I hate pressure.
It makes me succeed and shit, and I hate that.
But the Deviant has been laying on the pressure and pointing out that I’ve been a dick and not posting since I got to Tampa as I said I would. So now you know.
“D” is Denise.
She’s beautiful. She’s funny. She’s awesome.
She’s a pain in the ass.
But she’s right.
Which emphasizes the pain in the ass part.
So I’m here in Tampa and I’ve rested and recovered from the seemingly never-ending drive from Colorado. It was long and it was hard.
That’s what she said
“Said that, she did”. -Yoda
You still suck, Texas.
Short summary of why I ended up here. . . because Colorado wasn’t doing it for me anymore. Not that legal weed isn’t a selling point, but I don’t use the stuff so it didn’t really matter. So I was kind of left with beautiful views surrounded by thousands of miles of desert, the largest collection of sex offender prisons and tarantula season. All of those good arguments for legalizing weed. I mean, what better way to view a Colorado sunset over the gorgeous view of Pike’s Peak? When a tarantula crawls into your lap. Talk about mixed emotions. The only good answer for that.
“Woooooaaaaaaaooooooooooaaaaaaahhh! Duuuuuuuuuuuuude! That is soooo cool! And yet, sooooo fucked up!”
They’d use that for the new state motto but it’s too fucking long for the license plate. I think they’re gonna go with “Because we can”.
It was a worry, during the long drive over here. Was I gonna get stopped simply because of my Colorado license tag? Was I transporting weed to another state?
Well, they wouldn’t let me take the shit on the plane.
At least, that’s what I imagined I’d say when the cop stopped me.
I also didn’t imagine that would go well.
I’m gonna go get my Florida plates tomorrow and remove the target from my back. I’ll go from “drug runner” to “just another asshole from Florida”, which I think is unfair. I was an asshole in Colorado too.
And North Carolina.
So yeah, in the five years I’ve owned the car, this’ll be the fourth state that’s had a tag on it.
Ok, so the real deal I’m here. I have a great friend here, Liz. She does important shit for the VA hospital. She informed me that I’m a veteran and that the VA would do shit for me. Like give me a job. Help me get the correct glasses. Help me go back to school. Help me get some guy to stick his finger up my ass and tell me my prostate was ok.
I’m cool with three of those.
I hate wearing glasses.
So I’m here to learn how to take advantage of that stuff, and Liz is gonna show me how to do it. Because she knows the system, and my veteran ass has no idea how the Veterans Administration works.
Semper motherfuckin’ Fi.
That’s really all there is to the story as to why I moved. It’s not complicated at all. I’m not all that complicated.
I confuse myself as it is. If I were complex, I’d kill myself.
If I could figure it out.
Maybe the VA can help with that too.
VA: “VA Suicide Hotline, how can I help you”?
Me: “I just slit my wrists”.
VA: “Did you cut across your wrist? Are you bleeding badly”?
VA: “Well that’s why you’re still talking, dumbass. You have to cut UP your arm, not ACROSS”!
Me: “Thank God for the VA”!
That would never happen, of course, because I’m awesome and would never deprive both of my readers of me.
Because I’m awesome.
And I’m now in love with Garlic Crab Fries from Frenchy’s Rockaway Grill in Clearwater. So there’s that.
There you have it. That’s my current story. There will be more. Especially if Denise continues to be a pain in my ass.
And I don’t see that changing anytime soon.
But I love you, Denise.
You fuckin’ jerk.
And now, the moment you have been waiting for . . .
You crazy fucking cat lady . . .
Exhibitionist . . .
(I really do love you, ignore all this . . .)
Gas station table dancer . . .
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