It's Everything But Me, I Have a Laser Rocket Arm and Other Short Stories

So i've got a general stance in life: everything that goes wrong is someone else's fault, and there is SOME way that I can complain/be melodramatic about it. It works, seriously. I believe this dates back to when I didn't get to be in little league as a kid. Did I ask my mother if I could be on a team? No. Of course I didn't. Have I let her off the hook for the last eighteen plus years about this fact? No. No I have not. You know why? Because it's her fault that I didn't ask her to put me on a team. I thought I was getting the message across. You know, throwing tennis balls at the garage for FOUR YEARS STRAIGHT. Talking to myself in pure play-by-play fashion, discussing how "Hoolhorst's arm is really tired because he's thrown 126 pitches this outing". Watching baseball all the time. It's cool though. I didn't want to be the next Lincecum (because it's clear I would have been. You should have SEEN me shrugging off the invisible catcher's signals so I could throw only 102mph fastballs right down the plate..and my PITCH I didn't want to get throngs of women on the sole fact that I threw a ball fast. Nah. I was much more intent on being the kid who talked to himself in his front yard alone while wearing a helmet and chewing crayons (I'm not sure if this is a fact, but it's melodramatic, so it seems to fit with the theme well). Point being, it's her fault.

I bring this up because I've been trying to think of what to write about lately. I've sat here for days (I know, I know, over a month's worth, i'm a bad blogger), and everything I come close to writing? I blow it off and talk later about how GREAT this idea was that I had for a post, but blame something else for why I did not write this. Thought process:

Drew's Inner Monologue: "THERE it is! I'll write about how I have tons facebook friends, yet only hang out with like, two dudes! Nah, some guy wrote about that in the Times, even though it was a shitty article and mine would have been better. I know, Drew, you ARE the best! Anyways, what about the McDonald's "What are you, Nuggnuts?" campaign? I mean, what does that even mean? Is it an insult, a simple statement of character, a challenge? Can I write 1000/2000 words on this? Eh, not enough there. How about the fact that I'm too sensitive and this makes me a pain in the ass to deal with sometimes! Wait, I'd be too sensitive about writing about being too sensitive and then if someone DID say it was a valid post, I'd be even more sensitive about that. Man, people are assholes. Fuck it. I'm gonna go get a bottle of wine and watch 30 Rock. You're so SMART, Tina Fey...I wonder if she's single or if she's gonna get divorced soon...she'd totally agree about the nuggnuts thing."

So, as has been the trend with Rocket Shoes all too often, I've been slacking on writing. And this is odd, because this has become far and away my favorite pass time, even more so than blaming other people for my problems! As mentioned before, I take you guys out on remarkable dates (patting myself on the back and trying not to fall too hard in love with myself...) and then dump you without any explanation.  But it's not my fault. It turns out the economy got shanked in the back alley and if I'd like to keep a job, I can't just write witty, pointless banter on a blog all day while ignoring responsibility (which is how this basically started) and have to contribute to the company that employs me. I know, right? What fucking nerve. Also, I just get lazy and don't want to write at night, which again isn't my fault, I just can't think of why not (but it'll come to me).

See? See what I did there? I rationalized why I've been lazy! And I made my sound employment the issue! GOD i'm good! I knew it wasn't my fault! Phew. On that note, I am going to make a concentrated effort to write more. I'm in good shape to do so, as I write much better when I'm either heartbroken or depressed about mundane shit that isn't worthy of actually complaining about. You know, like the fact that I get heartburn sometimes. Or that my DVR keeps screwing up and is not recording episodes of Fringe ( know you kinda wanna watch that show. ADMIT IT. PACEY FROM DAWSONS CREEK PEOPLE. PACEY!). Or that that hot chick on the bus keeps ignoring my countless efforts of wooing her by not saying anything to her at all, and rather relying on the fact that I figure she just knows that we're perfect for each other and that she wants to have 10,000 of my babies and that our dog would be called Hank. So hey, with all that in play, I figure I got some time to write.

I'd like to personally thank Daisy, a girl whom I've never met who I find way too funny. By writing this, I officially become a plethora of things:

a) creepy

b) creepy


c) creepy

But I was threatened that if I didn't blog more, she wouldn't link here. And honestly? This made me sad and pretentiously concerned...SO pathetically sad and pretentiously concerned because I like writing and I love when people say nice things to me because i'm cheap and easy and love to blush at compliments pretending that they don't make me feel fantastic. Even if it wasn't a compliment at all? I'm taking it that way. Because if it wasn't one, I can at least complain about it later or find something else to be melodramatic about. Which ironically then makes me write more, which helps it all come full circle. But honestly, please read her. She's funnier than the movie Clue. And that movie was really funny. Okay enough complimentary talk about someone I don't know and enough creepy for one day.

The song of the day is by Atmosphere, and is self explanatory. Sometimes I listen to it and wonder if the white rapper in me wrote this in my sleep one day, because he complains more than anyone on the planet but me (and believe me, there is a FIERCE white rapper in me. My flows are silly). And...wait for it...I TOTALLY get him, man! You are SO right, pal! Keep on complaining about girls and life, and I will keep buying the shit out of your records. Because hey, fuck's everything but me. Let's high five and cry together.

On that note? Good talk, see you out there. My mom's new dog looks like Falkor from The Neverending Story. And I love you all. K bye.


Drew Hoolhorst

I have a black belt in feelings.