tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10132335054925676532024-03-05T05:29:38.760-08:00baby scabiesjacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-33392451928378872132011-11-22T12:11:00.000-08:002011-11-22T17:05:51.654-08:00My favorite person never comes to Thanksgiving anymore..Well, it's Thanksgiving again. Yes, the time of year when we give thanks for all the wonderful shit that we have. This year I am thankful to be rid of the Yaris. Yup, I did it, I finally traded in that emasculating little fucker for a giant, gas-guzzling, unreliable Land Rover — and I couldn't be happier. <br /><br />This year my mom is probably thankful, too. Thankful for her family that uninvited her to Thanksgiving because she stood up for her gay son. Because, unlike them, she doesn't believe that homosexuality is an addiction — like gambling or alcoholism. She believes it is a normal part of the evolutionary scale, like AIDS or a black president. Liberal. And you know, the more I think about it, I kind of think that gay could actually be an addiction too. I think I literally am <span style="font-weight:bold;">addicted</span> to gay. They are right! I mean, I want gay ALWAYS and in LARGE amounts. Once I start gay I can't stop. It affects my career, my choice of friends, my mood, my shoes. I seek it in dark alleys. I would blow someone for gay. Fuck. Paint me pink and douse me in poppers, bitch, 'cause I'm gonna sing me some Cher all night — or at least until these pills wear off!<br /><br />But really, what a nice lady, my mom. I adore her. But all this good-and-evil-family-drama-hubbub has got the old wheels turning again. Why do all the good people die first and all the shitty people continue to live on and on? Example: my grandmothers. The good one is dead, of course, but the wicked one is doing just fine, more than fine, really. I mean, think about it. Most good people are dead — with a few exceptions. <br /><br />So, what am I getting at? To live the longest we must be the biggest, most viciously heinous cunts the world has ever seen. We must say and do horrible things constantly. I've already got a head start on the majority of you, which means by the laws of the universe, I will be the one making snide remarks and racist comments during your funeral. You are welcome in advance. <br /><br />Think about it: Use this holiday to your benefit. Take my timely advice and put it to use on your family and friends this Thanksgiving. You'll thank me when I'm shaking your martini at your 102nd birthday, you wretched cunt-face.<br /><br />Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to run over your dog in my giant SUV. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpQIujV17StIkHfXQzJlYqFff2C6lU4IXheLmP2Vwj-lYJUuwtuSEKbbApK4oy6veA_NgC9pU-OiqAuq8qLDdfhv7eSIB0i_kV4CcP3Xo86iMRUHxDjJJOoeZlacZSftYL9HtI_g1ZFhn/s1600/HandTurkey_small.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 349px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpQIujV17StIkHfXQzJlYqFff2C6lU4IXheLmP2Vwj-lYJUuwtuSEKbbApK4oy6veA_NgC9pU-OiqAuq8qLDdfhv7eSIB0i_kV4CcP3Xo86iMRUHxDjJJOoeZlacZSftYL9HtI_g1ZFhn/s400/HandTurkey_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677990488251001314" /></a>jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-46689787194151178132011-09-21T10:25:00.001-07:002011-09-29T08:15:32.385-07:00In 1978, God changed his mind about black people.So, in case you haven't heard: I'm gay marrying Jon. If you haven't heard, you probably weren't invited to the wedding. Sorry about your luck. It doesn't mean we don't love you, we just don't love you <span style="font-style:italic;">as much</span>. Even so, please feel free to still buy us something. <br /><br />I invited my grandmother, my only living one, to the wedding. She's a devout Evangelical Christian. It's cute. She judges people for everything and feels pity for everyone because they are all going to Hell — while she is lifted up during the Rapture, next year. Meanwhile, she sits in her living room watching one-hour prime-time cop dramas and eats cookies that she stores in her oven — which she won't use because her dog is afraid of it. She has been single for fifteen years, as my grandfather died in the 90s. She doesn't date or leave the house, unless it involves going to church, bible studies, work, or McDonalds. Her house is stuffed to the gills with nick-knacks and she keeps a gun in her nightstand. When she dies, she plans to have her dog put down and buried with her. How Egyptian. <br /><br />Anyway, I invited her to the wedding. I guess I knew she probably wouldn't go. She could have come up with a laundry list of excuses, really. But, her answer came in the form of a letter. Throughout the letter she refused to refer to our wedding as a wedding. She would say things like, "this ceremony you've created", or, "this ceremony you feel is important". The letter went on with statements like: "these choices you've made" and "lifestyle decisions", blah, blah. In there were also a few "love you's", sprinkled in for good measure. The bottom line: She thinks I've defied the Lord Jesus Christ with my lifestyle choices and her attendance of our ceremony (wedding) would be supporting these inappropriate decisions. Cunty. I understand where she's coming from though. She's like 800 years old. There isn't much time left here for her on earth and she is really concerned about doing anything that would impede on her chances for Eternal Salvation. Her bottom line: don't fuck it up. <br /><br />I wrote her back explaining how I was glad she wasn't coming, as her presence would only sour what is to be a wonderful day. Seriously, I could imagine her sitting there, lips pursed, rifling around her purse for a half stick of clove gum, having a rotten time. So, why was I so mad she wasn't coming? I guess I'm not. I guess I'm just upset that she thinks my entire existence is a series of bad decisions. She also compared the situation of her at our wedding to me at her Bible study, as a way to relay how uncomfortable she would feel. Fuck yeah, I'd be uncomfortable at her creepy Jonestown Bible study, but its a weekly event of no real significance. A wedding is a once in a lifetime thing, one hopes, so comparing the two is absurd. My email response tried to explain that my sexuality is not a choice, although my decisions to act on it are, doesn't make it, or me, unnatural or evil. I also tried to put my relationship with Jon into perspective. Really it's all futile. She is old and close-minded and she isn't going to change. I tried my best to let her know how much she hurt me, but in the end Jesus will always win. She loves Jesus so much. So, I cancelled her hair appointment with me. I just couldn't deal. <br /><br />Jon and I have been on a whirlwind of vacations: New York, San Diego, San Francisco. What a blast. It's really made me hate Ohio and all it's small town mentality and bad restaurants. San Francisco, wow, what a fantastic place. First of all, it's fucking beautiful. Like retarded beautiful. And, it's filled with gays. How great is that? So, after returning from this land of Liberalness I had to deal with Granny Full of Grace. It was a total Midwestern overload. I had to put my foot down. Why should I have to deal with someone else's shit? 50% of the world, or more, thinks I don't deserve rights. So, why should I have to listen to my old-bag grandmother tell me that too? Or my aunt or uncle? Just because we are family doesn't mean I have to like them. I mean, technically they don't <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span> like me. Really, when you think about it, every other animal in the world doesn't hang out with their extended family, and if they were forced to, they'd probably just eat each other. This is how I can justify my situation. That, and they're a bunch of assholes. And who would even want to eat them anyway? They'd be all salty and self-righteousy. <br /><br />Puke.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-15231156117631558892011-08-10T15:12:00.000-07:002011-08-14T16:02:27.320-07:00Gay Realness<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5J_e0AtOA_K2NOZnbSyxwLhXqMlDJP1wWm9AoHTjOjBHiPEm7ydaUhYNuV7lZ4C5V-N5BkUzzxIz2MLzzZQ18yD4t_EVHBXEZ1U9K7gyZyCyL5SSsLBmA8eoEy1I9topq8o5OJfePvFh/s1600/christopher_guest_2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5J_e0AtOA_K2NOZnbSyxwLhXqMlDJP1wWm9AoHTjOjBHiPEm7ydaUhYNuV7lZ4C5V-N5BkUzzxIz2MLzzZQ18yD4t_EVHBXEZ1U9K7gyZyCyL5SSsLBmA8eoEy1I9topq8o5OJfePvFh/s400/christopher_guest_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639683197394547474" /></a>
<br />I had a realization today after walking into the disgusting Ace Hardware on the South Side. This creepy south-end-gay sales associate greeted me with a, "Can I help you find anything?" To which I replied,
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<br />"Caulk."
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<br />This hillbilly, who I might add, I could smell from a mere eight feet away, glared at me. I felt dumb. I just told some gross gay creep I was in the market for <span style="font-weight:bold;">caulk</span> AND I was wearing running shorts in public — which already makes me feel totally uncomfortable.
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<br />My realization? I am a self-loathing gay. I mean, this is clearly nothing groundbreaking. If you've read anything I've written in the last three years, or talked to me more than fifteen minutes, it is fairly obvious. I blame Ohio, not just being back here, but being born here. I guess its better that Iran. Sorry, Perry.
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<br />So, I decided I need to get over it. I need to <span style="font-style:italic;">own</span> my gayness. I need to "werk it out". I don't mean like waxing my eyebrows or lip gloss werk, I mean just get over myself. Get over my self-loathing-ness of my sexuality. This is going to be hard.
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<br />I went to my freshman orientation for <span style="font-style:italic;">The</span> Ohio State University. I felt elderly. Everyone there was eighteen and had both parents with them — which was totally weird. I mean, whose parents are still married?? The whole thing was so wholesome. I was hungover, of course, which I felt brought a real "grittiness" to the situation, which was much needed.
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<br />The orientation included speeches about parking, and dorms, and activities, and groups we could join — including a Quidditch club. It was queer. And to top it off, each PowerPoint presentation was sprinkled with "O-H" slides which we were required to cheer back "I-O". I think this was for the parents — something to get them jazzed about giving away half of their paychecks for the next four years. We were also given a buckeye. Which is a nut — for those of you who live in California — and the mascot of my new college, which is dumb, but not as dumb as my junior high mascot which was a specific type of plaid. Later that night, when I was drunk again, I saw the nut on the kitchen counter and for a very brief moment felt sentimental. I was pretty drunk.
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<br />I've been drinking too much this summer. It's been great. I'm really owning my drinking. I'm werkin' it, hard. That, after all, was my plan — have fun, enjoy life, etc. I've also been doing a little home remodeling. I decided to tile a few walls in the upstairs bathroom. Sounds simple enough, right?
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<br />What a fucking pain in the ass. I will never tile anything ever again. Ever. If I ever need anything tiled, I will hired a professional — or hire the Mexicans loitering around the Lowes. So, I don't know if any of you have tiled, but the process is something like: stick the tiles on the wall, grout, caulk, <span style="font-style:italic;">voila</span>. Let me just say, after days of rage and a hole in the dining room ceiling, the job is done. Yes, somehow I managed to burst a pipe in the floor which leaked into the ceiling below which now needs replaced. This reminds me of when I tried to work for my dad one summer — well, he made me. I was paying off a debit I accrued on a credit card I stole from him. I was a good kid. Anyway, one summer I "worked" for him. Mostly I hid behind packing material and slept on forklifts, that and chain smoked, but technically I was an "employee". One day I was driving the forklift back into the warehouse at full speed, chain smoking, forks up — unknown by me — and blew through the side of the warehouse taking with me a large eight by ten piece of warehouse wall. In my defense, I was probably still sleepy from the nap I had just woken up from. Later that day my dad asked me if I was gay at a Coney Island.
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<br />So, here I am. Step one of owning my gayness. I'm not really cut out for manual labor, so why do it? Maybe my dad was right. From here on out I'm totally gonna own/werk my inability to do manual labor.
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<br />So, South Side gay sales associate, that is the last time I will come for your shitty caulk. Werk!
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<br />Oh, but on a side note: I did decide not go to women's events anymore (ie. bachelorette parties, baby showers, etc.) because I am still a man. Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I need to be all acting like a woman and be pretending to give a shit about your baby. That is your mistake and I am certainly not going to celebrate that. Maybe if you ladies start having abortion parties I'll change my mind.
<br />jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-69284447002185189562011-06-07T05:44:00.000-07:002011-08-24T17:17:43.168-07:00The New RevolutionJon and I just got back from Puerto Vallarta — well, now its been three months ago. This was my third time and Jon's second trip. Let me tell you, if you've never been there, you're missing out. It's a land of magic — not just because every fourth block smells like garbage and someone asks you to purchase their wares — but because you can get anything you want. Anything. When a cab driver asks you for a ride and you decline, his next obvious question is if you'd like any cocaine. If this too is something you aren't in the mood for, he offers you a blow job. How nice is that?! The fact is, the people there are just friendly. The pharmacia, or <span style="font-style:italic;">pharmacy</span> to our American friends, is open to the public and anyone with an addictive personality is left feeling like a kid in a candy store. Muscle relaxers — buy one, get one free.
<br />The most amazing part of Puerto Vallarta though, is the food. After living in New York and Ohio — where Mexican food consists of cheese slices or "queso" (which is Midwestern for "plastic cheese sauce") — it is amazing to eat authentic Mexican food again. Even if it did first require me eating Pepto Bismol, Gas X and Immodium.
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<br />I graduated from community college. Some people asked me if I was going to walk in the graduation, I scoffed. I think it insulted them. Really? Two years of community college and I should be proud enough — and feel accomplished enough — to walk? I did get the graduation pamphlet complete with the FAQ (number one being: do the gowns come in extra large sizes?) which I promptly discarded. I was supposed to start at OSU this quarter but, alas, I remain at Columbus State, because my transcripts never made it. I say this like it was someone else's fault, but truthfully, it was mostly mine. So, I've started my hospitality management classes at Columbus State. My first class was food safety and sanitation. Our "professor" was in front of the class (which is in a 70s basement — which went well with his 70s mustache) next to him, written in yellow chalk: HOSPATALITY MANAGEMENT. It was all downhill from there. Our first major discussion was on food temperatures. The focus was then shifted to types of food.
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<br />"What is poultry?", he asks the class.
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<br />I never answer questions. It's far too much fun to hear what people say, and besides, I don't want them thinking I'm smart or they might follow me back to my car and steal my parking money.
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<br />"Poultry are things that fly.. well, with a few exceptions. Can anyone name poultry that can't fly?", said his moustache.
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<br />"Ducks", said a fat girl.
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<br />"Nooo, nope. Ducks fly."
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<br />"Chickens" , boasted the other fat girl.
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<br />"Nope, chickens do fly, not high, but they fly." This all being said while a six foot image of a winged chicken was projected onto the yellowed screen. "The ostrich and the emu, they are both ratites", his moustache explained.
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<br />"What!? You can't eat no ostrich!?", the fat girl barked.
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<br />The remainder of the class time consisted of everyone learning how and why people wash their hands. A concept that left most people bewildered. How one makes it thirty years without understanding that bacteria and germs are picked up from various things that you touch is beyond me. When you take a shit, little particles of shit can get on your hands. Then, if you're making a salad at the Applbees where you work, your shit gets in people's salads and <span style="font-weight:bold;">voila</span>, Norovirus gastroenteritis!
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<br />"I don't wanna be eatin' no people's shit!" Well, genius — wash your fucking hands!
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<br />The class ended with a debate as too which fast food restaurant was the best — there was a unanimous vote for Popeye's biscuits, which were compared to crack based on their deliciousness — and finished up with the professor trying very hard to explain that the Olive Garden is not fine dining. Everyone decided that because they put nice clothes on when they go there, it was considered fine dining. Why argue.
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<br />So, I'm taking the summer off. Mostly for my own personal sanity. I think I've reach my maximum capacity for idiocy in this lifetime. Let the summer begin!jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-71758030343747622482011-01-08T01:45:00.000-08:002011-01-08T05:41:20.523-08:00blog post number fifty three.It seems like only yesterday that I was writing a post about how it was going to be 2009 and how much I hate writing the number 9, and now look—it's 2011! Isn't that fucked up? Two years have passed and now we have less than two more to go before we all die a horrifying death in the form of a mass destruction of the planet Earth, or as the ancient Mayans called it: the end of the calendar. <br /><br />Zany. <br /><br />If this ancient prediction comes to fruition, then I should graduate from college and die at just about the same time. But for serious, things just keeping dropping dead in Arkansas and Louisiana. Did you read about this? Like hoards of birds and fish and bugs are dropping from the sky or floating up to the top of the water. It's very <span style="font-style:italic;">end of times</span>. So, maybe it's true. But isn't it funny how archaic that concept is? Like this idea of a vindictive, evil, smiting god, punishing us for 'saying his name wrong' or for having 'anal sex'. "And now I will kill all this shit because everyone is horrible!" And then we all throw a pig into a bonfire, rub mud on each other and chant. I have to agree with him though: People are horrible.. and pigs creep me out. <br /><br />Still, not to point fingers or anything, but isn't this really all your fault, god?<br />God, god. <br /><br />Of course, with my luck, the Apocalypse or whatever will totally come and you know I'll feel like a total schmuck if a giant white (Aryan) hand plunges down from the heavens on December 21st, or May 21st, or 1999, or whenever the hell it is now. And I'm sure all these people I know will be resting peacefully in the soft, giant, white hand looking down at me, mumbling amongst themselves, "He really shouldn't have been such an asshole."<br /><br />On to something far more important: my car. I still haven't sold my car yet—7 months later. It's madness. While out running errands the other week, I drove passed a large store front window and caught a glimpse of myself gliding by. I was instantly embarrassed—embarrassed like when you fart in front of someone or like that feeling you get when you watch people sing on TV. It made me feel like a woman. Like more of a woman than when I used to wear tiny pants and makeup in the 90s. Why is that? It's just a car.<br /><br />I started school again. My last quarter in community college! (noise of jubilation) In my geology class, as an "ice breaker", the professor made us all say our names, where we came from and something interesting about ourselves. I hate stuff like this. Everyone was like, "Uh, I'm from Lima, Ohio and I like dogs" or, "I'm from Grove City and I ride dirt bikes". I was trying really hard to think of something interesting about myself. Um, I like booze and food, laying around.. I don't know. Then he came to me: <br /><br />"I'm Jacob, I'm from Toledo. I've been a hairstylist for the last decade and lived in San Diego and New York City... and now I'm here"<br /><br />My professor: "Did you just make that up?"<br /><br />..silence..<br /><br />I then wished I could retract. (I like dogs, too.) Just saying the word 'hairstylist' to a bunch of hillbillies is like goosing a straight guy in a locker room. Needless to say, it caught them all off guard. I would have gotten a better reaction had I just said, "I'm Jacob, I'm from Toledo", then farted. Maybe I wouldn't have turned bright red.<br /><br />Why do I honestly give a shit what people think? I'm thirty. But at that moment I felt just as gay as when I drove passed the beauty supply store window and saw my large head blinking back from the reflection of my little black car. My testicles felt like little pink jellybeans. I've never really been one to care of what others think and I've never been particularly masculine, so why now does my gayness make me uncomfortable? The older I get, the more aware I become.<br /><br />The class turned away. My professor lifted his eyebrows and said: "So who's that one hairstylist in New York who charges like $1,500 a cut and flies in on a helicopter from the Hamptons?"<br /><br />I was like, "No idea."<br /><br />He was like, "C'mon, start throwin' out some names."<br /><br />"Yeah, no idea."<br /><br />I don't know who the coolest fucking hairdresser in the world is!? I don't even want to be a hairdresser! Why do you think I'm sitting in a geology class, learning about rocks, at 6pm instead of blow drying some bitchy old Jewish lady's hair? I was so embarrassed. I honestly have no reason to be, but I walked back to my tiny car after class, head hung low, squeezed in, and drove home listening to (insert gay song here), hunching at each traffic light just to see out.<br /><br />Did anyone ever stop and think maybe the Mayans weren't predicting the end of times but rather just felt they had completed a sufficient amount of calendar? Like, "Let's just stop here. I'm tired and we're all totally going to be dead before we get to use this whole thing anyway." I mean, not that I'd mind if we all died at the same time. I'd actually prefer it. I think one of my biggest issues with death is that life would only be over for me and that everyone else would get to keep doing fun things, like drinking or going to the beach, and I'd just be dead. Like being grounded forever. So, if a giant meteor was plummeting toward the Earth, I wouldn't mind. "Oh, how's our luck, you guys? Looks like we're <span style="font-style:italic;">all</span> going. Shoot." I'd actually find comfort in that. Does that make me selfish?<br /><br />As the ball dropped on the year 2010, while standing in a dark gay bar wearing ass-less chaps, I clinked my plastic champagne glass (filled with $2 sparkling wine) with Jon's and I thought: "You know, Jacob. Being gay isn't so bad. I have the most amazing partner anyone could ever find, a great little life—complete with a cute little house—and my ass looks bangin' in these chaps. And that's more than most heterosexuals could say, right? So, bring it on 2011, you bitch!"<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">snap</span>.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-73289595715608096392010-10-28T12:06:00.000-07:002010-10-28T10:00:58.681-07:00I'll get you my pretty, and little your brother, too!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV9S06JUAvzxoutTRrPqiEqePVTDIzaIww2UcqR942MeDHVlcEiDm1_QQMf2GMfkuyn7PKxQaGpOyyaYDeGAFb90-TgFTAbOLbq5PGSqtAJVquBwHm7mKW9aIwhk7fJBthUVmnU7MfvdwW/s1600/witchypoo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV9S06JUAvzxoutTRrPqiEqePVTDIzaIww2UcqR942MeDHVlcEiDm1_QQMf2GMfkuyn7PKxQaGpOyyaYDeGAFb90-TgFTAbOLbq5PGSqtAJVquBwHm7mKW9aIwhk7fJBthUVmnU7MfvdwW/s400/witchypoo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532725673233123058" /></a><br />When I was a wee lad all I ever wanted to be for Halloween was a witch—complete with pantyhose and an itchy black wig. I think this was my Halloween costume three years in a row, upon my own personal request, of course. In hindsight, it was actually pretty cool of my parents to let me do that year after year. I'm sure my dad loved it. Probably just about as much as when I'd put the Christmas tree skirt on like a dress and jump and twirl around our living room at Christmastime—a proud moment for any Midwestern father. Hm, isn't that interesting? Why do gay children have an innate desire for feminine things? Maybe that's a total blanket statement, but I think I'm having a revelation, people. I didn't have any sisters, and my mom wasn't particularly girly, so why the girly desires? I wasn't really exposed to it. Maybe it was an influence of all my female friends—of which I naturally gravitated to. Maybe it was the TV? I'm reading this book right now about how body pain and skin problems are the result of suppressed rage and I'm almost to the part where the reader, me, is going to uncover their, my, secret rage. Supposedly, something is to have happened in my childhood to spawn this unconscious rage—something I'm not supposed to know about yet. This is apparently some sort defense mechanism of one's subconscious in efforts to protect the conscious mind from emotional distress. What if something wacky happened in my childhood, like my mom dressing me up as a girl, taking photos and telling everyone I was a girl? You know, one of <span style="font-style:italic;">those</span> stories: like where some guy cries every night, "Why do I sit down to pee and can only 'get off' when I sniff high-heeled shoes!? Whhhhhhy?!" And then he finds out his aunt made him wear pink panties or something... nah, if anything I traumatized them by dressing as a girl and taking photos. I didn't technically "take photos". I made videos. It was artistic, you guys, not like porn or something. This is getting off topic. And I'm sure the real story is that my mom had to explain how the little witch was really her son, shrugging her shoulders and smiling to the perturbed neighbors. Maybe she should be reading this book. <span style="font-style:italic;">Anyway</span>, I'm sure my secret rage is a product of being a little feminine boy who grew up in Toledo, Ohio and was called 'faggot' and 'girly-girl' everyday and would come home and cry. Pretty depressing.. kinda like those gay teen suicides. Seriously, what's up with that? It's like that movie Suicide Club.. or Heathers, sort of. It seems so silly to just go and <span style="font-style:italic;">off</span> yourself, although, with the way the world is, maybe they just saved themselves a lot of heartache. Being gay kinda sucks. Where do you go? It's not like Jon and I could just move to some cute little town and stroll down to the general store to buy bread, or have a little potluck—the villagers would greet us with torches, not casseroles. Even New York isn't safe. Every gay person I know there has been called a faggot numerous times, plus there's all those crazy beatings, and those weirdos who tortured captive gays in their Brooklyn apartment, or whatever. The world doesn't like us—even if Ricky Martin, or Cher, or whoever, makes a viral YouTube video saying it's fine. It's not fine, Cher. So, I guess I should be happy I have parents who let me wear pantyhose, only if it was once a year, and who only slightly groaned when I was nancying about in that holiday tree dressing. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPXhHUZGfXcaaSkcJCThICq54t0HyByr9Ie8sK0oTB6Hksx9gXPzxHMPPCtNV-gE07vk0zfA4SCepJJi0ts6LjgEvL2bZhhTMVP0zvtE2zNZ5S9EL5gGsZVMZW-jum1vBl2zheXudXnZCg/s1600/witchpoon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPXhHUZGfXcaaSkcJCThICq54t0HyByr9Ie8sK0oTB6Hksx9gXPzxHMPPCtNV-gE07vk0zfA4SCepJJi0ts6LjgEvL2bZhhTMVP0zvtE2zNZ5S9EL5gGsZVMZW-jum1vBl2zheXudXnZCg/s400/witchpoon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532725830584299602" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvlHqjECQfNLhpcMfoZwMGpDRbfW6ykUlg0u3fGFSz6-61my9WC6uko4qGNBT8eH1MgGG9OSjAomsUlGh7CeCxSVZ7Hu9avrHeu0PK2iR-iukGhC0moi1_RML_xQN4VGbqrviXkosnP-_/s1600/favzies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvlHqjECQfNLhpcMfoZwMGpDRbfW6ykUlg0u3fGFSz6-61my9WC6uko4qGNBT8eH1MgGG9OSjAomsUlGh7CeCxSVZ7Hu9avrHeu0PK2iR-iukGhC0moi1_RML_xQN4VGbqrviXkosnP-_/s400/favzies.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532725997328112946" /></a><br />Speaking of gay Halloween costumes: Jon and I are going as Batman and Robin. Yes, I'm wearing spandex this year—in public. I don't know why I thought this was a good idea. I blame Jon. My head is way too big for spandex. I think this is because I was born c-section. I imagine my head as a Mylar balloon, all long and flat, and behind it: my body, trailing behind like a curly ribbon—more of an afterthought than anything. My Halloween costume exacerbates this misfortune. It also makes my face look all squishy and bloated. I'm not sure if this is because of the contrast of head-to-toe Lycra to the small amount of visible face flesh, or possibly the fact that my face is being squeezed through a tiny stretchy hole, or maybe it's just that my face is bloated and squishy. I, unfortunately, expect the latter. Not everyone can be Val Kilmer, you guys. Someones gotta be William Shatner.<br /><br />Tonight is "beggar's night", as my grandmother calls it. As a child, I found this term ridiculously funny. Growing up in a wealthy suburb, where the concept of people begging for food was so foreign and hilarious to me, I imagined "beggar's night" to consist of smelly children in tattered clothes with soot-smudged faces plodding door-to-door for tiny, garishly wrapped, sweet morsels of sustenance. Or even worse yet: smelly children with <span style="font-weight:bold;">no</span> costumes, holding dirty pillow cases slightly a gap, frowning for candy. Now that we live in Merion Village, this all makes sense. Full circle, as they say. So, hopefully no one tries to shoot us this year, tie us to the back of their red, white and blue pickup truck, only to drive us three houses down the street—where they would then fashion our arms into a gun rack. You never know, really. <br />Happy Halloween, you guys!<br /><br />Trick or treat! Thank you. (Although, nowadays I believe they omit the last part.)jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-65040392164813175822010-08-10T21:01:00.000-07:002010-08-11T05:43:18.094-07:00Dear Diary,I just realized it's been awhile since I've written anything, but not because nothing exciting has happened. Exciting things happen all the time in Ohio. Someone once referred to it as being "off the chain". Ok, so maybe that's a lie. <br /><br />I have never gotten the chihuahua's teeth cleaned. They are turning six this year. Eddy's teeth have gone from slightly moldly to completely corroded in a matter of six years, but that's like (6 x 7 =) forty-two in dog years and that's a ridiculously long time to ignore one's dental hygiene. This is also a lie. Jon has brushed both Eddy and Eva's teeth a few times over the last couple years — what a nice guy. I have always joked when people would ask, "Why don't you brush their teeth? Their breath smells like trash. That's disgusting.", I would chuckle and say with a shitty smile: "I'm just waiting for them to fall out. Teeth are overrated anyway." This too is a lie, well at least the shitty smile part, as my teeth are gleaming and white. Eddy's teeth, on the other hand, have begun to fall out. It has happened. This is it: the moment I have been waiting for.. and I couldn't feel more terrible. So what does one do when they let their pet's teeth rot out of their mouth? One writes a haiku: <br /><br />Her teeth are now brown<br />They have fallen to the ground <br />To the Swiffer they stick<br />Me=dick<br /><br />Ok, so maybe it was more of a limerick — and I'm pretty sure you can't use 'equals' in a haiku anyway as it is a mathematical symbol and in that form contains no syllables. How's that for a mind-fuck? The point is I feel bad and her teeth are scratching the hardwood when I'm trying to clean. <br /><br />I'm reinventing myself. I know, you're all like: You are perfect, Jacob, everyone wants to be you. I know, you guys. Thank you. No, but really. I decided to sell my car and buy a truck. Well, it was Jon's idea originally, but I stole it.. the idea, not the car. I think our household would benefit from a truck and I hate my car. I feel like a total fag driving it. It's like riding around in Adam Lambert's hair — but with wheels. The problem now is selling it. No one else wants to drive Adam Lambert's hair either. I don't blame them. It would be a perfect first car for a semi-wealthy teen girl from the suburbs — most likely a hockey cheerleader. I need to market to this niche. <br /><br />So, I guess I was over-exaggerating when I said 'reinventing'. <br /><br />Can you believe it's August? Me neither.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-59941478085311075172010-04-18T07:07:00.000-07:002010-04-19T08:18:20.975-07:00Over HungI am so hungover. I blame this on George for buying us those ridiculously tall drinks and forcing us to drink them, what a jerk. Despite this minor setback, I have managed to muster up the brainpower and drive to write this blog while drinking my morning coffee, stomach still churning from the Taco Bell I ate at 1 am. Today I am asking myself some important questions about life. First, why am I eating Taco Bell at 1 am when I'm almost 30? It's 90% plastic and I'm not 15. Second, what am I doing with my life? Work, school and a night of something fun every third month? I have to keep in mind that I'm working toward a goal. This will all be worth it.<br />School is killing me. I find myself reverting back to the blasé attitude I once had in high school. This quarter I'm taking biology and statistics. Believe it or not, the biology is the worse of the evils. It's not the subject matter as much as the people in my class and the professor. Everyone in my class believes evolution is a lie because "people just want to argue"— I won't even go there today.<br />My professor looks like a child rapist. He's gray, his skin that is, not his hair. He doesn't have any hair, not on his head, no eyebrows, pretty sure no eyelashes either. His lips are thin and purple as he sips coffee from a pre-war thermos lid and sucks on Halls cough drops at the same time while pacing about in his JCPenney polyester navy blue suit. He wears a pair of glasses from the 70s that the lenses have yellowed to a shade of nicotine and his eyes fix on yours for just a little too long to be comfortable. Oh, and he's the most boring person in the entire world. On the first day in order to better remember us, he says, we must announce our names as he "takes our picture"— with his creepy little video camera. Everyone sort of looked at each other like, is this a joke?. The girl next to me, Juana Steal (seriously), responded with a "huh, uhhhh."<br />Eventually, after the torture is complete, I will graduate and become a hospitality manager and will need something to manage. Jon and I have been discussing possible locations for our bed and breakfast/inn and have come up with a few. And here they are, in random order:<br /><br />A) Vermont, the least religious state in the US.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCgRBL3k2y5UGILZcUDgTUyHtaegwX1VBHvk-9Y6WOU_acUVysPF1ca56vtNYedRmHT0a6uePyr7nMDO3HueveJes663tmMzmtjDY_TtvUuajOxbD1j8rkEYXrduV9kOQ5Bel82HCjdnnH/s1600/vermont2aa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCgRBL3k2y5UGILZcUDgTUyHtaegwX1VBHvk-9Y6WOU_acUVysPF1ca56vtNYedRmHT0a6uePyr7nMDO3HueveJes663tmMzmtjDY_TtvUuajOxbD1j8rkEYXrduV9kOQ5Bel82HCjdnnH/s400/vermont2aa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461479260013118770" /></a><br />B) Puerto Vallarta, the most funniest city in MX.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-sFmfagAwyqw0uAVYxSp2hQ4JCoETmIhl2BCbXzPrdSAdFd5XK7RBCLkbRSC4l23mBqQEA8rNowAfIoE1kYgPzPZWieX77klLXTCXnc6xK8aaaszLzO_Ep2sWr4BcnH76iOS5HvPetw-h/s1600/mexico-puerto-vallarta-s.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-sFmfagAwyqw0uAVYxSp2hQ4JCoETmIhl2BCbXzPrdSAdFd5XK7RBCLkbRSC4l23mBqQEA8rNowAfIoE1kYgPzPZWieX77klLXTCXnc6xK8aaaszLzO_Ep2sWr4BcnH76iOS5HvPetw-h/s400/mexico-puerto-vallarta-s.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461479254442027410" /></a><br />C) Sonoma, where wine comes from.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9IwNTLTm-jdfN7urdhGKDe8qQaFv-vxAokY4q-FBsSyU_dwzwdl_5ONv5V8EsHku_P2B7dM_yzwpv57ehYj-dzG8LSnfD-uFMCN3TC0Rsvc3tI11SSyv5GPY56tlbbHdaDKvFVxgO7d0/s1600/sonoma.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP9IwNTLTm-jdfN7urdhGKDe8qQaFv-vxAokY4q-FBsSyU_dwzwdl_5ONv5V8EsHku_P2B7dM_yzwpv57ehYj-dzG8LSnfD-uFMCN3TC0Rsvc3tI11SSyv5GPY56tlbbHdaDKvFVxgO7d0/s400/sonoma.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461479246977972530" /></a><br />D) Cape Cod, I don't know, because it sounds nice.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvwyADj5R3_eCKF1bcNEUjoKvkjaPy5bmkQjNsDFgX6_1XWftz3gZOy9Bc45BVMMPuVH4AxZZ0ERT5F-umsNNhelvl5vWliUQKIzhxo7iW6-0hpSEkLWCYI2Gk0agZKxtFjNOLqlYs12k/s1600/cape_cod_beach.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvwyADj5R3_eCKF1bcNEUjoKvkjaPy5bmkQjNsDFgX6_1XWftz3gZOy9Bc45BVMMPuVH4AxZZ0ERT5F-umsNNhelvl5vWliUQKIzhxo7iW6-0hpSEkLWCYI2Gk0agZKxtFjNOLqlYs12k/s400/cape_cod_beach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461479237127839074" /></a><br />E) Ohio, oh my god, I'm totally joking.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wqOhL8hieTmf81-JE0EWWa4ZdhUVCPrtkmcgT9gS-o5xrRKedjQ2rssSSn3yBg4rdYQv_k0eV11RblsgvsD3_KDpBGaz6jMdRt1q81VPKBFD3t6ykKNIcthnoeJXPmxrZeN8tyAVVruf/s1600/i71ohexit233_03.JPG.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2wqOhL8hieTmf81-JE0EWWa4ZdhUVCPrtkmcgT9gS-o5xrRKedjQ2rssSSn3yBg4rdYQv_k0eV11RblsgvsD3_KDpBGaz6jMdRt1q81VPKBFD3t6ykKNIcthnoeJXPmxrZeN8tyAVVruf/s400/i71ohexit233_03.JPG.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461479405010054802" /></a><br />F) The Adirondacks, where they make those chairs.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zXy4wORH-FQybIQX4mmjsP7ENy9bsvGueAQjpoGITg05LI1MLyJMlB9yvYATORpYFRkzKrnz5o1qUl_dNZxFqHD0QtwpBg0hP1rfETy9ePfs2TkQQ4dlaFHTHRH01orRFL1L-7weokg2/s1600/hidden-lake-in-adirondacks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2zXy4wORH-FQybIQX4mmjsP7ENy9bsvGueAQjpoGITg05LI1MLyJMlB9yvYATORpYFRkzKrnz5o1qUl_dNZxFqHD0QtwpBg0hP1rfETy9ePfs2TkQQ4dlaFHTHRH01orRFL1L-7weokg2/s400/hidden-lake-in-adirondacks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461481761394852402" /></a><br />G) Louisiana, that place where all that water was.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTfdMLOzn4A5t5xt7UbIrcT_ptYQu69udi8vLquXd2thlRoffCecJNULfnyAbqC9Sj7zgdybLKNSMJ47cBBeeSUMHuaB-cS26SCSGfLWEi-7xnWEhSc98beZ4MpvbkGWepYlH-S9xzARU/s1600/nature1.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNTfdMLOzn4A5t5xt7UbIrcT_ptYQu69udi8vLquXd2thlRoffCecJNULfnyAbqC9Sj7zgdybLKNSMJ47cBBeeSUMHuaB-cS26SCSGfLWEi-7xnWEhSc98beZ4MpvbkGWepYlH-S9xzARU/s400/nature1.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461621840200792162" /></a><br />What are your thoughts?jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-73279542183335946682010-02-23T11:13:00.000-08:002010-02-23T17:05:53.490-08:00No One Wants to Sit Next to the Gay Kid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyWbFaH8A4NBS1DpWpyDKuXKL5gob0cw4UCyYeUIj3lAHKWYXIoE1xUYG5ASz0DksF26cHWy8d7Qb-eCsUSd0qsQIEgXl_5w9yhRfMrbXl2hoMl5zIaN4RdMJR2cwB3IEphZ6SVutLshZD/s1600-h/A9212769-D39F-9DD1-FFB9C5208F5EA3B3_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyWbFaH8A4NBS1DpWpyDKuXKL5gob0cw4UCyYeUIj3lAHKWYXIoE1xUYG5ASz0DksF26cHWy8d7Qb-eCsUSd0qsQIEgXl_5w9yhRfMrbXl2hoMl5zIaN4RdMJR2cwB3IEphZ6SVutLshZD/s400/A9212769-D39F-9DD1-FFB9C5208F5EA3B3_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440761076778097010" /></a><br />My math class is full of dudes, twenty seven to be exact, and only three girls. It's a business math class, the foundation for the school of business, accounting, etc. I am the only gay one. Well, there was another gay guy, but he dropped out, leaving the seat next to me open. <br /><br />Everyday I take my seat as the rest of the class slowly files in; everyone choosing a place to sit. Eventually, it gets to the point where all the seats are taken, except the one next to me—guys choosing floating chairs and the option of doing math problems in their laps, avoiding my neighboring spot. I know I don't smell. I shower twice a day, floss and brush my teeth three times a day. I'm also not a paranoid person—unless it comes to self-diagnosed Internet health issues—so I know I'm not making this up. What the hell? Is my gayness oozing out my giant pores and wafting through the air like deer pheromones? I'm gay, but am I really that gay? I mean, I stopped wearing tiny pants and foundation at the beginning of the new millennium. I don't get it.<br /> <br />Sometimes I think we forget how socially unaccepted gay people still are—especially in the God-fearin' Bible Belt. People just don't like gay people. I read this gay news blog every morning, <a href="http://www.towleroad.com/">Towleroad</a>, it's pretty crazy how many gay people are beaten, murdered or prejudiced against every day. It's sad. Everyone should be ashamed. Jesus would be rolling over in his grave, if he only knew. Oh, and did I mention the guys in my class are all fucking gross? I don't know what they're so worried about. I wouldn't touch any of them with a ten foot pole. I'm pretty sure they eat McDonald's everyday and the classroom smells like a junior high locker room. Oh, and the roly-poly-neck-roll-boy in front of me smells like ham.<br /><br />My theater class smells too. The kid to the left of me has the aroma of slightly soured milk. To my right, there is a girl named Chardonnay. She smells like cigarettes and Bath and Body lotion. In the class, we read plays and analyze them. Chardonnay was terribly disappointed when she came to the realization she wasn't going to be acting. She likes acting. She also likes snapping and popping her gum continuously, that and playing with her multiple gold earrings, sliding them back and forth through their holes rubbing past the callous lumps that once housed bacterial infections. She can get you free cable. She also hates Alicia Keys because she never told anyone she was biracial, so now she feels mislead and won't listen to her music anymore. For Valentines Day, her boyfriend sent her a Valentine from the state penitentiary. She doesn't like him anyway and her other boyfriend made it up to her by giving her a rose dipped in real gold. In front of me sits a young man that looks strikingly similar to <a href="http://urbanfrugalchic.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/beetlejuice.jpg">Beetlejuice</a> from the Howard Stern Show—no joke. He likes to itch his cornrows through his do-rag. His heart was broken recently and he plans to use this raw emotion in our upcoming class project. He told me only moments after gargling his Mountain Dew. <br /><br />The other day I was thinking about a world without homosexuals. I really think people wouldn't know what they had until it was gone, you know? Just think of all those cute parts of town that were made cute simply because gays were the only ones brave enough to live there, redoing all the houses, opening coffee shops, opening faggy art galleries. Gays make cute parts of town. They also design clothes and make pretty hair. In fact, most beautiful and creative things are made by gays. I know that's totally stereotypical and kind of a stretch but it's still kinda true. So, if Christian Republicans had their way and all gays were exterminated, like in Uganda (which is my prediction for the next presidential campaign), just think how depressing the world would be? You heteros would have to eat at Olive Garden or Chili's every night, wearing burlap sacks, with six inch roots and you'd have nothing to talk about except what happened on Two and a Half Men the night before (because it would be the only show left on TV). Boring, and the food at Chili's is gross. And just think of what would happen to New York City? All those girls who moved there to be Carrie Bradshaw would be wandering around crying and wondering why there is no one to make their pink martinis and to design their four-hundred dollar shoes.<br /><br />The Romans and the Greeks accepted gay people, back before Christianity was made up. It was normal back then. Thousands and thousands of years ago. They invented plumbing too, you know, and where would be without plumbing? Swimming in shit, that's where. And where would we be without all the gays throughout history? Leonardo DiVinci? Plato, Socrates, Michelangelo? Sir Elton John? Sir Isaac Newton?? Do you think a heterosexual would have ever noticed gravity? And I bet Alexander the Great wouldn't have been so Great if he weren't a fag and I'm sure no one was "not sitting next to" Aristotle when he set the stage for the future of physics and mathematics. <br /><br />Just think about a world where all gay people, everyone in fact, could be happy and encouraged to succeed. Maybe Virginia Woolf wouldn't have walked into that river with pockets full of rocks if she had a dyke softball team to play on. And poor Eleanor Roosevelt wouldn't have been forced to have all that sex with fuddy-old-Franklin. The world could have been an even better place, a cuter place.<br /> <br />I'm not pointing fingers, but Christianity is a bit like the irresponsible parent who only feeds their child spaghetti-o's and tells them one side of the story. Unfortunately, until someone tells that parent that they're unfit, this whole mess perpetuates. I know it seems like I am always picking on religion, but it really is what is keeping the gays as second class citizens. Christians need to realize that we are just as normal as straight people. Gays exist throughout the animal and insect kingdom as part of the evolutionary structure and the natural world. It is fact, just as the earth is round, not flat, and the planets revolve around the sun, and that our solar system is in a galaxy that is one of millions in the universe. See what I'm saying? This is the way it is. I don't care if you think Jesus made it this way or microorganisms grew feet, but this is the world and gay people are a natural part of it. We have always been here. I know I can't prove my gayness is innate, just as you can't prove your God is real. You're "faith" is just as good as my word. So for now, we must try to live harmoniously—or at least until I figure out a way to "misplace" the 650 billion Bibles in the world. <br />In the meantime, I guess I'll just enjoy the elbow room.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-4191385106378406572009-12-21T13:34:00.000-08:002009-12-23T16:19:51.893-08:00'Tis The Season<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0uqCncIS_eli4J6aj1fejvMqeu7Wv4Td4tJTb_zLnKCNqpgJq0Bpzr-iiv7-lQQdoB6CsgVnzaHYTthoA-yfCh6A-TmkHqSSaVLStRWEcdMqfs7Ydo95_V07t1E30Uxcef0PE5rBVyEy/s1600-h/santaGAY.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0uqCncIS_eli4J6aj1fejvMqeu7Wv4Td4tJTb_zLnKCNqpgJq0Bpzr-iiv7-lQQdoB6CsgVnzaHYTthoA-yfCh6A-TmkHqSSaVLStRWEcdMqfs7Ydo95_V07t1E30Uxcef0PE5rBVyEy/s400/santaGAY.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416290196742138018" /></a><br />I finished my first year of college.. and it only took me ten years.<br /><br />Speaking of school, I have been informing people of my <span style="font-style:italic;">new</span> decision of not becoming a nurse. It's interesting. Some people haven't taken it so well, namely my clients. I'm all, "Oh, I'm not going to be a nurse anymore." And they're all like, "Oh...". And then I'm thinking, "Were they really that excited for me to be a nurse?".<br /><br />Christmastime is just around the corner. You know what that means.. 'tis the season for giving.. or stealing if you live in the Merion Village area. Someone stole our Christmas wreath. Someone stole one of our pumpkins, too. The wreath though is far more personal, and expensive. I imagine it was some drunk headed home from the Red Brick Tavern down the street. Or maybe the guy two houses down who looks like he should be on Intervention. Or maybe it was the creepy extended family whose residence is directly across from ours, the ones who never smile/wave when we smile, wave or say hi to them. Either way, it is gone. Just like the baby Jesus after he was stolen from the manger.. or the rock cave. We bought a new wreath, well Jon bought the new wreath, and he also fastened it to the door with a series of tiny nails and six feet of wire. The other day we had 40 mph winds and the wreath stayed put, clinging to the door like baby cow clings to its mother before it is sent to a processing plant to be turned into hamburgers.<br /><br />You know what else it 'tis the season for? Assholes. And I am one of those assholes. I have zero patience. I did all my Christmas shopping online this year. Wow, so much better. SO much better. I did have to go out for wrapping paper though.. to the Container Store. Usually they have a good selection. Not this year. And everyone there was totally creepy. Ohio is full of scary people. Plus, I had to take the highway to get there, which I never do. <br /><br />I didn't ask for anything this year. I'm selfless. I did however make an Amazon wish list in case someone wanted to go out of their way and buy me something, so they might know where to find the $1,600 bed frame I wouldn't mind getting, if they felt so inclined. If they felt like GIVING this time of year when people GIVE things. <br /><br />Over the past year I have learned a lot, partly because I'm enrolled in community college, partly because I live in Ohio again, but mostly because I'm fucking astute. Is anyone following world gay politics? Have you heard about this wacky shit in Uganda? Giving gay people the death penalty for being gay? Do you know whose idea this is? The Ugandan government, you say? No, 'tis Christianity. Many years ago missionaries came to Africa to spread the word of God and to tell people not to wear condoms. White Christian Americans came waddling into the bush. Preachers convinced Africans their culture was inferior and bribed them with Western luxuries like SUVs and Nintendo Wii. Now look what happened!? Seriously, what would Jesus do, you guys? Why would God make gay people? To be executed? What '<span style="font-weight:bold;">tis</span> the point? It's like when Christians burnt "witches". Do you honestly ever think there were actually witches? Couldn't they think of something better to do with ugly women than to label them as witches? ("Dorcas Goode is a witch! She ate my baby!", "I did not!") It just goes to show the ridiculousness of the human race is never ending. Which brings me to my point. I have learned a lot this year, a lot about people, humans. I have learned all my life I have given them far more credit than they ever deserved. The human race gives itself far too much credit. 'Tis the season to give, everyone. Stop giving <span style="font-style:italic;">yourself</span> so much credit and start giving it to <span style="font-style:italic;">me</span>.<br /><br />Jesus was a socialist. My religion professor said that and I think, yes, yes that is true. The funniest part was watching Christian/Catholic/Mormon people in my class face's wretch in disgust. It's funny, when you think about it.. Jesus totally would have been a socialist, if real bodies of government were established at the time, which there weren't. He stood for the people, equality and peace. In fact, he was a radical in his own time, hence nailing him to a cross. If he were alive today and was in line with the current social/political/economical state of the United States/world I bet every Christian would hate him. They would think he was a total radical and then they'd nail him to a cross. It's funny then that his teachings could be so wildly misconstrued to what they are today.<br /><br />So, this Christmas let's follow the teachings of Jesus, not the words of Christians. Because this Christmas I think Jesus would really like some world peace, maybe some water to turn into wine, and perhaps some healthcare for everyone, but certainly not bigotry, a four-wheeler and a copy of Sarah Palin's 'Going Rogue'.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-27309217171964492412009-10-14T08:59:00.000-07:002009-10-14T18:02:53.080-07:00I cried when I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. And then I laughed...really hard.I don't want to be a nurse anymore. The other day I was cutting this revolting man's hair, who had a large stain on his shirt, and I thought to myself while choking back vomit, "Could I put a catheter in this man's penis hole? Or wipe crusted poo flakes from his hairy anus?". And much to your surprise, that answer was no.<br /><br />To some, changing one's mind could be seen as a weakness. To me it's a learning process of self-discovery and awareness. That and I want to do something more funner. <br />Jon and I have been discussing opening a business of sorts for some time now. Our original thought was a long term goal of owning a bed and breakfast somewhere in Mexico or New England. Later, we considered starting here in Ohio with a fancy booze store. Then the idea branched to a specialty foods store or a breakfast joint. So, you see, the possibilities are endless.. as long as there's funding.. and a business plan. So, that's what I'm going to get a degree in, owning something.<br /><br />I will be meeting with my well-trained, randomly selected, advisor here at the Columbus State Community College and they will point this gleaming vessel of hope, me, toward yonder thar' future. <br /><br />I have no idea what I'm doing.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-67815970576407077122009-09-18T18:30:00.000-07:002009-09-18T15:51:46.941-07:00Church Of Thine Bottle Of Wine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjnK3faQtkX0IURQ27hys4KpBcN4bukY1rooIWUJN4Av3FyLT3i4HRwq4Sllv69nzCHWkw1-33QQgaGrogfiIdgxsqAkKSvEYY4SHHTbfHYFCPkm_C34EcNYrYz6s06XjA7m-xgXia0rlY/s1600-h/mjjesus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 347px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjnK3faQtkX0IURQ27hys4KpBcN4bukY1rooIWUJN4Av3FyLT3i4HRwq4Sllv69nzCHWkw1-33QQgaGrogfiIdgxsqAkKSvEYY4SHHTbfHYFCPkm_C34EcNYrYz6s06XjA7m-xgXia0rlY/s400/mjjesus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374371400274385682" /></a><br />I know everyone is probably sick of me talking about religion, but it really burns me up, no pun intended. After watching <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fq9G44tomKY">this ridiculous youtube video</a> (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Up1a1zKqbAk">and this one</a>) I got an idea. I'm going to start my own church. I'm already a reverend, that was easy, so why not create a house of worship? I could use my church to preach hate to anyone who will listen. The best part is I won't have to pay taxes on it. I can buy those lamps I want, more pants and plenty of potato salad all tax free! In thine name.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0WH3rCnS0NPAkPtUCZVmgnPohwn1cvADnBTca-obmBKbfVqj4r5egoKNzWT0oq25Xvnf8qTnuHWpoTAo43ZJwP8wz2FRPrAN5QbZTlERj-_4gMkiR94QIjSU29iBlivNQ4EEByeylmdKf/s1600-h/ChurchService1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 345px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0WH3rCnS0NPAkPtUCZVmgnPohwn1cvADnBTca-obmBKbfVqj4r5egoKNzWT0oq25Xvnf8qTnuHWpoTAo43ZJwP8wz2FRPrAN5QbZTlERj-_4gMkiR94QIjSU29iBlivNQ4EEByeylmdKf/s400/ChurchService1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374663729177107650" /></a><br />I will be needing a large building, perhaps an airplane hanger to put my church in. The bigger the better. More people = more money = more teachings of the reverend, me. <br /><br />We can all gather on Wednesday nights (because there's nothing on TV) and make wishes. We can wish for money, no war and brain cancer for Sarah Palin. Jon will make baked goods and we will sell them for my church and then I will take the money and buy that Tempur Pedic mattress I want. Afterward, we will go around the room and everyone can complement me. People will ask: "Are you in the movies?", and I will chuckle as I dump a fifth of vodka into the communal cup/bowl. We will watch scary, horror movies and drink the blood of me, wine: a Bordeaux, or claret. Then at the end of the night we will sacrifice a bratty child from the suburbs. Crucifixion is passé, so we'll have to think of something more 'current', like maybe we could tape its cell phone to its head until it forms a tumor. Time consuming. Crucifixion it is!<br /><br />We will hold car washes and whilst washing we will liberate money and electronics from people's cars and sell them on eBay to raise more money to buy whiskey for "Whiskey Night", which will undoubtedly include pudding wrestling or an underwear contest.<br /><br />I'm really not sure why I didn't think of this sooner. <br /><br />Today the Westboro Baptist Church was out protesting with their "God Hates Jews" signs for Rosh Hashanah. Why wouldn't Jesus hate Jews? He was a Jew, and who doesn't have a little self-loathing around the holidays? <br /><br />"Happy New Year, Jesus!" <br /><br />"Shut up, I hate you."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEoEt8UctED_iu_Qqk2l_2tupkUonRVqRMFbdpBOcqkRErMcBMsP2O8ck61LvDxOkKd5t1mimiR4rVIGIf22ZtBhyjM7dQg-mhyphenhyphenb3ccWQiebf04_qgAo0sntOdpbyhAOtvKZnbi0xEuFbD/s1600-h/tumblr_kpxx9nEk1k1qa3xbjo1_1280.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEoEt8UctED_iu_Qqk2l_2tupkUonRVqRMFbdpBOcqkRErMcBMsP2O8ck61LvDxOkKd5t1mimiR4rVIGIf22ZtBhyjM7dQg-mhyphenhyphenb3ccWQiebf04_qgAo0sntOdpbyhAOtvKZnbi0xEuFbD/s400/tumblr_kpxx9nEk1k1qa3xbjo1_1280.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382930072702372050" /></a>jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-22856875169028702702009-09-14T06:31:00.000-07:002009-09-14T14:56:20.762-07:00RecessionMy hair is falling out. Well, mainly around my hairline. I tell people this and they roll their eyes. It's a very personal thing, hair loss. As in, I think I'm the only one who cares. That is until I have no hair left and then people will begin to stare. "Look at his big black eyebrows contrasting against his shiny pink forehead", they will say and "What a shame", they will say. I'm thinking about buying Rogaine. You always wonder about stuff like that, what it will do to you in the long run, other than possibly grow you some hair? I believe its original intent was to treat hypertension or heart disease. So, in all actuality, it is a side effect, like diarrhea or death. Either way, once you start using it you are stuck for life because if you were to stop all your fuzzy regrowth would disappear back down the shower drain. Commitment. I knew this day would come. Everyone in my family has always been a little short in the hair department, even the ladies.<br /><br />The other day I also noticed the beginnings of a granny armpit. Does anyone else have this? Women do, older women and me. It's that delicate patch of softer skin in the front of your armpit. At the right angle it looks shapeless, wrinkly and geriatrically ladylike. It's not the whole armpit, just that spot. I've noticed it when the elderly wear tank tops. <br /><br />I'm not even thirty yet. What happens in twenty more years? Superfluous ear hair? I guess we'll never know seeing as the world is ending in 2012. The Mayan calender and PBS says so.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-11468463414288943342009-08-21T06:56:00.000-07:002009-09-14T14:55:45.545-07:00Bitchin' in the KitchenPolitics. Something I know pretty much nothing about. The House of Representatives, Parliament, log cabin, cherry tree, Oprah.. I don't know. I know I don't have equal rights. I know I can't have Jon's health insurance in the state of Ohio without lying to insurance companies. I know that the United States likes to bully other countries, so I am forced to care about ridiculous, stupid politics. I know I would probably care more if I had a 401k or stocks or worshiped Christ. Is there a way to opt out of America? Not that I hate it, I don't. Why does Canada have to be so cold, and Mexico so dirty? Sweden isn't taking new residents. I wouldn't either if I were Sweden. I would brush my silky blond hair and point and laugh at everyone, if I were Sweden. <br /><br />You wonder if we'll all blow each other up over politics. Will that be how it ends? Either that or the earth will just eat us up or wash us away. The sun is burning out, you know. I just read something on CNN.com about how the sun is losing its heat spots. It's dying. Maybe that's why it was 60 degrees all July. <br /><br />Anyway.<br /><br />So, I went shopping the other day at the hipster haven known as American Apparel. I didn't buy anything. I decided I didn't want to support their ever-cheapening-ill-fitting-irregular clothing business. What happened? It's awful. So, they're sweatshop free? Then who's making these clothes, one eyed, one armed immigrants? Maybe they need a little child labor in China. At least they'd beat the child if it made a shirt with one sleeve bigger than the other. So I went to Target to look at tshirts. What a joke. Why is everything made for squatty, fat men with fat, stubby arms!? I'm not looking for clothes that fit me perfectly, but kind of would be nice. It got me thinking. President Obama should enforce some sort of clothing law where all clothes are to be made for healthy active sized persons. That way people have to not be fat asses or they won't get to wear clothes. They would be shamed into wearing moo moos. I think this is a great idea. They shouldn't be making shirts that fit over small buildings, it's only encouraging people.<br /><br />Today I met with an advisor to discuss my future college classes, something I hate doing, seeing how the advisors don't really seem to know much about anything. I am sitting in the waiting area when I hear the conversation behind me.<br /><br />Man one: "Hey, would you still talk to yo brother if he became gay?"<br /><br />Man two: "Yeah, I guess."<br /><br />Man one: "What? You'd talk to a gay guy?"<br /><br />Man two: "Uh, yeah dude, he's my brother."<br /><br />Man two: "That's fucked up. You'd talk to him if he became gay?"<br /><br />Man three: "Yeah, dude. He'd probably know tons of chicks."<br /><br />Man one: "Yeah, but he'd know way more dudes than chicks and the chicks he knows could be dudes. You could be all doin' it with some chick who'd be all like, I'm a dude. Dude, you can't trust gay guys."<br /><br />Man two: "You wouldn't talk to your brother?"<br /><br />Man one: "What!? Dude, that's fucked up. Fuck no, he'd prolly want to rape me."<br /><br />I really wanted to turn around just to see how ugly he was.<br /><br /><br />Dinner time!jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-12228147599686128912009-07-07T12:30:00.000-07:002011-05-25T20:16:57.844-07:00blog post number forty two.Michael Jackson is being remembered today, in a stadium. <br /><br />Yesterday this angry lesbian on my facebook made a comment about MJ saying, "If I molested little children, I'd rot in jail, which is exactly where he deserved to be". Hello! I mean, those little kids weren't going to molest themselves!? Anyway, child abuse makes you stronger. And I think lesbians belong in jail regardless of who they touch. I would have let Mr. Jackson put his bony, bleached fingers anywhere for a few million. Did he really even do it? Seriously. It's been so long I've forgotten. When people die others tend to forget the bad things they did in life. I've forgotten. Adolph Hitler, what?<br /><br />Jon is taking it really hard. He bought the entire Michael Jackson catalog on iTunes and will occasionally have bouts of sadness. We've been listening to MJ music for weeks. It's actually really good. How depressing, I will never get to see him in concert. Jon said there was even a 3D portion in the concert for Thriller. Jon knows everything. <br /><br />Oh, we bought a house. I haven't let myself get truly excited about it yet, considering our last experience of losing our home. It's super cute. It's the second one we bid on and it's way nicer than the first. Which reminds me of that old American proverb: "First is the worst, second is the best, third is the nerd with the hairy chest". I'm not exactly sure what the third would have been. Let's hope we don't find out.<br /><br />Is it just me, or are you waiting for MJ to reappear? Like Peter Pan on cables, flying about in sequins or dangling more babies off balconies. I now understand why people think Elvis is still around. It's hard to believe that's it.<br /><br />Death is annoying.<br /><br />I'll bet Farrah Fawcett is so pissed she didn't hang in there for another week. Michael totally stole all her attention. She even went through the effort of making that whole documentary about how she was going to die. What a jerk.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-77968182181111292192009-06-07T19:13:00.000-07:002009-06-11T12:09:04.110-07:00Excuse Me, Are You A Homeowner?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgounXitLUGokXQiyuxd8C6qPASDJAojbArETsIpJBjeS8kc-NOUaZkmlF-eDr5nJCbjwtYXiN1Oa0LfO_Dn2jdrL6DUwyLV58S8qfgvhCGXyJiEvLkg2_BlDiqeLRSOEUGfZ4H0DIum5eF/s1600-h/header_leftGutter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgounXitLUGokXQiyuxd8C6qPASDJAojbArETsIpJBjeS8kc-NOUaZkmlF-eDr5nJCbjwtYXiN1Oa0LfO_Dn2jdrL6DUwyLV58S8qfgvhCGXyJiEvLkg2_BlDiqeLRSOEUGfZ4H0DIum5eF/s400/header_leftGutter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346144096096465010" /></a><br />Someone actually asked me that once, only it was in reference to being a homosexual. People are so fucking creative.<br /><br />Schools out, schools out, teachers let the monkeys out. My mom used to sing that to my brother and I at the end of every school year. It was cute.<br />I got a B in Anthropology. My teacher was a cunt. Of course it was her fault, not mine, because I do everything right. I also got a B in Math, which is fucking annoying because I had an A until the final, which is worth 40% of your grade. It flawed my pretty 4.0. I blame Jesus for not answering my prayers. Nice one, JEEZUS.<br /><br />We are on the house hunt. It's kind of like House Hunters, but more real-er and more stressful. And without Susanne Wong and her bangs. <br />Last week we got the house of our dreams for a total steal, 30,000 bucks off the list price. We went out to Barcelona for dinner to celebrate and mid (second) martini toast our real estate agent called to tell us we didn't get our house. And to make things worse, the calamari was overdone. Lame. So we did what any sad persons would do. We went to the ghetto liquor store and bought $150 worth of booze. We picked up a fancy bottle of cognac (mostly to make the black folks at the booze store super jealous), but the time our sad asses got home, we realized we didn't have proper cognac glasses. The night was getting worse. So, a very angry Jon began violently scrubbing what was left of our wine glasses, they were our only hope. Needless to say, the glass broke and Jon's booze-thinned blood went squirting out into the sink. I put my nursing aspiration knowledge to the test. (I haven't taken any nursing classes yet, so I wrapped his finger in gauze and tape) I am a miracle worker.<br /><br />It's a week later, and after the anger and sadness wore off, slightly, and we managed to polish off all the booze, we've decided to make another offer. The house is super cute. It has a balcony off one of the bedrooms. Enough said.<br /><br />Cross your fingers.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-30624419474770665572009-05-17T15:09:00.000-07:002009-05-17T17:22:15.500-07:00The Big Top<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SCbQ8jkqQ-317FLsOhNBX-AokIYj_0zomLssV2yS2V4VqKO4RK_VdcLxhR4txCIsmoqXFDQ0LjbH_O2nLQuVhjgzCm8MsCG_JMWXoJPTM2f8xhnb3GXW87hB80qPU70biwIRg7e1hevx/s1600-h/2653447300_a76a3bd217_o.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3SCbQ8jkqQ-317FLsOhNBX-AokIYj_0zomLssV2yS2V4VqKO4RK_VdcLxhR4txCIsmoqXFDQ0LjbH_O2nLQuVhjgzCm8MsCG_JMWXoJPTM2f8xhnb3GXW87hB80qPU70biwIRg7e1hevx/s400/2653447300_a76a3bd217_o.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336947669166143650" /></a><br />Jon took me to the circus today to see his friend Lauren perform in the trapeze act. I haven't been since 1986. It was actually quite entertaining. I left feeling pretty happy, but now I'm feeling sad. What is that you say? Did my Xanax wear off? I wish. Just watching people do something they love doing, something totally exciting and interesting, always makes me reevaluate myself and my goals. It kind of made me wish I was in the circus. I was trying to envision myself in a lycra bodysuit flipping around in the air or riding a mini motorcycle round and round in a giant metal ball. I would look super retarded in a lycra bodysuit. But how exciting!? The music would definitely get old, same with the corny clown shtick, as it got old after only two hours, but I've always loved performing. I'm just not that great at it. I don't have a true talent. Although I am pretty good at lots of things, I'm not necessarily <span style="font-style:italic;">great</span> at anything. What a downer.<br />Sometimes I wonder what I would be doing if my parents really pushed me in any certain direction. If we didn't live in the United States with all its gender roles. Would I have found my true passion at a young age? Would I be a tap dancer? Or one of those creepy pageant kids? Or a pole vaulter? I guess we'll never know..<br />Now I'm going to be a nurse, something I'm not very passionate about. It's more of a secure career move that I thought would be interesting. But that's not a bad thing, right? Being practical? It's no flipping around on a moving horse though. Boring.<br />The animals at the circus made me sad, too. Not the trick dogs, they were having <span style="font-weight:bold;">so</span> much fun, but the others. Do elephants really like standing on their heads? They seemed to be enjoying themselves. It did invoke weird, dark, old Disney movie scenes, like Dumbo's mom dying. But, I guess you do what you gotta do in these though economic times. An elephants gotta eat.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfT0GNPC2EMUVa_eqqQsBYrl9Be1edxpV4tDQztAdFsq8ZcWXMAAFHsuJ4oOVRajz62-zPvgwdGRkTPdrck7aGks6K0KZMLHJLYF7mzbLW5zKuRsjf4tWLfXfyYbQptvCTHV5xtD2eDgC/s1600-h/over_the_top_001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlfT0GNPC2EMUVa_eqqQsBYrl9Be1edxpV4tDQztAdFsq8ZcWXMAAFHsuJ4oOVRajz62-zPvgwdGRkTPdrck7aGks6K0KZMLHJLYF7mzbLW5zKuRsjf4tWLfXfyYbQptvCTHV5xtD2eDgC/s400/over_the_top_001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336947666864907426" /></a>jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-58618834107703584072009-05-13T10:05:00.000-07:002009-05-13T10:46:13.780-07:00BOMA<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoVvLo1HT3KXtGgVrcGt6GSLfCzAqmxVrTtQ12DxgpCSVODXZRypI8uW88A0A0b1NH2cfpunUECpkibrMfW3zzZbn2_ix5hktM-cqUtcqZohK2zHH66Tpq5UnAcEhK7Pnc2wSsKLkiXjU/s1600-h/boma.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipoVvLo1HT3KXtGgVrcGt6GSLfCzAqmxVrTtQ12DxgpCSVODXZRypI8uW88A0A0b1NH2cfpunUECpkibrMfW3zzZbn2_ix5hktM-cqUtcqZohK2zHH66Tpq5UnAcEhK7Pnc2wSsKLkiXjU/s400/boma.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335362872567265570" /></a><br />So, Perry Shoar bought Jon and I tickets to see Hercules and Love Affair at BOMA, or Bar Of Modern Art. Well, it turned out to be a DJ set, which is totally gay. It wasn't Perry's fault. He can't read. So we go to this Bar Of Modern Art. It's in an old church in downtown Columbus, which sounds cool, but it wasn't, at all. If you're thinking Limelight, you're totally wrong. The inside looks like a church, with a dance floor and funeral home carpeting. There were giant fake flower arrangements everywhere, those and douche bags. It was pretty bad. We made a b-line to the bar and ordered our drink, which the bartenders didn't know how to make. While we were standing there this little fourteen year old girl walked up.<br /><br />"Hey guys."<br /><br />No one looked at her.<br /><br />"You guys ready to dance? Party? Get crazy?"<br /><br />At this point I'm pretty sure Perry grunted at her and said, "It's ten thirty."<br /><br />She was ready to party, in fact she could barely stand.<br /><br />"Go away." Perry mumbled.<br /><br />I noticed a tattoo on her arm that said "Belle". I said, "I assume your name is Belle?".<br /><br />"No. (one eye open) That's my daughter's name.."<br /><br />Oh my god, she has a child and she named it after a Disney princess.<br /><br />"You guys ready to party?? It's mother's day tomorrow! You gonna dance?" (stumble, stumble)<br /><br />At this point I believe Perry was trying to physically push her away, but she stood her ground and ordered another beer.<br /><br />"Is that a Yoda tattoo?" the bartender said.<br /><br />(one eye open) "yeeah." said the fourteen year old mom.<br /><br />"That's a sweet Yoda tattoo." said the bartender, "Oh my god, I love Star Trek. Are you going to see the new one?"<br /><br />At this point we made a break for the patio. <br /><br />The rest of the night just kind of spiralled downward. There was a fire pit, douche bags in head bands, lumpy fat girls with underwear lines in tiny dresses and even a conga line on the dance floor. In a way, the people watching was well worth the ten dollar ticket.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-68594380653985563782009-05-12T08:55:00.000-07:002009-05-12T09:02:55.281-07:00Shit is Growin'!Jon took lots of lovely photos of all the life going on in our yard. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVXLi0XTyvQjC1MLE7VdPWJAV1B6WYJ5oZZabRC5gRDjCuv0KTtanCr8I2EIQ0XZlHoeKcIegXhilD0bzadbm76J0rbpHI76Ylq7Gk_5eC05FeBffgIQAjwW2dyUmtHCZLzDc5UPi1ZTX2/s1600-h/web.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVXLi0XTyvQjC1MLE7VdPWJAV1B6WYJ5oZZabRC5gRDjCuv0KTtanCr8I2EIQ0XZlHoeKcIegXhilD0bzadbm76J0rbpHI76Ylq7Gk_5eC05FeBffgIQAjwW2dyUmtHCZLzDc5UPi1ZTX2/s400/web.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334967153395684338" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTj7uui8WLdxRhOCtkMcHAunggIv8OdqxBsWLqp57yqYQtN30aKw4mi6YaIuMNOJ5gRIavMelXMgUheS3pf9O0LthHOFKdAFwagUKKpqQNiYAqqjC0oQPyAL2a3LphMXGv5McbQhcnvNF2/s1600-h/web-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTj7uui8WLdxRhOCtkMcHAunggIv8OdqxBsWLqp57yqYQtN30aKw4mi6YaIuMNOJ5gRIavMelXMgUheS3pf9O0LthHOFKdAFwagUKKpqQNiYAqqjC0oQPyAL2a3LphMXGv5McbQhcnvNF2/s400/web-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334967149501730498" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5cU9eav-hUT5iuTof5d-vUK50lesBTQIB4CHbETwWS8xtKftVkORycKbIehFgOv3N5RkF7KuyjtTxUDJmkQcYhBKwvscnn9wMm-a-C8qx-InrOMIKp0Z0GH7Y_UJ_gLv3ja9HjtBPVJKh/s1600-h/web-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5cU9eav-hUT5iuTof5d-vUK50lesBTQIB4CHbETwWS8xtKftVkORycKbIehFgOv3N5RkF7KuyjtTxUDJmkQcYhBKwvscnn9wMm-a-C8qx-InrOMIKp0Z0GH7Y_UJ_gLv3ja9HjtBPVJKh/s400/web-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334967149392606002" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicx-8mwCJaHv9zDU7imT9uN5t6g8ez4fKbhaYSYkceUfqoNEaKwGqUIzC7O0VaMvpl-dfjLJ2wejUgTy9npo7ktLBf2dxqwwaWHH_Kvxmpd5GjEVi7nqRbF1ML85ZKP0dp9NQLilLm9Dny/s1600-h/web-3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicx-8mwCJaHv9zDU7imT9uN5t6g8ez4fKbhaYSYkceUfqoNEaKwGqUIzC7O0VaMvpl-dfjLJ2wejUgTy9npo7ktLBf2dxqwwaWHH_Kvxmpd5GjEVi7nqRbF1ML85ZKP0dp9NQLilLm9Dny/s400/web-3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334967147652344354" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS677ajODX5F0OIZWPsOGs0Yg3_wYr6zOKxIqRlbQglDGl5vTMJYcs1cznfxN-1SgjBw7z5GDDUYVG844DExnIJVE4hSRbusbhH0RUOjksAcsQS7GgaDk87oqs0lZWV2nboufbqa4HoVSW/s1600-h/n509115983_2570945_4446858.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS677ajODX5F0OIZWPsOGs0Yg3_wYr6zOKxIqRlbQglDGl5vTMJYcs1cznfxN-1SgjBw7z5GDDUYVG844DExnIJVE4hSRbusbhH0RUOjksAcsQS7GgaDk87oqs0lZWV2nboufbqa4HoVSW/s400/n509115983_2570945_4446858.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334967143642090642" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRx9jphcJ7P-0T48Q_lLm3nPpg4UEmq36MZaZANTEi7OmlMe0rml0PFgWdxd87cMaYf8JoVYD18v3saYOAA6qx2jcSDAWlyLi99nDbGXJIwYUJYxiXKJBi8wlcImLUbi6xLvhFviMAe7I/s1600-h/IMG_5731.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZRx9jphcJ7P-0T48Q_lLm3nPpg4UEmq36MZaZANTEi7OmlMe0rml0PFgWdxd87cMaYf8JoVYD18v3saYOAA6qx2jcSDAWlyLi99nDbGXJIwYUJYxiXKJBi8wlcImLUbi6xLvhFviMAe7I/s400/IMG_5731.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334967738834049810" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTBe1aZ9ijE48LDrVGfzRz0PjZ_N9gDRJdKMd9OnP4kyg2UHV8QjJhO0rZExLWS3iKM2ZmJRGSxs82HrCFf45S6KPIv_PU7S32SA2GcWNwGfvek5uoPWYwWcxmIgjT-uaynZya1Lfszmv/s1600-h/n509115983_2562080_59912.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgTBe1aZ9ijE48LDrVGfzRz0PjZ_N9gDRJdKMd9OnP4kyg2UHV8QjJhO0rZExLWS3iKM2ZmJRGSxs82HrCFf45S6KPIv_PU7S32SA2GcWNwGfvek5uoPWYwWcxmIgjT-uaynZya1Lfszmv/s400/n509115983_2562080_59912.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334967735952370898" /></a>jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-87352610167162788362009-04-27T15:05:00.000-07:002009-04-29T14:51:59.201-07:00Opposite Marriage is KeyI'm sorry everybody, NO OFFENSE, I just feel the need to say this..<br /><br />Miss California is a cunt. If I hear one more person say she was brave for standing up for her faith, I'm going to tear my ears off. She is not brave. She is an idiot. <br /><br />And all this, "No offense, that's just what I believe". <br /><br />Yeah, no offense, I believe I'm better than you and I don't think you deserve equal rights, no offense though.<br /><br />"Why are you mad? I said no offense. I'm just saying what Jesus said". <br /><br />Christianity breeds stupidity. It says, "Don't think for yourself, we'll do the thinking for you". Listening to a pastor tell you his interpretations of an ancient book and then going out in the world and hating/judging people based on someone elses interpretations is ludicrous! Religion is absurd! People only believe it because they are terrified of the truth, terrified of the "consequences". When we die, we die. That's it. No heaven full of puffy clouds, no bearded white man telling us what a great job we did on earth (for hating and ostracizing groups of people). Do we really think it could be that simple? Heaven? Puh-leease. What a joke. The world is made up of tiny atoms floating in a galaxy in space and we think a man is sitting in a cloud watching us and giving us rules to follow? Fucking dumb. So funny the human race thinks so highly of itself. That we out of ALL creatures deserve to put ourselves on a pedestal, destroy our planet and each other, all in the name of "faith". So, Miss California, I hope the next time you're at the Walmart, buying tampons for your stinky cunt, that someone pulls you out back, pops one of your eyes out and fucks your socket raw, depositing a large AIDS-filled cum wad inside. Because that's what I believe. Retard.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIdqPl0hQbqQkUaZMw6B_FS8EXcfrFo_igQ8GI3laVl0bTTbHvdBkAKRcXxyASsGs1_XjmfvpgIJWbCqudLNDfe0VqfBbrHWGFm7VKOGa1tmzq6vzS90-zZ68dC7rr1BbEIJK8lEgQETK/s1600-h/Carrie_Prejean.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIdqPl0hQbqQkUaZMw6B_FS8EXcfrFo_igQ8GI3laVl0bTTbHvdBkAKRcXxyASsGs1_XjmfvpgIJWbCqudLNDfe0VqfBbrHWGFm7VKOGa1tmzq6vzS90-zZ68dC7rr1BbEIJK8lEgQETK/s400/Carrie_Prejean.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329821734800673874" /></a>jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-37923785289005800022009-04-23T12:07:00.001-07:002009-04-23T12:35:31.869-07:00blog post number thirty six.Last night I dreamt I delivered a baby. I don't remember whose, someone I went to high school with, I think. It was so traumatic I woke up. I remember a few things about this dream, one being the smell. I can only describe it as "sweaty anus turd", which is what I think is what was happening when she was pushing out the baby. I was asked to deliver the baby because I was a nursing student, which is funny because technically I'm not even enrolled in a nursing program, yet. The possible ex-high-school-cohort was belly down on what looked like a folded down back seat of a car. I was pinned behind her, against the back of the car, but supposedly we were in a hospital. She was really quiet and sweaty. She pushed. I let the baby fall onto the floor, which was really close because we were in a car/hospital. I had to choke back vomit as someone else cut the cord. So, I guess all in all I didn't really deliver the baby as much as was trapped behind a shitting woman who pooed a baby. I woke up and my legs were sweaty.<br /><br />My math class is the weirdest. The other day in the middle of a lecture, this zitty little boy one seat over, started nudging me. "Hey, are you a cop?", he said. I was like, "In the village people?". No, really I just sat there and stared at him. I said no. He was like, "Wanna buy some painkillers?". I thought hard for a minute, stared at his creepy prepubescent mustache, and said no. Ever since he hasn't stopped talking to me. The other day he brought in his photos he took while serving in Iraq. Pictures of dead bodies in the road smeared by tanks, random body parts strewn about. Why is he showing me these? Totes creeps. So, if you try to call me someday and I don't answer, I'm probably tied up in his basement in Whitehall. <br /><br />Oh, Jon and I are opening a bed and breakfast in Puerto Vallarta, fyi.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-63063989565497082272009-04-09T06:37:00.001-07:002009-04-17T05:00:05.722-07:00Easter<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilruSKHlQq4XEmitqVMgVKr7tPkuQ1cjcyTusTiP0CysXgVOMbmtoGflsUNBCdrSKLyWN4IDMMgAFRQuwVjdZ6lE4sFSUlhpw-a7xXDvSNfWjkX1m8vWZ9mUKagftj5oo_QueAutRBkjxp/s1600-h/zombiejesus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 360px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilruSKHlQq4XEmitqVMgVKr7tPkuQ1cjcyTusTiP0CysXgVOMbmtoGflsUNBCdrSKLyWN4IDMMgAFRQuwVjdZ6lE4sFSUlhpw-a7xXDvSNfWjkX1m8vWZ9mUKagftj5oo_QueAutRBkjxp/s400/zombiejesus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322685319257344834" /></a><br />It's here again. The time of year when we celebrate Jesus rising from the dead and hiding colored eggs around town for children to find.<br /><br />Some two thousand years ago, when people were created of dirt. There was a lady who gave birth to God's son through the process of immaculate conception, or sex without touching. Jesus was magical and everyone hated Him for it, so they nailed Him to a cross. He died. Jesus was then wrapped in a sheet and put in a rock cave. The next morning Jesus' friends came to rub Him with spices, but alas, His corpse was gone. Where did It go? Later that day His friend the prostitute saw Him, claiming He rose from the dead, but no one believed Her because prostitutes are often crazy. Later that day two other people saw Him on their way to town, but they didn't know it was Him, because He had taken on a new shape (more magic). Finally, magical Jesus appeared to some disciples and told them more magical things, right before He was whisked up to heaven to sit on God's right hand.<br /><br />Remember this story this weekend, remember the true meaning of the holiday. It's not about money and jellybeans, or brightly colored eggs, or that claymation special where everything looks kind of fuzzy like felt or something, but it's really clay from the 60s. I love that one. The real meaning of Easter is magic... and gullibility... and zombies.<br /><br />Happy Easter.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-63837899961503431482009-03-25T13:31:00.000-07:002009-03-25T11:04:48.871-07:00p90x<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBldUFIJj_Co8s6jkzpXUMvi1xjh9P0rkieeOrVPAgijzl4IiTKA7wR2yUHxIGyRjpZgPv2Puw-B8SLmJc7cdQHlKIhM12EfL1pLVPwNvbQVnvhEKXNelNS1-6uSObajXqBcKr50lLvHIN/s1600-h/080713_vintagefitnessdevice.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBldUFIJj_Co8s6jkzpXUMvi1xjh9P0rkieeOrVPAgijzl4IiTKA7wR2yUHxIGyRjpZgPv2Puw-B8SLmJc7cdQHlKIhM12EfL1pLVPwNvbQVnvhEKXNelNS1-6uSObajXqBcKr50lLvHIN/s400/080713_vintagefitnessdevice.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316429622188575602" /></a><br />After two whole months of swimming at the YMCA, I remembered that I hated it. Poor people, scrotum pool water and buzzing florescent lights is no way to spend any part of a day. So, I have decided to take the <a href="http://www.beachbody.com/product/fitness_programs/p90x.do?code=GOOGLE_SEM_P90X&gclid=CP6RiIyEupkCFQrFGgod-lXB5g&ef_id=1908:3:s_32545c9892e22acb52743badcf473685_3336511693:QYZrb0GvMaAAAG-XGq4AAAAD:20090323215033">p90x</a> challenge. The first part of the challenge was spending $100 on workout DVDs. The second part would be watching them. <br /><br />Step One: Watch video entitled "Bring It". Done.<br /><br />Step Two: Take "before" photo. Check.<br /><br />Step Three: Get completely ripped. <br /><br />Hopefully this won't just be more "magic beans", (ie: Occilococcinum, The Master Cleanse, Herbal Supplements, Perfect Push up, Dr Gillian McKeith's 24 Hour Detox) as I am know to be a sucker for that shit. <br /><br />Living in Ohio again is a total trip. Sometimes, I admit, it can be a bit depressing, like, are you people living in a bubble? Why do you say expresso instead of espresso? Why do you need to add an "s" to the end of every business or restaurant? People are larger here, portions are bigger and very rarely do you need to move. In fact, this must be a huge market for those electronic scooter things. So, I'm doing the math. This+that-scooter=trouble. I don't want to be fat, so I must work out. And while I'm at it, I want to not have twiggy arms. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1eumBg8-efLiT5JMll_LCHXo6I9dkASw_dXtYjbRpUDMFx6qfNOV3NLTF_XS2jVS9m-l4vi6L0Sv60mV_angPBbnVpZTySY2FT4k36Ozdd4RI7MXRmS4QvfMLo2JTVsWL6KXi1H86Kmb/s1600-h/before2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1eumBg8-efLiT5JMll_LCHXo6I9dkASw_dXtYjbRpUDMFx6qfNOV3NLTF_XS2jVS9m-l4vi6L0Sv60mV_angPBbnVpZTySY2FT4k36Ozdd4RI7MXRmS4QvfMLo2JTVsWL6KXi1H86Kmb/s400/before2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316837627135898898" /></a><br /><br />Update: I "brought it" this morning with the Chest and Back DVD, as well as The Ab Ripper. Look out, you guys, look out.jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-50943605618688260352009-03-23T08:11:00.000-07:002009-03-23T14:57:56.710-07:00Logan, OH<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba-TzwsqbdojrPk3KlVF6YABydCVDlsMDMNCrRnpYExY0Wrw0sd9_2gRs7kzGXhhJ-2lTr_3kV7ByH_UrDCkagxY-txaQXqt6JIk_8XwrELKX8Llo7Q4YavwM4oWJ_miQJ8uFKh8ReMIQ/s1600-h/logan.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjba-TzwsqbdojrPk3KlVF6YABydCVDlsMDMNCrRnpYExY0Wrw0sd9_2gRs7kzGXhhJ-2lTr_3kV7ByH_UrDCkagxY-txaQXqt6JIk_8XwrELKX8Llo7Q4YavwM4oWJ_miQJ8uFKh8ReMIQ/s400/logan.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316411084894902018" /></a><br />This past weekend Jon and I went an hour south to the Hocking Hills area, located in Logan, Ohio. I'm not really into camping, well that's not true, I hate camping, but staying in cabins I can do. <br />So, Jon took me down for a belated Valentines gift and in celebration of the end of my first quarter of school.<br /><br />Our cabin was located atop a large hill accessible only by a long gravel drive, that we soon discovered was only able to be climbed by driving Yaris at full speed, with a "running start", as not to get stuck in holes. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7VHmrOQDHOOBuu3voZlHQhMEcSTLstuNmI7LynVx4VWGULvr2vkTT-SnifQdwGeOWN2WzkwF4nYWwmjvP5-zLED2dSiihMewpdt2eSbmrSyKwzQVCrhTv2VECgTl1r1AhQhZ1QFYsd-o/s1600-h/road.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7VHmrOQDHOOBuu3voZlHQhMEcSTLstuNmI7LynVx4VWGULvr2vkTT-SnifQdwGeOWN2WzkwF4nYWwmjvP5-zLED2dSiihMewpdt2eSbmrSyKwzQVCrhTv2VECgTl1r1AhQhZ1QFYsd-o/s400/road.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316447608365986418" /></a><br />The cabin itself was situated on its own 30 acres of land.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKujkh_O8CiF8fdnkV2b9RFFpxRB-JIKKkC6bQDtyNhHQkmAUqc4a0FSrt-tL7OVCFByr9qwnr4g2oWkiECF1eQikKWo6Hn4WjoXUAmwKdDCtl25HfmENx0kl0-ZhgW63p365aeN2_0y4G/s1600-h/cabin1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKujkh_O8CiF8fdnkV2b9RFFpxRB-JIKKkC6bQDtyNhHQkmAUqc4a0FSrt-tL7OVCFByr9qwnr4g2oWkiECF1eQikKWo6Hn4WjoXUAmwKdDCtl25HfmENx0kl0-ZhgW63p365aeN2_0y4G/s400/cabin1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316447599268639586" /></a><br />Everything is still dead here in the Midwest, so it looked like the set of a horror movie. Fantastic!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzNscSrPUh1PZ5DOjgnSNSAno3sEcajt5RQ7HMVlMbpkhpN2_kWkhCp6iLxf5UiVJvMPZpwNUJOkyAqlbkxj35BKSGosV5iAWkh_EptNu-Yn59eEpvIlgltmTBlfKvTgQI-0SJX2qpjo9/s1600-h/cabin2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRzNscSrPUh1PZ5DOjgnSNSAno3sEcajt5RQ7HMVlMbpkhpN2_kWkhCp6iLxf5UiVJvMPZpwNUJOkyAqlbkxj35BKSGosV5iAWkh_EptNu-Yn59eEpvIlgltmTBlfKvTgQI-0SJX2qpjo9/s400/cabin2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316447594614771106" /></a><br />Jon immediately made himself comfortable on the porch.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmAPX3Xv92F6mRPUG1U48mUP3CdtJZ_NLB2sBRs0Vi9JeBhEM7dRSkpAQj3n-wVGTH2hrm5uEH9So1NMxNDlrJo4H0lZO8ci-1RfRtT1ryUwPxv9Oj3s5N7Umr0Hx3uvlQPb0nAUQKypB/s1600-h/railing.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGmAPX3Xv92F6mRPUG1U48mUP3CdtJZ_NLB2sBRs0Vi9JeBhEM7dRSkpAQj3n-wVGTH2hrm5uEH9So1NMxNDlrJo4H0lZO8ci-1RfRtT1ryUwPxv9Oj3s5N7Umr0Hx3uvlQPb0nAUQKypB/s400/railing.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316447578501618482" /></a><br />The kitchen was very rustic. There weren't even cabinet doors. Like early settlers!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqBJzjleH6JTFyH38bYfNirdUITwL-K14xdcIUGIIFLVg1Qww1gmFsUQQy0IPsOCNrhdMUsXH40MhaZ9WSEshPtqsY87lOxwwq7_uRlTphz1sGD_NrmPbJ7jeS4ZsLR5OHQN86CFmg9Bbq/s1600-h/kitchen.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqBJzjleH6JTFyH38bYfNirdUITwL-K14xdcIUGIIFLVg1Qww1gmFsUQQy0IPsOCNrhdMUsXH40MhaZ9WSEshPtqsY87lOxwwq7_uRlTphz1sGD_NrmPbJ7jeS4ZsLR5OHQN86CFmg9Bbq/s400/kitchen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316451062803237010" /></a><br />There also wasn't a television.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTV_i_-38RqNtjIXWTo_w8na6JO-douvcVoAXfch0Bj1_WdPM_hRvXKShryDZFu4wzGU5jPWk3CTdGSK3Nm3EGs-vip6UO-RBzQETKdTcLmBNMaQs2lFcVzWXyB0xWordbCkKdbua2t8w/s1600-h/loft.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTV_i_-38RqNtjIXWTo_w8na6JO-douvcVoAXfch0Bj1_WdPM_hRvXKShryDZFu4wzGU5jPWk3CTdGSK3Nm3EGs-vip6UO-RBzQETKdTcLmBNMaQs2lFcVzWXyB0xWordbCkKdbua2t8w/s400/loft.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316451062286221522" /></a><br />Or a shower! We were definitely roughing it.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMFJ0_luqLb5GTlMHl99Fjof6Wi9CPjocrioY4iF1lv1Y-6qH3nzuXC2n12OkKuCuTJbdcSKD8UPzj971gR-k9m_CdL4wvmT2aZCptWg5wnS87hl1U9gBH4oEnKq9KLpDX7fwMjE-h_Mz/s1600-h/tub.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMFJ0_luqLb5GTlMHl99Fjof6Wi9CPjocrioY4iF1lv1Y-6qH3nzuXC2n12OkKuCuTJbdcSKD8UPzj971gR-k9m_CdL4wvmT2aZCptWg5wnS87hl1U9gBH4oEnKq9KLpDX7fwMjE-h_Mz/s400/tub.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316451048189452578" /></a><br />There also weren't walls anywhere. Not even the bathroom. Jon brought up a good point, no walls around the toilet means the whole place is like a giant bathroom. Eva was all for this idea.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xYsy3l6ZBRCFSgy52mZAoTkliDCdwt6JOY_fPaON4hulvRtkFJOws_qYSM-C93G8SjFrI1iP25n_ex3GPobk0Aj9Gg5ss0FomPDabxInkgERLKgW0ODy2SDL0eq2QBVhxZBvOOgr0tjX/s1600-h/lofts.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xYsy3l6ZBRCFSgy52mZAoTkliDCdwt6JOY_fPaON4hulvRtkFJOws_qYSM-C93G8SjFrI1iP25n_ex3GPobk0Aj9Gg5ss0FomPDabxInkgERLKgW0ODy2SDL0eq2QBVhxZBvOOgr0tjX/s400/lofts.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316451044176610290" /></a><br />Don't flush your condoms, please.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfJfaY2HWSUAvRCb05tojD7k7ikUoF9a9E7jIe84dToyt3MKO5GnGte-bJrdT9FT2Sz8W75y3du9Q8ofns9BlyBYgBTKAhIg1TmOm4nOsgAVvvY4K2L6JwXkJlaZ0PAPOLqT7udbtN2IF/s1600-h/condams.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfJfaY2HWSUAvRCb05tojD7k7ikUoF9a9E7jIe84dToyt3MKO5GnGte-bJrdT9FT2Sz8W75y3du9Q8ofns9BlyBYgBTKAhIg1TmOm4nOsgAVvvY4K2L6JwXkJlaZ0PAPOLqT7udbtN2IF/s400/condams.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316454436824997842" /></a><br />Myspace photo!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BTwebFxnZM03DxVxPht3g30YrJLRzt3TJ1nR8_Iqv4rDa5ZSmEDcU1Bc2Fc37PfRa4ibAX8Z3Q99AMIkSwhKrf9naLWgV6lQR5_CMxpi3Gx1ZGMqCWlMP7RPwjpQRHc0n9_Th0ue9Caf/s1600-h/IMG_5520.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5BTwebFxnZM03DxVxPht3g30YrJLRzt3TJ1nR8_Iqv4rDa5ZSmEDcU1Bc2Fc37PfRa4ibAX8Z3Q99AMIkSwhKrf9naLWgV6lQR5_CMxpi3Gx1ZGMqCWlMP7RPwjpQRHc0n9_Th0ue9Caf/s400/IMG_5520.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316454430198795618" /></a><br />The next morning we went hiking.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZZ3nYmeeHJ5cF5AEzqFnkiRNweuYMUmxx92aRGo9USP8JP1d_ChepI-Min_BeGMY0dlmMehLExpG7EfIduNks2p4ZoJdnFIa4PTy55dNfTR0K4Nq0BQq9ATS6wLECVrp0f2xrNUtLIJ6t/s1600-h/IMG_5527.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZZ3nYmeeHJ5cF5AEzqFnkiRNweuYMUmxx92aRGo9USP8JP1d_ChepI-Min_BeGMY0dlmMehLExpG7EfIduNks2p4ZoJdnFIa4PTy55dNfTR0K4Nq0BQq9ATS6wLECVrp0f2xrNUtLIJ6t/s400/IMG_5527.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316454422012767666" /></a><br />And I did the robot in the parking lot.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihiFArX60F8b4DMS3FXG0lesj_YuyYjiroHGuqeHy13KTVre1SgmtYS6vr2LwCHBVfwRH-pE858EdMgadqs_uR5_H_Eh3HwcTdcgKtHMyInd-hoMPBL4fddNzvY0WFAXankgDZfV9C-ZfT/s1600-h/IMG_5526.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihiFArX60F8b4DMS3FXG0lesj_YuyYjiroHGuqeHy13KTVre1SgmtYS6vr2LwCHBVfwRH-pE858EdMgadqs_uR5_H_Eh3HwcTdcgKtHMyInd-hoMPBL4fddNzvY0WFAXankgDZfV9C-ZfT/s400/IMG_5526.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316454409998588882" /></a><br />5'10 is really tall, Jon.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgme_VgtyxXCIlBwo4HPayC4m79Ky5g-Cm_ddi7GEHicZe61cNVfypBgIBelCUxnzEZuwkv9hhdOSdTJ8ZEjssOgeM5VOgEp5JnwDLuR8q5ojBlVefK53o9R3kNWX92UiyffrVLKnCgVZkB/s1600-h/short.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgme_VgtyxXCIlBwo4HPayC4m79Ky5g-Cm_ddi7GEHicZe61cNVfypBgIBelCUxnzEZuwkv9hhdOSdTJ8ZEjssOgeM5VOgEp5JnwDLuR8q5ojBlVefK53o9R3kNWX92UiyffrVLKnCgVZkB/s400/short.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316455426946698770" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXf7ElMgfXRJ2q9np49x2zasDzKqSbUYOr9JianwhFtOoRmuDCg5nh3iNpH8O4dmy74usfkKM1JQC8SFvGsUkUmaQpOD2aFhggEHp92VhjmHwrOzkyBO1_XeowI14fR8G1s6Mg_Dny-7g/s1600-h/pretty.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXf7ElMgfXRJ2q9np49x2zasDzKqSbUYOr9JianwhFtOoRmuDCg5nh3iNpH8O4dmy74usfkKM1JQC8SFvGsUkUmaQpOD2aFhggEHp92VhjmHwrOzkyBO1_XeowI14fR8G1s6Mg_Dny-7g/s400/pretty.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316455427539014562" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmXHURxa7jW41JAM_j9cOxYBqPRegZQwc88et39xTcATe64YKlU0K_7mWwMP9_WqYXvlKAbbsS7Dc1FQX3dmbBSlWNdUV3F_FwwCkP0-5GcSd6PFWAOxWcJXCLUJKLbglYIrRH9ehHszn/s1600-h/rock.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmXHURxa7jW41JAM_j9cOxYBqPRegZQwc88et39xTcATe64YKlU0K_7mWwMP9_WqYXvlKAbbsS7Dc1FQX3dmbBSlWNdUV3F_FwwCkP0-5GcSd6PFWAOxWcJXCLUJKLbglYIrRH9ehHszn/s400/rock.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316455415241603906" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdkJCQ8LODVc774iUrtrcohsUSpZJ_qo7WxKc1rg4I4uad8iLgSa72WlxrQD8ai93nC_qQ10oC6SdkDa3OesiEfZ81d4XZSR5_0mvhh2_ORbhAdaxgg9516UEFy8yDw6BvIvR7r3dawzI/s1600-h/mossy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpdkJCQ8LODVc774iUrtrcohsUSpZJ_qo7WxKc1rg4I4uad8iLgSa72WlxrQD8ai93nC_qQ10oC6SdkDa3OesiEfZ81d4XZSR5_0mvhh2_ORbhAdaxgg9516UEFy8yDw6BvIvR7r3dawzI/s400/mossy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316455423934341682" /></a><br />Naturally occurring rock stairs!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmn7kr_SDGQZGda0a8XeNzKO5ApxrpwyGQOZvyrEDtvQ2K-OdLOvmXLEzGWFIG0n_dN-UCMv2043y5X_T2b4sun5oX0-6jGnGRXTRZMNxK7-PQyWQne-r503loEvVogEyKBasq_adHLOp0/s1600-h/IMG_5623.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmn7kr_SDGQZGda0a8XeNzKO5ApxrpwyGQOZvyrEDtvQ2K-OdLOvmXLEzGWFIG0n_dN-UCMv2043y5X_T2b4sun5oX0-6jGnGRXTRZMNxK7-PQyWQne-r503loEvVogEyKBasq_adHLOp0/s400/IMG_5623.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316456470886212466" /></a><br />I said this reminded me of Fraggle Rock. Jon didn't agree.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaOFc-gBRU7R4d7nXc9uvfFvYUGrWiJRfYB9mCuXJG0f68S1VdZhHoIUIeYRbEtkPcmJzxs_n9Z2C1S_PwKm8DCjY9HDW2xCOwKUch7mJ3ub5co7qmMCSukSdSXlx-coVg9dGYW_zfD1h/s1600-h/fraggle.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGaOFc-gBRU7R4d7nXc9uvfFvYUGrWiJRfYB9mCuXJG0f68S1VdZhHoIUIeYRbEtkPcmJzxs_n9Z2C1S_PwKm8DCjY9HDW2xCOwKUch7mJ3ub5co7qmMCSukSdSXlx-coVg9dGYW_zfD1h/s400/fraggle.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316456465003924018" /></a><br />So I made some jab about how he probably couldn't watch it because he was raised Baptist.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVH7QInTCNKYjjOd5MHZbKcSj8b5Hnf4Qor1ZsQFfNOa0WZ6M2riQDaw4qy1rtYpdEOlaz8znL82GS2GBgK-XFm2wYqjEVlkYZuO_FRjWxBqY4HNH_xuUymb9iHCb0M_90N9XE1U6Rt2J/s1600-h/cavey.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVH7QInTCNKYjjOd5MHZbKcSj8b5Hnf4Qor1ZsQFfNOa0WZ6M2riQDaw4qy1rtYpdEOlaz8znL82GS2GBgK-XFm2wYqjEVlkYZuO_FRjWxBqY4HNH_xuUymb9iHCb0M_90N9XE1U6Rt2J/s400/cavey.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316456455884452962" /></a><br />He said no, it was because he thought it was stupid.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZfAFvrLH7VNSdrzzkQY10R47F9dSRMrsehdCtmoftLWN_MAU9Y7dQ6CfDOko2dHxSheGExlcyJqQnGKJMb3p4l2Zm2CX_5gkWkOCfN0U3B0XBS9tlMkM1PUv2eW-jytwmxYgi-3ssknZ/s1600-h/jon.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWZfAFvrLH7VNSdrzzkQY10R47F9dSRMrsehdCtmoftLWN_MAU9Y7dQ6CfDOko2dHxSheGExlcyJqQnGKJMb3p4l2Zm2CX_5gkWkOCfN0U3B0XBS9tlMkM1PUv2eW-jytwmxYgi-3ssknZ/s400/jon.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316456464966842146" /></a><br />I think I'm funny.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBSfcVVIw_7IX9WTPWbNsqQmCoeK3ubOcOS70OIViZQym9phOoyGYq7Anp16bJAKazNXh2pySdRfyC6u_URedu8JXtd23oWYGfrjVTd9o_vMyVH2y2fWOBh3Bli8C-HncaGKWpGTEyviDA/s1600-h/climbing.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBSfcVVIw_7IX9WTPWbNsqQmCoeK3ubOcOS70OIViZQym9phOoyGYq7Anp16bJAKazNXh2pySdRfyC6u_URedu8JXtd23oWYGfrjVTd9o_vMyVH2y2fWOBh3Bli8C-HncaGKWpGTEyviDA/s400/climbing.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316459090836598498" /></a><br />After a morning of refreshing outdoor activity, we headed to historic downtown Logan to stop at Walmart, the only grocery store, for some supplies to make dinner. We made a pit stop at The Olde Dutch Resturant and Banquet House for lunch. It was the scariest, most depressing place I've ever been in my life. I was too terrified to take pictures, or move even. The place was packed with small town, overweight Christians. Church must have just let out. I couldn't have felt more out of place if I had been wearing nothing but a hot pink thong (so luckily I kept my pants on). Needless to say, we sat very still and ate very fast. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE09Q1eSgpENuL1YiXNNwScjEo2zX6cWAiXta1s2wGIuFT99JlXly3SHL_UVBmu_-m591QjTmsxIcI8jEhb5kkb_BlSwvQjQHTG_w8yGJYhtjKWcOAHrQLAavn2CN5jhEO1L-1mBrFTxD-/s1600-h/dutch.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE09Q1eSgpENuL1YiXNNwScjEo2zX6cWAiXta1s2wGIuFT99JlXly3SHL_UVBmu_-m591QjTmsxIcI8jEhb5kkb_BlSwvQjQHTG_w8yGJYhtjKWcOAHrQLAavn2CN5jhEO1L-1mBrFTxD-/s400/dutch.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316459083173019922" /></a><br />After our midday scare, we were off to the spa for massages.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MWgUJp6fM7GqeemTQevYflfb4U6Kly_zfziYqY1cQyYc_TK0AVLBWROiI8t9uJBtbR6FciFhifxk7_h9eyY6jPF-bHIObFT4_AOhhVEwb5uZhYvbjLg0MYfYMvVmgeWxTdPrdUOusks1/s1600-h/spa.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8MWgUJp6fM7GqeemTQevYflfb4U6Kly_zfziYqY1cQyYc_TK0AVLBWROiI8t9uJBtbR6FciFhifxk7_h9eyY6jPF-bHIObFT4_AOhhVEwb5uZhYvbjLg0MYfYMvVmgeWxTdPrdUOusks1/s400/spa.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316462335454599538" /></a><br />Piggy and Eddy decieded to stay at the cabin to play Little House on the Prairie.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJ2zTwxxzeULp7D1Ahx6BozMPr79WvxI1DWj3xNUbnniTptxQawIJOv9mcHUk_2c177cKAzfsa4k0wAgaZScS9JVcWID7_7wb3TrlEoSeWRhC-NEPzSlY5LuHeLNfGz4MEHGHuKxfeS6m/s1600-h/pigsneds.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJ2zTwxxzeULp7D1Ahx6BozMPr79WvxI1DWj3xNUbnniTptxQawIJOv9mcHUk_2c177cKAzfsa4k0wAgaZScS9JVcWID7_7wb3TrlEoSeWRhC-NEPzSlY5LuHeLNfGz4MEHGHuKxfeS6m/s400/pigsneds.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316462328001231490" /></a><br />That night we watched the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre (So much better than the Matthew McConaughey one). We didn't have any run-ins with any bears or any scary woodland creatures. Although, while we were sleeping, a wild mouse ate the white chocolate out of this box of chocolates we had, which was fine with me. I hate white chocolate anyways. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VJF2AiGRp4S_2qtMllLxE67Huehgf_OcjK7gvmGAmS9Wumf7WKbhk1gMY2RIm7snUDnwIuF1cfPncP64TV_3Z0r-v9G7PEnEpozCSd3Rdo6dUF4VcZ3rAJUYA-CzuUhBPce-tOLL0bvR/s1600-h/IMG_5641.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1VJF2AiGRp4S_2qtMllLxE67Huehgf_OcjK7gvmGAmS9Wumf7WKbhk1gMY2RIm7snUDnwIuF1cfPncP64TV_3Z0r-v9G7PEnEpozCSd3Rdo6dUF4VcZ3rAJUYA-CzuUhBPce-tOLL0bvR/s400/IMG_5641.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316464718699960610" /></a><br />Going into the wilderness is fun. Being gay in a small town, scary. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZERl60-VJ4P1jygKU6iZlnqWJBExSdLVQh0hh5ryrmoJwTnhBJvozAazlYKcsuv8Ogf4cqXtwqZbNP8tfyzfnxoTTOvyqEnwD0o9vr_k2wc2Pw1aK7jlfWGT7ybOFMC1mBVrZjzl7utEB/s1600-h/IMG_5624.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZERl60-VJ4P1jygKU6iZlnqWJBExSdLVQh0hh5ryrmoJwTnhBJvozAazlYKcsuv8Ogf4cqXtwqZbNP8tfyzfnxoTTOvyqEnwD0o9vr_k2wc2Pw1aK7jlfWGT7ybOFMC1mBVrZjzl7utEB/s400/IMG_5624.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316464715026935522" /></a><br />Back to Columbus!jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1013233505492567653.post-81795133747959253532009-03-04T06:59:00.000-08:002009-03-19T09:37:24.951-07:00Tranny PantiesHi.<br /><br />I would like to start out by saying, aren't you sad little Alexis Grace was kicked off American Idol last night? Why not the blind guy? Just because he's blind doesn't mean he can sing, and who likes Bruce Hornsby anyway? My mom used to. Apparently blind people do as well. Oh, American Idol. So dumb, but yet I still keep watching.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYREqX28Q3z8in9tA2CiNbCHXU328G_FrHwVJXqOdeWcLZoY-m9QZ4mBTQrLl61xH_06vjfkyxrYn_dLEXDhH48ZqfylVJ4HhiVjn_dGY7DXBZPqW5xXLKx3y992JgpP1H_mOZ5kJk1_C/s1600-h/american-idol-alexis-grace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 348px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYREqX28Q3z8in9tA2CiNbCHXU328G_FrHwVJXqOdeWcLZoY-m9QZ4mBTQrLl61xH_06vjfkyxrYn_dLEXDhH48ZqfylVJ4HhiVjn_dGY7DXBZPqW5xXLKx3y992JgpP1H_mOZ5kJk1_C/s400/american-idol-alexis-grace.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314921988676449858" /></a><br />It's my spring break. Spring break '09! Yeah! It's going to be off the hook. It's already pretty crazy, I mean, here I am on the couch writing a blog, then it's off to work. Next thing you know I'll be showing my nipples for beads or doing shots of sex on the beach. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKrQoPw9w_oyGp0eaXpMrBV9dVCVcYwbPcZn62hlB86kKGO67krzUEZHUnFFQJINrHTSoIT5kICeDOQVDa6twDIsmegT22fAGsZTftQv4-JJ9ETMnRtQx0BpN82JMX1N9k94DQNa7Gt_q/s1600-h/ap_spring_break1_080402_ssh.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKrQoPw9w_oyGp0eaXpMrBV9dVCVcYwbPcZn62hlB86kKGO67krzUEZHUnFFQJINrHTSoIT5kICeDOQVDa6twDIsmegT22fAGsZTftQv4-JJ9ETMnRtQx0BpN82JMX1N9k94DQNa7Gt_q/s400/ap_spring_break1_080402_ssh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314922804780873890" /></a><br />So, yesterday, as part of my spring break madness, I took photos of our house. And here they are..<br />This is the house. This photo was taken in the winter. It's not snowing now, in fact, yesterday it was 75, but tomorrow it could be snowing.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzKgAdYCKJns7zMsox-Q4I4B5D-Gtw64NdNPtVzetNqmXIqDm0dNgzbdSZoMyHmd7CMQubmA4tJf3YnndAekpX08dLtNFS40g2HWAUwfXx4Xp2-bEnCqRsA4tjvB5aegUsR12F2xvl8P0/s1600-h/IMG_5287.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 237px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzKgAdYCKJns7zMsox-Q4I4B5D-Gtw64NdNPtVzetNqmXIqDm0dNgzbdSZoMyHmd7CMQubmA4tJf3YnndAekpX08dLtNFS40g2HWAUwfXx4Xp2-bEnCqRsA4tjvB5aegUsR12F2xvl8P0/s400/IMG_5287.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309347701271944306" /></a><br />This is the guest room. This is where you would sleep if I ever invited you to stay over.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi99DUUlB1iM0uEtNtQdLR9JW4s5MGDfuP-gAu3k5lE8qHD1x9JUH2Jcb-u8FtZzsPGJLQR59zCk4yZsTIMXO5qMDHW_gqnBkNn5yODMwh_V_vkKED6WfSIFNX644ORzzBNMuen_HbMvCH9/s1600-h/gb1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi99DUUlB1iM0uEtNtQdLR9JW4s5MGDfuP-gAu3k5lE8qHD1x9JUH2Jcb-u8FtZzsPGJLQR59zCk4yZsTIMXO5qMDHW_gqnBkNn5yODMwh_V_vkKED6WfSIFNX644ORzzBNMuen_HbMvCH9/s400/gb1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314668316169247554" /></a><br />This is the door out of the guest room. Next to it is a photo of an old woman with some sort of cyst or something on her eye. We take it down when my mom stays over.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5agLyHTSEKS-ln5TkmZqshcX8vmQ2m6sGHFyn96DQyqYSt7QZsSsh1yaxF3ToxJCxtwktxAPZNcuqUTg8SPxbs0u-DjOY24aX7-4Byjkg7FoOQZbrFkh8nJd3FQ1Z8im7GebFzyzE2RAA/s1600-h/gb2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5agLyHTSEKS-ln5TkmZqshcX8vmQ2m6sGHFyn96DQyqYSt7QZsSsh1yaxF3ToxJCxtwktxAPZNcuqUTg8SPxbs0u-DjOY24aX7-4Byjkg7FoOQZbrFkh8nJd3FQ1Z8im7GebFzyzE2RAA/s400/gb2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314668317437572386" /></a><br />This is the upstairs hall.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqOwEuIk7HSVEC9hdrnFvXrO4MMbOFzZalc0lYT8lt4gvgxr9VEe3zTq63MiQSeBi8Eb2iKT9WGB23o6UvUVi82yI9MzEufVIwrIV0EUzJxx15RnmV3K1knYFUlh2SzAbjl1eCroRLSg0/s1600-h/h.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqOwEuIk7HSVEC9hdrnFvXrO4MMbOFzZalc0lYT8lt4gvgxr9VEe3zTq63MiQSeBi8Eb2iKT9WGB23o6UvUVi82yI9MzEufVIwrIV0EUzJxx15RnmV3K1knYFUlh2SzAbjl1eCroRLSg0/s400/h.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314668382774536338" /></a><br />This is our bedroom. Keep out.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk72Zr2VgGHSQN9IHLskOLpSi4Wi86TMVa21qn3ip-Z4uxhLggxajDp6OLMBwkph4Z-wJNtmCDFrYvzR2DC1r4kCNuSzOvn_HKAeVevUBGq_h4Cxpo42dAInGURJwHfHCa3IfCwhvaaeRX/s1600-h/b1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk72Zr2VgGHSQN9IHLskOLpSi4Wi86TMVa21qn3ip-Z4uxhLggxajDp6OLMBwkph4Z-wJNtmCDFrYvzR2DC1r4kCNuSzOvn_HKAeVevUBGq_h4Cxpo42dAInGURJwHfHCa3IfCwhvaaeRX/s400/b1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314668384506734962" /></a><br />These are the tiny closets that run the length of our room.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7uM39FUMlfOhBcOPQkvOe-y87FLUi0rTsujN_vTjFARvtvBeugiuqv-v_wkon7API4F1Qa-vVvNC7QA80svgUbjikMDMLOuVcRHSVI8CJvDYHzPQwTURGyKh5VgFBDPte1VUrwH7E33uh/s1600-h/b2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7uM39FUMlfOhBcOPQkvOe-y87FLUi0rTsujN_vTjFARvtvBeugiuqv-v_wkon7API4F1Qa-vVvNC7QA80svgUbjikMDMLOuVcRHSVI8CJvDYHzPQwTURGyKh5VgFBDPte1VUrwH7E33uh/s400/b2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669032388877554" /></a><br />This is where you would exit in case of an emergency.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLh4lzPi-WnyARI1iuwar6DLkKBlW4WH5zU_U8wr47WcPQ4TMwmsTPOZz0-bWPpXSmdqleObsicW7uF87vhY50LVkU0BBdwAdVwzawWdwIvdCMM7UYjo8eado6a5Zl5_vWvQD81R7fh4h7/s1600-h/b3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLh4lzPi-WnyARI1iuwar6DLkKBlW4WH5zU_U8wr47WcPQ4TMwmsTPOZz0-bWPpXSmdqleObsicW7uF87vhY50LVkU0BBdwAdVwzawWdwIvdCMM7UYjo8eado6a5Zl5_vWvQD81R7fh4h7/s400/b3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669025038693810" /></a><br />This is where you would urinate or barf.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNO9gLMKuCTqdVV2VjUomYqdvmdxwF0KG-AKBt4smP_FVHNFmMuNKirEtP-IAxSJpEwMCuh1g9BIKfPohGt2oAVz4bOWajNCOwuqWkpLQ2zIhOkyxP8ze6EJrSNK03NESMTV_RUd3kvcBZ/s1600-h/ub1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNO9gLMKuCTqdVV2VjUomYqdvmdxwF0KG-AKBt4smP_FVHNFmMuNKirEtP-IAxSJpEwMCuh1g9BIKfPohGt2oAVz4bOWajNCOwuqWkpLQ2zIhOkyxP8ze6EJrSNK03NESMTV_RUd3kvcBZ/s400/ub1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669018543626146" /></a><br />Wipe the seat.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqn9JmeqfPcB8f24fWYTXL8sL8V9TlsSWURgmQCY_Kqym8rM52tGi-aKAGi4Tyobsua9U1e75d0aXbIhU9_3GOSpD8Wjdgpzfh0eX88UXg6QlEXNphyphenhyphendlQ2cIiVGTwnriIbnPdS0e1ow4/s1600-h/ub2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqn9JmeqfPcB8f24fWYTXL8sL8V9TlsSWURgmQCY_Kqym8rM52tGi-aKAGi4Tyobsua9U1e75d0aXbIhU9_3GOSpD8Wjdgpzfh0eX88UXg6QlEXNphyphenhyphendlQ2cIiVGTwnriIbnPdS0e1ow4/s400/ub2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669006229844146" /></a><br />Here you can see our neighbors slate tile roof.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxM1kJDjTWGFieCnEk8iVt0w_EAMrE7O5iiLqW0IDcpPP57O-ifULoNbilrvTF1o320zpwB9VwBAaBAJwquOInuL9oHXs8fvbqg2P1cAA6eCfrFVBEJN4kaheNBHAEdUV5xnhmQEj-T1Ju/s1600-h/ub3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxM1kJDjTWGFieCnEk8iVt0w_EAMrE7O5iiLqW0IDcpPP57O-ifULoNbilrvTF1o320zpwB9VwBAaBAJwquOInuL9oHXs8fvbqg2P1cAA6eCfrFVBEJN4kaheNBHAEdUV5xnhmQEj-T1Ju/s400/ub3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669529913903362" /></a><br />This is where Jon makes me food.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF3dGa04OlIjUCrPRZjzNXTzsss8wMPUMrSYwbcM8vTakvFmHAr1kw0hlZ7ZPRz-8_BC5NKvibnvXO6PlnBgeE7oysIagBahlqBO4hAIY0QUMDWEag7MwEUASNUPqF6VUUoV7W1HcBobVV/s1600-h/k1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF3dGa04OlIjUCrPRZjzNXTzsss8wMPUMrSYwbcM8vTakvFmHAr1kw0hlZ7ZPRz-8_BC5NKvibnvXO6PlnBgeE7oysIagBahlqBO4hAIY0QUMDWEag7MwEUASNUPqF6VUUoV7W1HcBobVV/s400/k1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669519997142466" /></a><br />Have you noticed our soothing paint color selections?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-Jzmk378RHKP4wm0OVY_o0WKvBfC2LQYRvFdeWzy6U8mr7C4JXcJ05S0FAMDuCkxA1Rp2abQoKVouq0jdjD22gOQh1nBrrJfJ1dEJ71DS3iYofznMPybP8_TYBqwB29_jmniXNw_Txdn/s1600-h/k2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-Jzmk378RHKP4wm0OVY_o0WKvBfC2LQYRvFdeWzy6U8mr7C4JXcJ05S0FAMDuCkxA1Rp2abQoKVouq0jdjD22gOQh1nBrrJfJ1dEJ71DS3iYofznMPybP8_TYBqwB29_jmniXNw_Txdn/s400/k2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669520036790434" /></a><br />This is where I make drinks.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMGTV6TskQTHpo9Pl7ZIQUzhlCi02hxttGdvQTLEwiiS0hDFojBohGTuKBSfyxkTwivEzGJcPlO93akmNs3Ab1i80YW37HJzF1DzAKu3qUxaUi8nGnYV5trzTvmcveu4xUZsiDGRhNN87N/s1600-h/k3.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMGTV6TskQTHpo9Pl7ZIQUzhlCi02hxttGdvQTLEwiiS0hDFojBohGTuKBSfyxkTwivEzGJcPlO93akmNs3Ab1i80YW37HJzF1DzAKu3qUxaUi8nGnYV5trzTvmcveu4xUZsiDGRhNN87N/s400/k3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669512126622082" /></a><br />This is another place to pee them out.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjuDdsLityY6kxIsnNzyQ3SDgsJMSPHOj1c_2O6siVaeG4RUj1KS28Lllo-I2a7V7CnKkEyzYJHWXY54dP95ZPeOUSRBeLflj1_XJ8wOn3xM8Fv3K8fW3AU0WcDEuYFRSU-EnP834XzW9/s1600-h/db.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjuDdsLityY6kxIsnNzyQ3SDgsJMSPHOj1c_2O6siVaeG4RUj1KS28Lllo-I2a7V7CnKkEyzYJHWXY54dP95ZPeOUSRBeLflj1_XJ8wOn3xM8Fv3K8fW3AU0WcDEuYFRSU-EnP834XzW9/s400/db.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669966050480434" /></a><br />This is where all the state dinners and lunches are given, there were almost two a month last year.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BcUEnmNyWWIpHUh94cGRC_WLloVno7awCEHSWGEkSFZONvC5dPcA6xxeFTWZWFRfBje0Blye5ifQKOyaDXtCZs4iyjKa0vr349w2hYggmcV06T-klY1XWG4WgKUq1aZYDVq-XrgJV2k4/s1600-h/dr.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BcUEnmNyWWIpHUh94cGRC_WLloVno7awCEHSWGEkSFZONvC5dPcA6xxeFTWZWFRfBje0Blye5ifQKOyaDXtCZs4iyjKa0vr349w2hYggmcV06T-klY1XWG4WgKUq1aZYDVq-XrgJV2k4/s400/dr.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669965894079538" /></a><br />This is where we watch American Idol.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPLPV5LozwfzQgUHjLcSpBcZOy-t5IbBJkcAxXOcxWGpm4qgApmeC4Sor_8q5yhO0USSbZZndRseQ-8vwO66SwJjARlSybzCxKYWhv447QKWca5gFPS4uflhm6dYYEDs51QRuIMRU_v8eI/s1600-h/l1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPLPV5LozwfzQgUHjLcSpBcZOy-t5IbBJkcAxXOcxWGpm4qgApmeC4Sor_8q5yhO0USSbZZndRseQ-8vwO66SwJjARlSybzCxKYWhv447QKWca5gFPS4uflhm6dYYEDs51QRuIMRU_v8eI/s400/l1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669959921419938" /></a><br />And my decapitated deer.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEl8eS8nkVDJAzUSuFA3nsjBQ4wu5ESxybnW2fOoikiflN8eB2XvSSpnmAdMcgmWohNfvFt72sWodxEkppnzm6N-Cjer2H_MHSjrQCuv-6sMw_zCuu2H_3hrZeDisxNuzVArLhJ8WcpFjX/s1600-h/l2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEl8eS8nkVDJAzUSuFA3nsjBQ4wu5ESxybnW2fOoikiflN8eB2XvSSpnmAdMcgmWohNfvFt72sWodxEkppnzm6N-Cjer2H_MHSjrQCuv-6sMw_zCuu2H_3hrZeDisxNuzVArLhJ8WcpFjX/s400/l2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314669958456158370" /></a><br />Oh, and my pencil cactus! It needs a pot. Be careful, if you break it open, it will burn you. Cool.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwvNdYBsx9AHa-R5x4x2X2JcJUwwHPgx0oB86uHZqRXmH0fKNh_RGaarYCFGMwaSHZD_3TArtBFiMl4U3-LnTv1-7QEnp90lIGjTbdiG7C4ukAie4EwXw4wRmXLDtP2fjjH9IdN5OEb2I/s1600-h/pc.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwvNdYBsx9AHa-R5x4x2X2JcJUwwHPgx0oB86uHZqRXmH0fKNh_RGaarYCFGMwaSHZD_3TArtBFiMl4U3-LnTv1-7QEnp90lIGjTbdiG7C4ukAie4EwXw4wRmXLDtP2fjjH9IdN5OEb2I/s400/pc.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314670425114656258" /></a><br />This is where Jon makes money to feed me. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5qkSM2HAQcFJdTVxX7ML3Fk6RyGFSt1FO82FZKoa_9QGluLm_nzM9iB24pYaW8vuLyWnJ7mwloP9D22WzrV7f8OCrm8km9sLEndHVgr7YC7uLb9eY1YlrE1U5UW0-OI6RLQW4vDNgLKx/s1600-h/o.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT5qkSM2HAQcFJdTVxX7ML3Fk6RyGFSt1FO82FZKoa_9QGluLm_nzM9iB24pYaW8vuLyWnJ7mwloP9D22WzrV7f8OCrm8km9sLEndHVgr7YC7uLb9eY1YlrE1U5UW0-OI6RLQW4vDNgLKx/s400/o.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314670418491476066" /></a><br />In the afternoon sun comes through these gay stained glass windows.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_fkKCMapjmH4pxNqAefy3M3Ut46ma-Wk9hTOdouQOxaF_uNuXOksPDBE6dP8cJ5CQEfMXclhofwDAq_duwEQ9xOvNOPgFb5rgS824bOd54xl_QQgbxaAnhG1hxAfdg18LJsYAN-Qu40N/s1600-h/sg1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_fkKCMapjmH4pxNqAefy3M3Ut46ma-Wk9hTOdouQOxaF_uNuXOksPDBE6dP8cJ5CQEfMXclhofwDAq_duwEQ9xOvNOPgFb5rgS824bOd54xl_QQgbxaAnhG1hxAfdg18LJsYAN-Qu40N/s400/sg1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314670413177642130" /></a><br />And little rainbows go everywhere!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA0RWBRkat9s7eiyxTP4MnsQlivgQF149QCzAILq7v3cKoD7A4py8asXw_fNiJqEH1VVejrnoxEmKJi_z8Le8U9hHKYEk4onfM9b3JbsBDLPZBgj20VXuJxdqxN1bX2iWCm_1Z_oMoWBBl/s1600-h/sg2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA0RWBRkat9s7eiyxTP4MnsQlivgQF149QCzAILq7v3cKoD7A4py8asXw_fNiJqEH1VVejrnoxEmKJi_z8Le8U9hHKYEk4onfM9b3JbsBDLPZBgj20VXuJxdqxN1bX2iWCm_1Z_oMoWBBl/s400/sg2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314670410701312418" /></a><br />Spring come here finally!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJG1xsUHirfuuCMEl4R2psdz13pHucaEi28Lh6ntVzsusGNLiVNaAJkCcVOX10nKNkw1ejyVYnmvnVqIYZbU8rDV6umSMHYcjM6NX3mKXjjWUneogwOzlboMm4wILxLl8JPbA1Ig0VFjz/s1600-h/t.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioJG1xsUHirfuuCMEl4R2psdz13pHucaEi28Lh6ntVzsusGNLiVNaAJkCcVOX10nKNkw1ejyVYnmvnVqIYZbU8rDV6umSMHYcjM6NX3mKXjjWUneogwOzlboMm4wILxLl8JPbA1Ig0VFjz/s400/t.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314670769327944434" /></a><br />Patio.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbXWVhAjx7d_Y5vb7Vpts8qeuDJ-3aP7YIqtH9Q5Ehb5bMPWGqI_uSdxGkLEo8h8Eg5EZMnD3eApbAwclZdIGiV_ZB8XtoksVcwKKaTga6GfCrRMo4epoDUxYN0uUkJEVMe05fL6LVbtRg/s1600-h/p.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbXWVhAjx7d_Y5vb7Vpts8qeuDJ-3aP7YIqtH9Q5Ehb5bMPWGqI_uSdxGkLEo8h8Eg5EZMnD3eApbAwclZdIGiV_ZB8XtoksVcwKKaTga6GfCrRMo4epoDUxYN0uUkJEVMe05fL6LVbtRg/s400/p.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314670772754036962" /></a><br />Piggles!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCY8gO1NnmYv_zAw5XjrVUz7z17HTw1RL_vz2ULFqkGUAYA0Sla3UwejQvcm7XfXFj9k3Y2ge1g8jmphj3mGWuwQa-qDhj9j6MpXa2dorgVMis-GXq9Pby1Nuk8_o2WZE-_dp6LFW-wABY/s1600-h/e.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCY8gO1NnmYv_zAw5XjrVUz7z17HTw1RL_vz2ULFqkGUAYA0Sla3UwejQvcm7XfXFj9k3Y2ge1g8jmphj3mGWuwQa-qDhj9j6MpXa2dorgVMis-GXq9Pby1Nuk8_o2WZE-_dp6LFW-wABY/s400/e.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314670765319244194" /></a><br />So, yeah. That's the house. Our lease is up in four months and we'll probably move. We have actually been thinking about buying something. There are some affordable, cute little houses in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clintonville,_Ohio">Clintonville</a>. Heaven forbid I live somewhere for a whole year!jacobwissmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10201680725989740302noreply@blogger.com4