Goin for the hat trick

Three posts in one night.
If I wasn't so sick, I'd be doing a little dance of happiness!
So I just need a topic...hmmm
Oh! Here's one!
I have an unbelievably hot collection of female friends. And they are just friends. Honestly.
True, in the past they were usually friends whom I desperately long to obtain benefits from, but these days just friends. Good friends.
Hell, my three best friends are all attractive women.

So why am I single???

This is not, by the way, a sad attempt to fish for compliments and make me feel better. This is an actual conundrum, and enigma wrapped in a riddle and deep-fried in what-the-fuck? I stay up nights pondering this.

I have a theory about this.

Basically it goes: Girls don't like to share.

Sticking my three best friends in a room used to be a recipe for awkwardness on a grand scale, and most women I've gotten involved with over the last couple of years seem to seriously disapprove of my little platonic harem (although, to be fair, some of them disapproved of my having any friends at all).

But that could just be the aging punk j'accusing the other side.

So, as the fever has made it impossible for me to feel worse, I am throwing the question out there into cyberspace. How is it that I'm still single, dear blogodytes?
Let'er rip. Don't be shy. Let me have it!
That's what comments were invented for after all...

And frankly, I need all the help I can get.

Almost forgot

I owe my darling blogodytes a Revolutionary Hottie of the Week...

Season of the Pest

So I'm still all ball-peeny. Going on three days now. If I miss another day of work, I'll have to figure out a way to get to one of the clinics and get a note from the doc.
Crap.
Wish I was well.
'Cause hard and stressful and full of infectious monkeys as it is, work as an increased income facilitator is finally starting to pay off. I gots me some mad money this paycheck.
Well, mad for me.
Which means that if I'm smart about it (and I give that some pretty long odds) I might just be able to start pulling my punk ass out of some of its debt. I might be able to get me some cool stuff for the impending move. Hell, I might be able to treat my friends for once.
Yay.
Now if I can just beat this bug, stop having my toes ache (I mean, what the fuck!?!?) and get my ass back in gear, life might start looking up.
The only upside today was The Boo being a slutty ghetto fabulous angel of mercy and bringing me sickness-supplies, and chatting all day with Her Royal Random Thighness, henceforth known as My Cybercrush.
Kinda lame, I know.
I've decided that while beating myself up over not working out, going out too much, and selling out is not a good thing, I ought to just write off the first month of the year and let the resolutions kick in during February. Sorta like the millennium didn't really start until 2001, the New Year ought not to officially start until the 2nd month of the year. January ought to be a sort of liminal time, a time without repercussions, a time to actually take time to figure one's shit out.
Rename the month Jamuary. Why the hell not?
So now I'm off to nap like a mofo and try to get healthy before tomorrow. Not that I hold out much hope, but hey, anything to avoid a trip to the Doc's.
Later dear blogodytes.

Not with a bang but a whimper...

Ugh.
That's all I have to say tonight.
Ugh.
I feel like someones taken a ball-peen hammer to every joint in my body.
Which makes for a foul mood.
I'm working on a new Reykjavik bar guide, which includes some of the new places that have popped up around town.
But that puts me in a foul mood too.
I mean, what kind of "Scottish Pub" fucking dress-codes a guy for "wearing a leather jacket"?!?!? And what the exactafuck is up with the clientele at Domo? I mean, all these suit-clad Davið-youth hitting my broke ass up for smokes and beer? Or being so freaked out by my appearance that they run back out of the restroom when they encounter me washing my hands? Of course, that might just be because, according to a friend of Urður's, I'm a "scary man-beast".
And how the hell has Boston developed such a complete indy-snob VIP-line in just a month or so of existence?

Grr Arg!

'Nuff for now.

Going to bed.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Sam´s Gang Oft Agay...

So I've decided to cut my punk ass some slack. I've been being to hard on little ol' me of late, bashing myself for selling out, not working out, and going out.
It all came to a head yesterday, when I realised that if I don't ease up on the non-stop self-critiquing, I will become Emo, like Bright Eyes emo.
And that my little gothlings is a big no-no.
It all started with watching one of my favorite animated movies, The Iron Giant, yesterday afternoon with the kiddies when we got back from hopping on trampolines at Íþrottaskóli. The scene where the giant flies up into space and sacrifices himself to save the very people who have been trying to destroy him from their own nuke got me all farklempt, and started me thinking about other films/books/songs that put me in an emotionally fragile state. I ended up having a song called "Two Little Boys" a song which for reasons that completely escape me I have never been able to sing all the way through (I get all farklempt) STUCK IN MY HEAD! It was like having a melancholy dentist's drill boring into your head. Sucked ass.
So by the time I met up with The Cutest Couple in the World, I was feeling ever so fragile. We then made yummy tacos and drank way too much, went exploring in the skeletal remains of the old Klink og Bank, where we took cool pictures, wondered just why the hell someone had left hundreds of Spark games in pallets out front, and decided we should have some sort of party there tonight.
Which is only part of the plan. See, I'm cutting myself some slack about the weekend partying. As long as I don't take my card with me, and don't let it ruin the rest of my weekend. Frankly, this surrogate father-figure needs to be able to cut the hell loose and blow off a lot of steam if he's not to have a total breakdown.
So we'll try to have a drum/candles/booze gathering in the remains of an abandoned building. We also plan on checking out the new "Scottish" bar The Highlander (There can be only one!) just for shits and giggles (who knows, I might get some free booze for my repertoire of Dirty Scottish Drinking Songs), going to Tinna's B-day bash, and swilling free beer at FSS's anniversary party.
What could possibly go wrong?

JINX!

Selling out?

I've decided to sell out.
At least a bit.
See, I'm tired of working 50 plus hours a week for less money than many of my friends make in 15 hours or so less. I'm also tired of the responsibility of working with little humans. I have a hard time taking the pressure of being a surrogate father figure to 70 some kids, with all the joy and drama (don't forget the drama) that entails.
I miss working with grown-ups.
I miss people who are capable of reason and discussion.
I miss people not covered in snot.
So I'm selling out. I'm hunting for jobs in the corporate, capitalist world out there.
Something challenging, fun, creative, and well, lucrative. I've got debts to pay off. And I'd like to take a vacation sometime.
But it still feels like a fall from grace.
Not to mention that while I may have the talent to do a lot of interesting things, I don't necessarily have the qualifications. My computer skills are incredibly basic, and thanks to all the years of increased income facilitation and social work, my resume doesn't really qualify me for anything other than, well, increased income facilitation and social work.
Vicious little cycle that.
Like a mo-ped made of rusty knives.
But I want to try. So I will face my fear of rejection, swallow my punk pride, and apply for jobs like this.
If anyone wants to hire me, I've gone all cyber-spacey and posted a blog c.v.
Just don't beat me up in the comments for being a sell-out. I know already.

So the plan is...

I was supposed to be all kinds of productive yesterday. I was going to walk to and from work (but thanks to slush and rain I took the bus), and then come home, fix my leaky shoe (the hot-glue will keep snow out but not the ol' H2O) and then create a killer-cool online resume and post it up on my online-filing cabinet. What I wound up doing was coming home, eating a very late dinner, doing one measly load of laundry, and then subsiding into a puddle of drool and half-fried brain cells on my couch, napping through episodes of Mythbusters and Wire in the Blood and getting absolutely nothing productive done.
I blame my job. Just like Emblita says, working with the Ebola Monkeys is exhausting!
So now I have a time crunching four days to finish up the resume, and only a month to finish the oh-so-complex application for the Teaching Certification Program and to start packing for my impending emigration to the People's Republic of Urdur. Crap crap crappity crap.
I am the Procrastinator (ever notice how all evil sci-fi cartoon characters have, or at least should have names that end in "or"?)!
Bow before my power!
Err...actually, give me a couple days?
I'm kinda busy.

No time to blog...

I'm busy selling out to The Man. To make up for this, here is a large and exceedingly silly picture of me. Enjoy!


But not in a creepy way...or at least don't tell me about it...

Lazy Blob Bitch Wimps Out

I don’t want to blog tonight. Not that anything bad has happened, or even that I’m in a morose post-party sort of mood. I just don’t feel like it. So to make up for it, I’ll give you two Revolutionary Hotties of the Week.

So thanks to a delightfully intoxicating combination of white Bacardi, Lime Toppur (a lime flavored soda water to you non-Icelanders) and lime wedges, I have so completely shattered the whole drinking-every-other-weekend resolution. But. And this is a big but, like Jay-lo big. Beyonce big.

I’m still going to help the Embles paint her new place tomorrow. I just made the wise decision to not take any of my cards, or any cash for that matter, when I stumble downtown. This means I’ll tire out around 3, go home, sleep to noon, and not suffer any undo nastiness.

In theory.

But then again, evolution is just a theory, and I’m pretty sure of that.

Just seems a shame to waste a nice buzz on Mythbusters and the interweb.

So, as alcoholics drink alone, and My Boo just left, I’ll keep this entry short and bugger of to find someone to bugger.

More than likely I’ll hate myself in the morning. Not due to any theoretical buggery, but due to guilt and a mild hangover.

But honestly! What are you supposed to do in a town where the only place flirtation (and I am flirty as all hell at the mo) is allowed is a pub? A place where flirting sober is basically the equivalent of sexual predation?

Just what would you do gentle blogodytes?

What would you do?

Same Ol' Same Ol'.

My life isn’t that interesting of late. No wild romances, no sexual escapades, less drama than usual at work, no breakups or socially awkward developments, nothin’.

This, I suppose, should make me a happy camper sort of guy. But honestly, it just makes me nervous. I mean, if things are going so well, that means a massive shitstorm of doom is just lurking over the horizon, just waiting to poo on my parade. Right?

I mean, sure, I’m sitting at home in sweats typing this as my throat is ballooning and my head is aching and I’m a feverish little punk, but all in all, its not that bad. I just did the smart thing and stayed home to try to keep it from getting any worse.

Which is where this feeling of impending doom is probably coming from.

Stupid Catholic Work Ethic!*

So now I’ll sit at home worrying about work and what my bosses will think of me and so on and so on.

But at least I might be able to finish “The Motorcycle Diaries” which is now overdue. I’ve rented the damned thing three times now, I really ought to get around to watching the fucker.

So that’s what I’ll do. Impending doom be damned! Eat! (soft foods) Drink! (tea with honey) and Be Merry! (or at least warm on the couch), for tomorrow we die!

*For those unfamiliar with the concept of the Catholic Work Ethic, as opposed to the Protestant Work Ethic, the primary difference, as usual, revolves around guilt. See, Prods are taught that “Hard work is its own reward” and that “The Lord helps those that help themselves”, whereas for Catholics, work is a form of penance, one of the many trials one must endure during one’s stay in this veil of tears. So missing work means you’re a bad person and will be punished for it later. Or something to that effect. I may have given up Catholicism for Lent at the age of 12, but sometimes the claws of Ol’ Mother Church are hard to dislodge.

Alrighty then...

I suppose one should always try to kick off a new blog with a truly superlative entry, but I don't feel like it. HTM-Hell and other such stuff have tired me out. So, anyone stumbling across my punk ass for the first time can go to my old embarassing Myspaz blog and read it to get caught up. More intelligent discourse will come later.