobster-reference, the rostrum) taking the brunt of the UV rays. Whenever I close my eyes, I am subject to blazing white-orange coronas. Wow, I should really stop looking at my ceiling light. I cannot move and don't have a reason to. I convince myself that this is all well worth the trouble. And it is! I'm going to get ridiculous-tan. And bigger. I don't know if any of you have ever seen muscles, but let me tell you, I am quite the specimen, appearing to most as a bulging, rippling hill. This simile works, too, since I'm covered in grass much of the time. But not the sweet leaf, really. Not the chronic. Nor the 'dro. Nor the dodey. Not even that bammer weed. What I mean to say is that I am blighted with chronic grass-stains. Oh yes, my muscles. Please do not let me get off the subject again. It's important that the reader understand how huge I am. It's like looking at the chassis of a Thunderbird. In fact, you're invited to call me "Thunderbird" whenever you like. I'm pretty sure the chassis is the part of the car that looks like a muscle or multiple muscles. Or -get this, young people- we could just say that I straight-up look like a muscle car. All red and muscle-bound. Wait, perhaps a Thunderbird is a muscle car. I could very well have fucked that up. I could "Wikipedia it" or "Google it"... nah, I'd rather not do the research. You will all just have to settle for being misinformed. This comes standard with a C. Phillips friendship. It all comes standard. Besides, I already looked up the scientific term for a lobster's "nose", so that's the most effort you'll get out of me. But back to it. If you could see through all the freckles, papercuts, and bruises, you might very well be astounded at how "cut" I am. The good lord above certainly broke the mold when he made me. It totally sucked that he broke it because he had the mold running on auto for such a long time that when this problem came up, he had to completely improvise on my looks. This is because he hadn't seen the products in a while and one must take into consideration the fact that he had been on his lunch break (a long one, at that, because being a god is totally a union gig). Then because of the improvisation, he got a little bit backed up, and his supervisor gave him a bunch of fucking grief. Like, really? Who does that asshole think he is anyway? He sits in his office all day, reading Mad magazine and drinking Rockstars. Then, he thinks it's just fine to come down to the floor and piss and moan about work getting a tiny bit backed up. Just a little? Come on, seriously. Sorry. I had to vent there for a while. About a god that doesn't exist and his terrible job. Really, though? Go to church people. It's like a free reading of The Lord of the Rings and they just give out wine for free. I would attend these events if only they would change the menu from those dirty-looking little wafers to something more delectable like a Rosemary & Garlic Triscuit or a fine imported cheese. Or both. I fucking love food.
Oh yeah, but I'm sunburnt. I know what you are all thinking: "Oh my god, not Craig. Not his beautiful skin. Who am going to rub olive oil on now?" Don't you worry your pretty little heads, ladies and gentlemen. It will turn from red and raw to a golden tan soon enough (well...). Besides, I'm pretty sure I couldn't even pay someone else to rub anything on me. They would -in all likelihood- graciously decline, half out of disgust, half because of the insurance liability. This is perfectly reasonable, but I would be willing to sign a document waving their responsibility in any incorrectly-applied aloe vera or oil cases and/or any effects to my skin resulting from said application. So... form an orderly queue. Right beside the line to my kissing booth and to the IMAX showing of Journey to the Center of the Earth.
I've often been shamed for the shade of white that others are forced to endure around me. My skin, I mean. Though, I wish this to change, I might, on the other hand, like to make an argument for what I would urge you to call fair skin (as opposed to me usually being called pale, white, pasty, and douchebag). From the Middle Ages through much of the Victorian Era, it was considered a sign of great wealth and beauty to have such light skin. So, there you have it. That's my argument. It was better back then. Not only would my looks have been more readily accepted long ago, in times Medieval, but I might also have gotten the opportunity to prove myself by fighting a dragon or two, or pulling Excalibur from it's rocky residence. For some reason or another, very few have been fortunate enough to see dragons around over the past few centuries. I don't understand why someone doesn't hastily add them to an endangered species list before they go the way of the unicorn. Extinct, I mean.
Having made my point, I would like to bring to the readers' collective attention that my appearance or personality (never both simultaneously) have received rave reviews as of late. This is an extraordinary development, as this is usually a bi-annual occurrence. I don't know if the messengers are pulling my leg or any of my other limbs (if so, I rather hope they're at the receiving end of the next front-page zoo tiger mauling), but most of this news has been delivered over the past month or two. I am frequently able to fend off the opposite sex for months or years at a time, my behavior and/or looks having much the same effect as a waved firearm in a public park, if you understand my meaning. Sends the other party running for cover, you know. With this new progress, however, I feel less like a satellite lunch and more like a dinner at a chain restaurant. I am by no means turning into a Casanova or any such thing, but I intend to venture into territories greatly unexplored by yours truly. With a little advice and perhaps a little needed physical force from my good friends and "wing -men and -women", I should soon be bursting forth from my rather unremarkable shell. This new confidence burgeoning bodes well for the reader as there is only one way from the top of one's self-esteem apex and that, mes amis, is down. That was French, for those of you not familiar with the term. I don't have time to translate it for you, because I have much to do and even more to write, but there are several places on the World Wide Web that you're able to find easy-to-use English-to-French translations. As I was saying, down. A graceless buffoon spinning head over heels toward the base of a mountain called "Whoopsydaisy"; that's what visual the thoughts of my future endeavors evoke. Because my shame and embarrassment remain a steadfast constant, regardless of any environmental variables, this should be an exhilirating adventure (once again, for the reader only) and I am most definitely ripe for rejection!

It must be noted that I haven't actually been sunburnt (or at all tan, for that matter) in a long time now. I've actually spent most of my recent time huddled in booths at bars with my friends, taking pictures, subtly flexing my muscles, and successfully hiding my problem skin by never using the flash. You are free to use this little trick, just be sure to give credit where it is due. And by that, I mean the opposite. Don't tell anyone about my bar-pictures technique. It is an integral part of my plan to blend in with non-pale individuals.

Utterly involved in myself,
Craig

Wet Dreamscape

Wow, oh-my-god, congratulations. You've totally struck gold by reading this, my response to others' responses to my previous post (Women: the Opposition). Writing this is greatly interfering with my weight training so I should be pretty miffed, but I'm actually a little overexcited to be able to use some of the material that's been accumulating in the old attic. And my underwear. N E Wayz, though this may read angry and it might come out like a knee-jerk (or circle-jerk, whatever you kids do these days) reaction, this is not the case. I merely want to make clear my intentions. I could probably write something of a mission statement for my profile, but I don't really have one and it wouldn't be nearly as clever as what I have there (ironic statement about my looks), so you're shit-out-of-luck. Plus, this completely justifies my need to expand on the previous subject a little, since I haven't quite exhausted my reserve of jokes on the matter. I probably never will, as I always find new ways to stumble awkwardly into an awkward situation with no apparent exit. These places (awkward sitches) had really ought to install- at the very least- an emergency exit or something, I mean, because OSHA is definitely not cool with this. But then they would have young gentlemen like myself setting off the alarm every 15 or so minutes, trying (rather ineptly) to escape the horror that is being in a Craig Phillips-y scenario. Like I was saying, as far as my trials and tribulations with the opposite sex go, don't fret! There's plenty more where that came from. Lucky you. I would also like to point out that this particular post was written in two separate states of mind. One, the blurry haze of early-morning hangover in the warehouse at my place of work. Two, the blurry haze of mid-evening drinking in my place of sleep, where I can safely scratch my butt, stare at my ceiling light, and listen to Brian Eno kick out the jams. That real heavy "dirty south"-type stuff that he's so well-known for. But because of how this was written, you will have to excuse me if the following comes off as a bit "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Drunk".
So, my friends have all been ridiculous-supportive and I'm actually getting a big-ass head (see previous post for big head) because of it, regarding myself as the F. Scott Fitzgerald of literary defecation. Poop words. Rub the poop on you. This is all well and good until a few of them told me that my blog more or less pleads "Hook me up!" Really? I must insist that these readers take the time to observe the wild Craig in the party-habitat. They may just find that I don't have trouble "finding" someone interesting or getting their attention, but closing the deal is much more calamitous. Whether it's flinching when a young lady puts her hand on my leg, or getting black-out drunk and deciding a scenic walking tour of San Francisco is more interesting than conversation.
I would like very much to assure you, the reader, that I am not so desperate as my blog implies or my body language or the pleading desperate look of desperation on my face. If I were truly so desperate to provoke an onslaught of pity-fucking, I wouldn't have written a post solely on my shortcomings. And if I truly wanted to get fucked through my writing, I definitely would've titled it something else, like "Sleep with Me for Financial Security" or "Mountain of Muscle" or "Super-sensitive and Cute" or "Conservative Haircut". If that wouldn't work, I could start writing poetry. I truly have it all worked out! No one will be able to resist Craig'lls the White (mmmmmmmmmmm understatement) Knight of Poetry. Here's a little taste:

Shorty
by Krayge Phillups

Oh, boo
Your eyes like marbles
but totally not the ones that come 50 to a bag or something
rather, the ones that you have to go to a gaming store and pull out the little tray
with individual compartments for the more unique marbles and dice
That's what your eyes are like
Your hair like a tree
beautiful and swaying
like leaves in wind
wind that gently carries scintillating aromas
smells kind of like food
but leaves me hungry for something else
Your face like the plume of Enceladus
spewing forth water vapor
but still, like, really really pretty
Mmmmm shorty
Mmmmmmmm shorty

I'm at a great advantage with my voice, as well, since it sounds rather like honey dripping off of a popsicle or honeydew melon or cantaloupe... or blood oranges! They're a bit tart, but that's definitely a fruit I can get behind. If someone would be so kind as to inform me of when they're in season... I want to say it's winter-ish. The first person to respond with the correct answer will get a smack on the butt the next time I see them. And don't be afraid, gentlemen. You are welcome to join the race to reunite Craig'lls with his beloved blood orange. I can produce purely heterosexual butt-smackings for males just as well and with just as much vigor.
The fact is, strange women that I am to meet in the future don't read this. I wouldn't even go so far as to call it some kind of absurd catharsis. This is for my friends to cluster 'round and laugh at (in a manner that won't hurt my "ultra-fragile-and-way-more-important-than-yours" feelings). Besides, if anything I took out Bachelor's Insurance. A "single" lifestyle couldn't possibly be as bad as Hollywood portrays it, It's already been 22 years of it anyway, and I'm becoming quite the expert on bachelorhood. I could go out and buy some crappy Ikea art or hang up neon signs in my (nonexistent) studio apartment that depict assorted beers. There could be a stack of Tom Clancy novels sitting next to the entertainment center, which would house the greatest DVD collection of all time. The Bourne Trilogy, Animal House, Scary Movie 4, The Last Boy Scout. All the bachelor staples, you know. They would greatly compliment my Playstation 3 with multiple copies of Gameday '08 (a couple extra just in case the first gets scratched, dude). I could hang a poster of a young lady wearing a bikini and holding a Corona on the ceiling above my twin mattress. Fuck this. This joke is taking way too much research. I think I made my point clear enough. If that's not the case, then who cares? You ain't my mama and you don't pay none of my bills. So mind ya business.
Loyal readers may have noticed that I recently got "faded up". Some of you miss my beautiful, long locks of hair, I know, I know. I can only assure you that it will grow back to party-length by the end of the month, just in time for my arrival in Portland, Oregon, land of a thousand tattoos and fixed-gear bikes. I cannot stress enough (no, maybe I already did, I don't know, oh well) how pivotal this move will be for me. I will reinvent myself! And by reinvent myself, I mean lose more weight and learn how to talk to women. It's going to be super-exciting and most likely fatal for all of those involved. I apologize in advance.
I probably shouldn't have filled this post with so much bullshit, but it doesn't matter, because I hate you. And, really, if if's and but's were candy and nuts, we'd all be fucking knee-deep in candy and nuts. They would be like everywhere. Backing up the plumbing and blocking roads. Seriously, people say "if" and "but" an awful lot. All that candy and all those nuts (kinda depends on which kinds) would be awesome and terrible at the same time. But, like, what if the candy was just those little orange and brown things that only really old people hand out on Halloween. The kind that makes a kid loath the old neighbor that gave it to him/her. Ugh. Those things are nasty and they get stuck in your teeth. The nuts though, I hope those are pistachios.

Always oblivious of your cares,
Craig