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