Oh Lord, it’s me. Shitty Ted. Well, uh, I guess you’d know me as Theodore Linus. That’s the name they christened me under. But most people just call me Shitty Ted.
Lord, I’m here today on bended knee to ask forgiveness for all the awful things I’ve done. I’ve squandered my life spittin, cussin, drinking and gamblin; and well, I’ve known my fair share of women, Lord. Now not all of them were hookers. One or two of them were top notch broads. Real scores for a guy like me. You see, I’m not the best looking guy in the world. In fact that’s something I wanted to talk to you about, Lord. If you were to make me tall dark and handsome I’d quit my evil ways. I’m sure of it. With my new found confidence I’d do away with the lot of my sins. Only ugly people spit and curse and I’d never need to spend a dime on a promiscuous woman. In fact, the beautiful girls would be climbing on their hands and knees for a chance to be with me. Speaking of women, Oh Lord, bless the beautiful girls. Bless their lips, their hips, and their...You know, it’s probably best you didn’t bless them Lord. In fact, turn em ugly. Yes, if you love me Lord turn them ugly. If there ever was a prodigal son, it’s me and I’m asking you to forgo the fatted calf and turn them ugly. Turn their teeth upside down and iron them flat. It’s the only I hope I have. I could return to your heavenly flock if you could do only that.
I know what you’re thinking. “What about the booze, Shitty?” Well God, the booze isn’t the problem. There’s wine all over the bible so it can’t be a sin. If you want to get caught up in semantics I guess I can switch the whiskey for the wine. Seems awfully petty to me though.
And isn't life one big gamble? Hell, there's more death and poverty on a city block than any roulette wheel. And most guys in the gutter got there because some big wig took a chance and lost. I'm layin my cards down, Lord, because if there's one thing Shitty Ted is it's honest. And this here prayer is a gamble and it's a gamble I'm willin to take and I'll be taking more. Shitty Ted doesn't fold pocket kings and he's not afraid to go all in with Jack-Ten suited. I'm all in Lord, do and say what you'd like. I'm listening.
I thank you for your time, Lord and I’ll be seeing you in church just as soon as I find a service that starts closer to noon and farther from the first crack of dawn. You see, I have a thyroid condition. Until then, this is Theodore Linus signing out!
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Friday, December 16, 2011
"Jim and Peg there just had a dozen novelty t-shirts, they're trying again for two tickets to the superbowl."
In a cup on my dresser, in the ashtray of my car (unless that petty bastard probably Mexican thief took them again) I have many quarters. I don't do much with them but it's nice to know they are there. If I were still 14 I would not have many quarters. I would have diabetes.
Quarters meant quarter pops. Quarter pops meant a walk to the grocery store for off brand refreshment after stand still ollies and playing N64 with my shirt off. I remember, or made up, a day exactly like the one I've described. Having made it to the vending machine, my friend and I, we noticed a mystery button. Right underneath Grape. My soda of choice back in the day. We pushed the hell out of that button. He got a Vanilla Coke, a real Vanilla Coke. Fuckin A, I might get a Welch's. I got a can of carbonated water.
The next day, I got a creme soda and a diet cola. I stopped pushing the mystery button. But if that machine is still there and that button is still there it's getting pushed. People love surprises, there's an appeal to random. It is gambling's caffeine to heroin, these mystery buttons on soda machines and turnstile prize boxes. Wherein you might get a tiny rubix cube but you'll probably get a sticker with Jesus on it. Boring Jesus too, not "Holy shit what happened to him?" "He died for your sins that's what." Jesus of yore.
People also love getting laid and having babies. But babies are expensive. And not just for their parents. The whole world pays for that baby. As does the environment and the collective consciousness because it'll probably grow up to be a shithead. Overpopulation is a very real and a very serious problem. It's of the utmost importance that a solution is found. I'm not a sadist so I'm not going to suggest sewing vaginas shut or making the poor sterile. I don't want to limit people to having two children and impose a death penalty on a potential third. But if you have more than five you can fuck right off. You don't have enough love or money for that many and you know it.
Here's my idea. People should still get laid and get pregnant as much as they want but they shouldn't always have a baby. Anytime someone gets pregnant you ask what they're having. They answer and you act surprised. They either have a boy or a girl or one hell of a decision to make. Fuck that. Have a pie. Don't buy blue shit or pink shit, buy a fork and some ice cream.
I'm tired of a sperm and an egg always making a baby, jazz it up. Are you pregnant and not ready for a child? Oh well, maybe you get lucky and have dog. Hell, maybe you're really lucky and get a dog that can whistle. You could get a voucher for a free hot dog, you could get keys to a new car and try like hell for the rest of the thing. And sometimes you could get a tiny human being.
Pregnancies can be exciting again. People are going to be so busy being fucking stoked they won't realize that there's nobody left to carry on their mediocre family name and that pollution is down, the poverty line is down, the economy is up because people are making a bunch of free shit themselves and having sex to do it. Stock in condoms might drop a little but they'll stay afloat because sometimes you just have too much stuff.
Quarters meant quarter pops. Quarter pops meant a walk to the grocery store for off brand refreshment after stand still ollies and playing N64 with my shirt off. I remember, or made up, a day exactly like the one I've described. Having made it to the vending machine, my friend and I, we noticed a mystery button. Right underneath Grape. My soda of choice back in the day. We pushed the hell out of that button. He got a Vanilla Coke, a real Vanilla Coke. Fuckin A, I might get a Welch's. I got a can of carbonated water.
The next day, I got a creme soda and a diet cola. I stopped pushing the mystery button. But if that machine is still there and that button is still there it's getting pushed. People love surprises, there's an appeal to random. It is gambling's caffeine to heroin, these mystery buttons on soda machines and turnstile prize boxes. Wherein you might get a tiny rubix cube but you'll probably get a sticker with Jesus on it. Boring Jesus too, not "Holy shit what happened to him?" "He died for your sins that's what." Jesus of yore.
People also love getting laid and having babies. But babies are expensive. And not just for their parents. The whole world pays for that baby. As does the environment and the collective consciousness because it'll probably grow up to be a shithead. Overpopulation is a very real and a very serious problem. It's of the utmost importance that a solution is found. I'm not a sadist so I'm not going to suggest sewing vaginas shut or making the poor sterile. I don't want to limit people to having two children and impose a death penalty on a potential third. But if you have more than five you can fuck right off. You don't have enough love or money for that many and you know it.
Here's my idea. People should still get laid and get pregnant as much as they want but they shouldn't always have a baby. Anytime someone gets pregnant you ask what they're having. They answer and you act surprised. They either have a boy or a girl or one hell of a decision to make. Fuck that. Have a pie. Don't buy blue shit or pink shit, buy a fork and some ice cream.
I'm tired of a sperm and an egg always making a baby, jazz it up. Are you pregnant and not ready for a child? Oh well, maybe you get lucky and have dog. Hell, maybe you're really lucky and get a dog that can whistle. You could get a voucher for a free hot dog, you could get keys to a new car and try like hell for the rest of the thing. And sometimes you could get a tiny human being.
Pregnancies can be exciting again. People are going to be so busy being fucking stoked they won't realize that there's nobody left to carry on their mediocre family name and that pollution is down, the poverty line is down, the economy is up because people are making a bunch of free shit themselves and having sex to do it. Stock in condoms might drop a little but they'll stay afloat because sometimes you just have too much stuff.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
House Sitters
I had to go away once. I asked my friend, Simon, to house sit for me. He's one of those people that are always taking things apart and putting them back together. He wants to know how everything works and if he's worthless or not. He is also manic depressive.
When I returned from my trip the front door was unlocked and my house seemingly unoccupied. I was not upset because I noticed he had fixed my stereo. I knew because he'd left it blaring Billie Holiday's Gloomy Sunday in the kitchen.
Almost everything in my living room had a green sticker on it. Which meant Simon had taken apart the object and reassembled it and that it was in working order. When I walked into my kitchen to turn off the restored stereo I saw where the depressive side of Simon's disorder had kicked in.
There were screws and circuits everywhere. All of my appliances had been gutted and abandoned. But I wasn't too worried about it. I knew what I was getting into when I asked Simon to house-sit for me. I also knew he'd come back with a pad of green stickers and return everything back to it's original condition or better.
Then I found my dog.
Woofy Howelson was only the second thing in Simon's life that he dismantled permanently. The first being his marriage. I found him later in the bathroom. He had covered himself in red stickers and wrote very bad poetry on the walls with his watery shit. He had not had a solid bowel movement since the divorce.
Two weeks later I was asked to attend a conference in Manhattan. I asked Simon's brother, Stoney, to house sit as Simon was busy at therapy. Stoney is an obsessive compulsive kleptomaniac. He has to steal everything 3 times and return it twice. He's never been caught. Making him the greatest living thief. Possibly the greatest of all time.
I gave Stoney the job as house sitter knowing that he was also the world's biggest coward. That's why he can be the greatest living thief and poor enough to eat Chairman Meow's cat food for breakfast. I asked him once, "Why don't you get rid of the cat and save some money?" He said without him he'd starve to death.
Stoney is afraid of death. That's not what makes him a coward, that's what makes him human. He's also afraid of bees, the dark, prime time television, viral marketing, men in cheap suits that speak in tongues, and most of all prison. He'll never take anything worth more than fifteen dollars.
Knowing this I slept soundly each night I was gone. Sure that I wouldn't even miss whatever Stoney had taken.
I vomited in the taxi that took me home. As soon as it stopped I started. Stoney had stolen my front door. I'm not sure who stole everything else. I was kicked out of the cab and around the head a bit.
I woke up the next morning exhausted and sore. I looked up from my lawn and felt relief beyond explanation. There, right where it should be was my front door. It was all a dream and everything would be fine. I picked myself up, opened the door, and began to vomit.
It was the most surreal part of my life. I was unsure of the whereabouts of my belongings and my consciousness. The door was gone, the door was there, there door was gone, an aggressive transient was there, the door was back!, Stoney had done it again and left me a blubbering mess of a man questioning his reality and whether I had been raped or seduced by Florence the Boxcar King.
When I returned from my trip the front door was unlocked and my house seemingly unoccupied. I was not upset because I noticed he had fixed my stereo. I knew because he'd left it blaring Billie Holiday's Gloomy Sunday in the kitchen.
Almost everything in my living room had a green sticker on it. Which meant Simon had taken apart the object and reassembled it and that it was in working order. When I walked into my kitchen to turn off the restored stereo I saw where the depressive side of Simon's disorder had kicked in.
There were screws and circuits everywhere. All of my appliances had been gutted and abandoned. But I wasn't too worried about it. I knew what I was getting into when I asked Simon to house-sit for me. I also knew he'd come back with a pad of green stickers and return everything back to it's original condition or better.
Then I found my dog.
Woofy Howelson was only the second thing in Simon's life that he dismantled permanently. The first being his marriage. I found him later in the bathroom. He had covered himself in red stickers and wrote very bad poetry on the walls with his watery shit. He had not had a solid bowel movement since the divorce.
Two weeks later I was asked to attend a conference in Manhattan. I asked Simon's brother, Stoney, to house sit as Simon was busy at therapy. Stoney is an obsessive compulsive kleptomaniac. He has to steal everything 3 times and return it twice. He's never been caught. Making him the greatest living thief. Possibly the greatest of all time.
I gave Stoney the job as house sitter knowing that he was also the world's biggest coward. That's why he can be the greatest living thief and poor enough to eat Chairman Meow's cat food for breakfast. I asked him once, "Why don't you get rid of the cat and save some money?" He said without him he'd starve to death.
Stoney is afraid of death. That's not what makes him a coward, that's what makes him human. He's also afraid of bees, the dark, prime time television, viral marketing, men in cheap suits that speak in tongues, and most of all prison. He'll never take anything worth more than fifteen dollars.
Knowing this I slept soundly each night I was gone. Sure that I wouldn't even miss whatever Stoney had taken.
I vomited in the taxi that took me home. As soon as it stopped I started. Stoney had stolen my front door. I'm not sure who stole everything else. I was kicked out of the cab and around the head a bit.
I woke up the next morning exhausted and sore. I looked up from my lawn and felt relief beyond explanation. There, right where it should be was my front door. It was all a dream and everything would be fine. I picked myself up, opened the door, and began to vomit.
It was the most surreal part of my life. I was unsure of the whereabouts of my belongings and my consciousness. The door was gone, the door was there, there door was gone, an aggressive transient was there, the door was back!, Stoney had done it again and left me a blubbering mess of a man questioning his reality and whether I had been raped or seduced by Florence the Boxcar King.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
HATE HATE HATE
Haters gonna hate and behind every successful person there's a pack of haters and U mad bro? - Mary Shit-tits Roberts and all her shitty friends, and all your shitty friends, obnoxious family members, communists, anarchists, religious fanatics, people that romanticize outer space and forget to pay their light bills, and every other assfuck out there "likes this".
What else do they like? Almost anything you put in front of their blank faces and dead eyes. It doesn't sound so bad, everybody liking everything but it's destroying the world. It's creating a giant void of individuality. People are turning into a gigantic, but unimposing, off-white blob. This is dangerous for two reasons. The first, blobs have neither tits or ass. Without these things Man is sure to go crazy. The second, it makes it so much easier to hate.
Hate is obviously a bad thing. But why? Because it always leads to death. Not normal death, which is terrifying and awful in it's own right, but abrupt ugly death. Death that leaves you with a rotten stomach and a bad taste in the back of your mouth. Or the front of your throat for that matter. Homicide. Genocide. Suicide. He hated me. He hated them. I hated me and them. Hate and more hate.
Now I'm a tie it all together right quick. Or attempt to. I've never really hated an individual. I've disliked a hell of lot to varying degrees. But never full on hate for a specific person. But I have hated groups. Sixteen college kids with giant white teeth that are surrounded by thin lips, pink gums, and sick tongues. Their laughter too loud to be genuine. Their arms holding to each others backs and hips. Seven Injun kids. They should be in school but instead they are barefoot and beating a dog with a stick. A cluster of stars that shaped a heart on the loneliest night of my life. I felt real hate towards all these things for a brief second. Then I felt sick. If I'd have caught one of them alone they'd be fine. Especially the dog. But they were too close and too similar.
So for fuck's sake stop liking so much stupid shit on facebook.
What else do they like? Almost anything you put in front of their blank faces and dead eyes. It doesn't sound so bad, everybody liking everything but it's destroying the world. It's creating a giant void of individuality. People are turning into a gigantic, but unimposing, off-white blob. This is dangerous for two reasons. The first, blobs have neither tits or ass. Without these things Man is sure to go crazy. The second, it makes it so much easier to hate.
Hate is obviously a bad thing. But why? Because it always leads to death. Not normal death, which is terrifying and awful in it's own right, but abrupt ugly death. Death that leaves you with a rotten stomach and a bad taste in the back of your mouth. Or the front of your throat for that matter. Homicide. Genocide. Suicide. He hated me. He hated them. I hated me and them. Hate and more hate.
Now I'm a tie it all together right quick. Or attempt to. I've never really hated an individual. I've disliked a hell of lot to varying degrees. But never full on hate for a specific person. But I have hated groups. Sixteen college kids with giant white teeth that are surrounded by thin lips, pink gums, and sick tongues. Their laughter too loud to be genuine. Their arms holding to each others backs and hips. Seven Injun kids. They should be in school but instead they are barefoot and beating a dog with a stick. A cluster of stars that shaped a heart on the loneliest night of my life. I felt real hate towards all these things for a brief second. Then I felt sick. If I'd have caught one of them alone they'd be fine. Especially the dog. But they were too close and too similar.
So for fuck's sake stop liking so much stupid shit on facebook.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Bukowski is a bad influence.
"'Wow, it's Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?' Well, yeah. Because there's nothing out there. It's stupidity."
"Who does like people? You show me him and I'll show you why I don't like people. Period." ~ Charles Bukowski
There's nothing out there. It's stupidity. Bukowski had it wrong, there's plenty out there and it is beyond stupid. It is mind numbing, ball squeezing, Dear Lord fuck me back in to consciousness retarded. People fucking love it though.
Yeah, lets say it is Friday and Rebecca Black was abducted in Cabo before she could become an internet sensation. There are co-workers, there are friends from high school, there is your crippling sense of social responsibility. The herd instinct pushing you to run with people you don't like and can't trust. I'm sure there was a time when a person greatly benefited from such notions but no longer. Somewhere along the way we changed. Unfortunately our metamorphosis was left incomplete. As interrupted and forgotten as the porn mags that were kicked under my bed the moment my internet was installed. What are we now? Grizzly Bears. Or something less dramatic. Fuck it, more dramatic. Jaguars draped in buffalo skins. We're running, God knows we're running. If we had any sense it'd be from each other but we can't break from the pack.
And so we go out. Bad music is played loudly on poor speakers. Partly because it's like that in the movies but mostly to stifle conversation. And thank God for that. I'd hate to miss out on the well dressed moron that can't understand that it's possible to be obnoxious and boring at the same time. Keep yelling you poor bastard because the second you stop you disappear. He's a small part in the whole thing.
There's that guy. He's always been too nice to anything with a vagina. He heard somewhere that laughter is the way to a woman's heart. He's told knock-knocks and why'd they cross the roads? He has entire SNL skits memorized. Now he blurts out, "I love lamp!" and scans the room with frantic hungry eyes. Oh yeah, and this one time on The Office....
Girl, you're looking fine. Your make up is a bit heavy, I guess your proactive isn't working quite as advertised. Music? Pretty much everything I guess. Books? Who knew wallflowers had so many perks? You're la tabla rosa, an empty vessel into which I can pour my hopes, my dreams, and my seed. You could be my everything darlin, I'm sure I could be something to you too, but I really don't feel like thinking of all the ways I could fix you while you're wiggling on top of me screaming Daddy.
“Boring damned people. All over the earth. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. The earth swarmed with them.”
Bastard always says it better than I does. Uses less words too.
"Who does like people? You show me him and I'll show you why I don't like people. Period." ~ Charles Bukowski
There's nothing out there. It's stupidity. Bukowski had it wrong, there's plenty out there and it is beyond stupid. It is mind numbing, ball squeezing, Dear Lord fuck me back in to consciousness retarded. People fucking love it though.
Yeah, lets say it is Friday and Rebecca Black was abducted in Cabo before she could become an internet sensation. There are co-workers, there are friends from high school, there is your crippling sense of social responsibility. The herd instinct pushing you to run with people you don't like and can't trust. I'm sure there was a time when a person greatly benefited from such notions but no longer. Somewhere along the way we changed. Unfortunately our metamorphosis was left incomplete. As interrupted and forgotten as the porn mags that were kicked under my bed the moment my internet was installed. What are we now? Grizzly Bears. Or something less dramatic. Fuck it, more dramatic. Jaguars draped in buffalo skins. We're running, God knows we're running. If we had any sense it'd be from each other but we can't break from the pack.
And so we go out. Bad music is played loudly on poor speakers. Partly because it's like that in the movies but mostly to stifle conversation. And thank God for that. I'd hate to miss out on the well dressed moron that can't understand that it's possible to be obnoxious and boring at the same time. Keep yelling you poor bastard because the second you stop you disappear. He's a small part in the whole thing.
There's that guy. He's always been too nice to anything with a vagina. He heard somewhere that laughter is the way to a woman's heart. He's told knock-knocks and why'd they cross the roads? He has entire SNL skits memorized. Now he blurts out, "I love lamp!" and scans the room with frantic hungry eyes. Oh yeah, and this one time on The Office....
Girl, you're looking fine. Your make up is a bit heavy, I guess your proactive isn't working quite as advertised. Music? Pretty much everything I guess. Books? Who knew wallflowers had so many perks? You're la tabla rosa, an empty vessel into which I can pour my hopes, my dreams, and my seed. You could be my everything darlin, I'm sure I could be something to you too, but I really don't feel like thinking of all the ways I could fix you while you're wiggling on top of me screaming Daddy.
“Boring damned people. All over the earth. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. The earth swarmed with them.”
Bastard always says it better than I does. Uses less words too.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
What is Love? Baby don't hurt me.
I don't buy this love thing. I don't think it was meant for me. I can't draw hearts, never liked the color pink, and I flinch whenever someone touches me. The more I learn about love the less I like it. It seems more of an illness than an emotion. When you're in love you can only think of the person you love. You miss their face, their laugh, their ass, their smell (another reason I don't think I'm cut out for love; nobody misses the smell of Sizzler sweat and broken dreams), you also have to wash your hands four times and clap twice or you'll get AIDS and Hitler is reborn.
For fucks sake it's hard to listen to somebody wax poetic about this heavenly plane of existence without feeling pity. It's like they awed themselves retarded. If you stare at the sun you go blind, if you gape open mouthed at dark haired women and their hints of flesh you go completely fucking mental.Talk to one of these lovesick morons. They don't make sense. “If you love somebody, let them go. If they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were.” No, if you let them go they're fucking gone. They're off with some guy that will say the same shit you said and fucks way better than you could dream of.
I forget to see the love and beauty in everything.
I forget that loving is easy, but forgetting to love is easier.
I forget to love love, because it is love.
I just forget alot, and I don't want to forget anything about love.
I don't want to forget that loving alone makes a person happy.
There is so much harmony in love.
There is so much PATIENCE in love.
There is so much peace in love.
AND THERE IS SO MUCH LOVE IN LOVE.
-Courtesy of some girl I went to high school with
You couldn't ask for a more roundabout way to say nothing.
This Valentine's Day, when you're eating pizza by yourself like the morose bastard you are, don't pine for chronically ill couples. Smile because you're alone and you can jack off as much as you want.
For fucks sake it's hard to listen to somebody wax poetic about this heavenly plane of existence without feeling pity. It's like they awed themselves retarded. If you stare at the sun you go blind, if you gape open mouthed at dark haired women and their hints of flesh you go completely fucking mental.Talk to one of these lovesick morons. They don't make sense. “If you love somebody, let them go. If they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were.” No, if you let them go they're fucking gone. They're off with some guy that will say the same shit you said and fucks way better than you could dream of.
I forget to see the love and beauty in everything.
I forget that loving is easy, but forgetting to love is easier.
I forget to love love, because it is love.
I just forget alot, and I don't want to forget anything about love.
I don't want to forget that loving alone makes a person happy.
There is so much harmony in love.
There is so much PATIENCE in love.
There is so much peace in love.
AND THERE IS SO MUCH LOVE IN LOVE.
-Courtesy of some girl I went to high school with
You couldn't ask for a more roundabout way to say nothing.
This Valentine's Day, when you're eating pizza by yourself like the morose bastard you are, don't pine for chronically ill couples. Smile because you're alone and you can jack off as much as you want.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Get Her Back or Get Over It
According to Socrates, Poverty raped Plenty and gave birth to love. I personally believe that a product of rape is impossible to love so I shouldn't have to pay child support, but we'll put my feelings aside and focus on the bull shit. So, Love has two parents that don't have anything common and never felt anything for each other. Love is confused as fuck and will drag you down. Everyone falls in love and everyone gets their ass kicked. I'm tired of people quoting Brand New songs and sighing, so I'm going to help you get her back or get over it. I'll give you something to do and the pros and cons of that thing. Fuck eloquence.
Start a Band
Getting her back.
Pro: You get to write a song with the girls name in it. Pretty hard to fuck up, you can get her back.
Con: Everyone else in the band will fucking hate that song.
Getting over it.
Pro: You get really into groupies and forget all about her.
Con: The song you wrote for her eventually catches on, becomes a hit single and it all comes flooding back. Heroin becomes your sandbags.
Suicide
Getting her back.
Pro: Dude she'll definitely cry at your funeral.
Con: Firstly, it doesn't matter because you're dead. Secondly, you just made her that much more dependent on the new guy.
Getting over it.
Pro: It's impossible to feel things when you're dead.You couldn't be more over it.
Con: No more masturbating.
Masturbate
Getting her back.
Pro: You're masturbating!
Con: If she finds out she's going to be pissed.
Getting over it.
Pro: You can think of anyone in any situation. This is the freest your mind will ever be.
Con: You might accidentally think of her, realize how lonely and pathetic you are, and then find out it's impossible to finish whilst sobbing.
Tell her how you really feel about her
Getting her back.
Pro: She's probably been waiting for you to do this the whole time.
Con: Nope, now you've got a restraining order.
Getting over it.
Pro: You get it all out of your system that you're making this bitch a hell of a lot better than she is.
Con: Totally counter productive.
Juwana Man
This one needs a little clarification. If you can't be the man in her life, be her beast girlfriend. Cross dressing solves a lot of problems in movies so you might as well try it.
Getting her back.
Pro: She falls for it and can't figure out why the female you(Juwana)brings up all the old emotions she had for the man you. She confesses her love for you (Juwana) even though she's never been lesbian before. You take off the wig and flattering dress spew a bunch of romantic/creepy shit and she's all yours again.
Con: She doesn't fall for it and now you're creepier than the guy fucking his cousins. Never get sex for free again.
Getting over it.
Con: If you're dressing up as a woman you have zero chance of getting over it.
Start a Band
Getting her back.
Pro: You get to write a song with the girls name in it. Pretty hard to fuck up, you can get her back.
Con: Everyone else in the band will fucking hate that song.
Getting over it.
Pro: You get really into groupies and forget all about her.
Con: The song you wrote for her eventually catches on, becomes a hit single and it all comes flooding back. Heroin becomes your sandbags.
Suicide
Getting her back.
Pro: Dude she'll definitely cry at your funeral.
Con: Firstly, it doesn't matter because you're dead. Secondly, you just made her that much more dependent on the new guy.
Getting over it.
Pro: It's impossible to feel things when you're dead.You couldn't be more over it.
Con: No more masturbating.
Masturbate
Getting her back.
Pro: You're masturbating!
Con: If she finds out she's going to be pissed.
Getting over it.
Pro: You can think of anyone in any situation. This is the freest your mind will ever be.
Con: You might accidentally think of her, realize how lonely and pathetic you are, and then find out it's impossible to finish whilst sobbing.
Tell her how you really feel about her
Getting her back.
Pro: She's probably been waiting for you to do this the whole time.
Con: Nope, now you've got a restraining order.
Getting over it.
Pro: You get it all out of your system that you're making this bitch a hell of a lot better than she is.
Con: Totally counter productive.
Juwana Man
This one needs a little clarification. If you can't be the man in her life, be her beast girlfriend. Cross dressing solves a lot of problems in movies so you might as well try it.
Getting her back.
Pro: She falls for it and can't figure out why the female you(Juwana)brings up all the old emotions she had for the man you. She confesses her love for you (Juwana) even though she's never been lesbian before. You take off the wig and flattering dress spew a bunch of romantic/creepy shit and she's all yours again.
Con: She doesn't fall for it and now you're creepier than the guy fucking his cousins. Never get sex for free again.
Getting over it.
Con: If you're dressing up as a woman you have zero chance of getting over it.
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