Too Long Bey-Otches

oh my god, oh my ever loving lord. i am wrecked. it’s been a minute since i’ve been able to send smoke signals to my Web Tribal members. Fucking law school. Jesus. It ain’t so bad until finals. Finals is the infernal wench of law school. It’s the time the Rumplestiltskin shows up and demands his money for spinning straw into gold. “Quid pro quo, agent starling, quid pro quo.” It’s like a great night of passion with a glistening hot Brazilian maiden followed by a hot burning sensation in your pee-pee hole. It’s like suckling the most wonderful tit and getting straight vinegar.

I shouldn’t be writing this now. Not at the zero hour. i’ve been staring at my property outline for so long that the ability to “give a shit” melted away faster than george bush’s “political capitol.” This is bad bubbee. I should be inhaling focus-enhancing drugs and writing my Property notes backwards in Sanskrit. But F it. Everyman has a “Fuck It” dwelling inside of him and Property has just found mind.

Anyways, there’s sooooo much to talk about. Everyday in the car on my way to Malibu great things to write bubble up and then by the time i’m back and let george the dog make poopy, the sweet whore of lies named “tomorrow” says we’ll get to the blog tomorrow. I want to write about James Bond. I saw it. Loved it. But very disturbing. I realized that James Bond is our version of a suicide bomber. For Christmas my family and I are going to Peru, there’s a whole thing there. Dog sitting, cigars, Britney Spears’s bare vag, flat-chested women cleavage, I mean Christ, it just goes on.

Anyways, yesterday I overate. I hit up three doughnuts for breakfast. I had a maple bar, a chocolate chocolate frosted, and some buttermilk deal. Later I had 2 sausage extreme sandwiches from Jack in the box. Ok I also had their hashbrowns. But I drank a diet coke, so i was reasonable. Then, I studied all day. 14 hours. I mean shit. It’s ok to eat high calorie food, as long as that’s all I eat for the day, right? Right. When I got home, that night ate a turkey breast because it was healthy, and decided to have a few corn chips. Ten minutes later the bag was polished off. Shit. I guess I should run to burn off all that food. Threw on the jogging gear and went to go running. It was raining. Part of me was pissed because the “Love Handle” fairy was going to spray insulation foam over my abs, the other part of me was glad that I had a “legit” reason not to run.

Sometimes I think I’m a total pussy for getting bummed out about when I overeat. I mean my dad doesn’t seem to worry too much about it, then again he is overweight. I’m not a metrosexual or anything, it’s just I see it as a lack of will power. My Aunt says you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself when you’re going through stressful times, but she’s overweight too. I just want to be disciplined and healthy. I think that shit is masculine. Like 50 cents and shit. Male power is eroded by too many “sweet buns.” I think A lot of dudes think being fat is Manly, like “husky.” Kind of like Dan on ROSEANNE, but, it ain’t manly to have tits. That’s the damned truth. A man should be lean, strong, and be able to deny himself shit. I think that’s why it makes me pissed at myself when I overeat. Although, these days I do much better then in the old ones. I just know, that being to soft on yourself is bullshitting yourself. Then again, I was a fat kid, so my views might be screwed up. Anyways…

I went to sleep wondering how the hell I had gotten out of control so fast. This starship was on a course straight into the sun. When My Girl said goodnight, I said, “Good night.” I didn’t say one word about the disaster. Then she said, “Are you going to miss me over the Christmas break?”

What is the female preoccupation with feelings? It’s bizarre. I don’t get it. I’m not against feelings, I’m just against talking about them. I mean Christ. Women want to talk about feelings, but they hardly even know what they’re feeling. If there was some accuracy in the discussion I’d be cool, but women just want to talk about feelings they WANT YOU TO BELIEVE they’re having. And the future? Broads always want to know what you’re going to feel in the future. “Are you going to miss me over the break?”

What answer is she expecting at 12AM during my Law School finals? Even sociopaths know to say, “Of course baby, I’m going to miss you.” Why can’t she just say, “Medicine Bear, I’m going to miss you over the Christmas break.” The most loving thing a woman can do, is break her own balls instead of her boyfriend’s.

Anyways, tomorrow’s the final. Peace.

Oh by the way, after the Christmas holiday I am going to make the blog more interactive. I’ve received a lot of mail that people want to post things and get into the discussion and stuff, and I’ve got some sheckles, so I’m going to put some gas in the tank, and get of the free service teet, so we can talk top each other. So you know, all three of us can share our ideas more readily, since know one else cares what the hell we think.

Ok,

Over and out,

Medicine Bear.
PS. THE WIRE and BATTLESTAR GALACTICA are truly the best shows on television.