Estranged Wife Contacts Former Pothead

My estranged wife emailed me after 3+ months of radio silence. She says she graduated from basic training and has lots of "navy stories" to share with me. I believe she is under the impression that after leaving me, breaking my heart and leaving my life in emotional and financial ruins, that we're still going to be best friends. How odd. I'm not sure if she's really delusional, or if she is just lonely and has no friends. I have a hard time believing that she can go through boot camp and not meet other raw-food-eating, Bush-hating, liberal artists trying to become US Navy fighting machines.

Former Pothead Locks Keys In Car

This story, besides being long, makes me look like a real moron, now that I'm not a pothead anymore, but I feel like I want to share it anyway.

Yesterday I left my apartment at 7:45am and headed to my favorite gas station for a package of smokes. I got my smokes, walked out of the store and felt for my keys on my belt, alas, they were not there. I raced over to my locked car, and my keys were sitting on the seat taunting me in the morning sun, while my cell phone sat sad and lonely on the armrest.

I hoofed it to my apartment where I had an extra remote opener, planning on how to break into my apartment the entire way. I live on the 2nd floor of a 4-plex. The building has a front and back door, both locked, a 2-tiered balcony on the front, and each apartment had a back and front door with separate stair access for each. I always thought of myself as a resourceful person, and a fan of MacGyver, so my first thought was that my back door to my apartment does not have a deadbolt and I might be able to pick it. I rang my downstairs neighbor, who let me in the back door of the building and I went to work with my credit card and an old hanger I found in the basement. Half hour later...the door was still locked and now I was officially late for work.

Next, I ventured outside to see how I could get to my 2nd floor window. The roof under my back window angles down to a reasonable height. I did not have a ladder, so I grabbed a gas grill from the backyard and set it up next to the building. This is one of those grills with the rounded top, and as it turns out, is much harder to climb onto than one would think. After 2 failed tries to mount the grill, I finally succeeded and stood there on a grill with my hands steadying myself on the roof. At this point, to get on the roof, I would still need to do a wicked pull-up with nothing to hang on to except a shingled slanted roof and considering the recovering alcoholic physique I have going, I saw no future in that, so I aborted the mission.

My next thought was the balcony. If I was on the top balcony, I could easily climb into my window. I walked out front, looked at it, and immediately knew there was no chance I was going to climb that thing, so that was out. I buzzed the only other apartment that had top balcony access, but they were not home. At this point, I caved in and buzzed my downstairs neighbor again. I asked to use the phone and if he had our landlord’s number, to which he luckily answered yes on both accounts. My landlord said he’d be over in half an hour.

He showed up. I got in. I grabbed my extra remote opener and headed back to my car. I curiously pushed the button on the remote just to check it out, and the little red light didn’t light up. Without panic, I kept walking, faster and faster, hoping the light was burned out. When I got there, I realized the light was not burned out and the battery was in fact dead. I went into the gas station, tried to explain to him my situation, and asked him to please not tow my car. He had trouble understanding me, since English was not his first language. He kept pointing to the other side of the store and saying something I did not understand. Of course, they did not sell the 3 Volt button-type battery I needed, so off I went further on down Lake Street.

On this part of Lake Street, there are hundreds of places to get a taco, but not one place to purchase batteries. So I kept walking. About 3 blocks later I remembered something my estranged wife told me a few months ago. “Eric, I put a new battery in the remote opener and it still doesn’t work…”

I kept walking until I got to the Target at Lake and Hwy 55.

I purchased the battery. I put the battery in and pushed the button…the light lit up! I praised my God, walked back to my car, and got to work 3.5 hours late.

Here is an awesome drawing of me climbing on the grill:

Straight-Up Mentally Ill

How lazy and/or depressed are you?

Well, I am this much lazy and/or depressed:

Yesterday while at my father's house, I remembered I was out of toothpaste. 100% out. Not even enough to cut the tube open and scrape out. The thought of stopping at Target or Walgreens and spending 5 minutes getting toothpaste made me hurt, so I grabbed a plastic sandwich bag and squirted into it some of my father's toothpaste, and pocketed it. Of course I did this without my father knowing. Now I have at least a weeks worth of toothpaste smeared inside a little plastic bag!
Here is an exquisite drawing of a tube of toothpaste:

Why Do Men Like to Ejaculate on Girl's Faces?

So why? Why are men wired to like facials? All I know is that we do like them, but why?

Here is an absolutely atrocious drawing of a girl wearing protective goggles:

______ Drove Me to Drink

Yes, my wife leaving me drove me to start drinking again, heavily. I don't blame her, well, yeah, I do, but I recently started treatment to stop abusing the ancient arts of puffing and chugging, and I'm doing it for myself this time. I went through rehab once before, but only because my wife told me she'd leave if I didn't. I did and she still left anyway, so that's the last time I make a huge life change for someone else.
It's been 8 days now and I'm still waiting to lose that beer weight, but I feel good and it's nice to go to bed at night knowing that I'll wake up in my bed, not in my car or on the balcony.

Dating Advice From My Friends

My estranged wife & I met over 6 years ago, so I haven't "dated" since then. I haven't had to ask someone for a number, decide where to go on a first date, flirt, compliment, etc for over 6 years! Honestly, I'm a little nervous about the prospect of rejection, but mostly about the money involved in dating. At my age, I should be putting my disposable income into a 401K instead of spending it at some fancy restaurant to impress a lady.

To help me in my re-entry into the dating scene, I asked a couple of friends for advice, here is some of the suggestions I was given. Keep in mind that I asked for good advice, not bad advice. I wonder if these people ever have 2nd dates...

Bill - "To break the ice when you're out on a date, refer to Indians as Punjab. Like you're driving to the restaurant and you see an Indian riding a bike, you'd say, "hey look, there's Punjab."

Johnny - "To find out if she's cool or not, give her a little smack right on her ass. Do it right away, like when you're walking to the car or from the car into the restaurant."

Thanks for the advice guys, I'm sure it will help a lot!

"Your blog is funny & cute"

I shared this blog with my therapist and she told me she found it "funny & cute".
She also told me she thought it would be "deeper".
At first I was a little hurt, but I guess she has a point.

At any rate, I thought I would make this blog a little deeper by sharing a story that I have never told anybody. It is a story wrought with deceit & anger.

When I was 15 years old, my mother woke me up for school at 7:30AM. The night before I told her I wanted pancakes for breakfast. After my shower, I walked to the kitchen and saw my mom putting waffles on a plate. "I hope those aren't for me," I said.
"They sure are. Now eat up, you're going to be late for school," she said.
I did eat those waffles, as thoughts of fluffy pancakes filled my head.
What sort of damage can an incident like that cause? It may be immeasurable, who knows, but it happened and I have to live with the scars for the rest of my life.

Here is a rendering of me eating waffles while thinking of pancakes:

My cat did not want the couch to be moved, but it had to be

Over the weekend I moved out of my old apartment that I shared with my girlfriend/wife/estranged wife for almost 4 years. I'll be honest, packing up all the memories, knick-knacks, photos, her sewing materials and such, made me want to drive down to Oklahoma and punch my estranged wife in the face. Rational? Not really, but I'm pretty sure it would have made me feel better.

What precipitated the move was the fact that I wasn't able to afford my rent after my wife left and took all the savings we had, so I was asked (forced) to move out on pretty short notice.

I packed on Saturday, moved on Sunday. As the night fell on Sunday, I was able to finish getting all of my stuff moved, but I did leave piles of garbage bags packed with shit I don't want, along with pieces of furniture I no longer have a use for. Since my wife is also on the lease, my plan is to send my landlord a letter explaining that the stuff left in the apartment is hers and to bill her for any clean up. Ethical? Who knows. Personally rewarding? You bet your sweet ass!

Here is a stunningly bad drawing of my cat "Monster" going ape-shit and gouging my arm while I tried to remove her from the soon-to-be-moved couch:

My Estranged Wife is Joining the NAVY!

My estranged wife, let's call her "Matilda", is a very liberal artist who questions the policies of the U.S. on a regular basis.
And now she is joining up to serve our country. She contacted me asking for all sorts of dates and for a copy of out marriage certificate. I asked why, and to my surprise, she said she is joining the Navy.
This news came as a surprise to say the least.
I can just see her now with her raw food diet and yoga teaching certificate following the orders of a 45 year old career Naval officer. Yeah right! Maybe she'll get the navy on a new yoga regimen and the U.S. Navy will become a more peaceful part of the U.S. war machine.

Here is scary-bad drawing of "Matilda" teaching a yoga class on the deck of an air craft carrier:

This Bar Smells Musty

OK, my wife has been gone for a week, my friends are sick of me talking about her, so I'm done. No more writing about her. I'm still looking for my balls, but now I can move on and look for them in someone else's bed perhaps.

Here's just a horrendous drawing of me in a bar chatting up a babe:

My Balls Better Not Be In That Suitcase!

The original title to this post was going to be "MY WIFE IS A LYING CHEATING WHORE,", but I didn't even have the balls to go through with that. I need to find my balls and reattach them pronto!

This morning I helped my estranged wife pack up her things into a U-haul truck. She had been staying with me for three weeks and it had been awkward to say the least. As I am said to see our union come to an end and to see her move out of the state, I am relieved that I can put away any thoughts of us reconciling. After all, she did cheat on me, lie to me, treat me like shit and leave me. It's my fault, but she basically treated me like a puppy and once I grew out of my cute stage, it was time for her to move on.

Here is a horrendous drawing of me helping her pack the truck:


Before she left, I asked her if she fancied a roll in the hay for old time sake, but she did not bite and off she went to the land of dirt and Christian colleges.

I think I made a big step today in finding my balls. I didn't grovel or cry. I didn't beg her to stay. I gave her a hug, tried to bed her, and said goodbye.

My Balls Are Not In The Hallway

Today I woke up in the hallway of my apartment building. After thinking a bit, I managed to piece together 2 facts about the previous night:

1. I left my apartment about 8:30PM to meet a couple of friends at the studio to jam. Not an official practice, just a session of grab ass.

2. I cracked open my first PBR and smoked my first bowl at approximately 8:50PM.

Then the next thing I remember, I'm waking up in my hallway with no evidence of foul play.

Below is a terrible drawing of me waking up in the hallway...