Wednesday, July 27, 2011

W R E C K:

Some goofy ass cat blogger informed me recently that the only reason people follow my blog is because I am a train wreck and people love train wrecks. Mmmkay. At 41 years old, I don't give a flying sheeeet what anyone thinks of me. I am entitled to be an angry and grumpy little man well into my twilight years!

But the comment did gnaw at me. I got pissy every time I thought about it. Why I outta go up there and impale the sonofabitch with my light saber! While I am at it, I should take down Sith Cuntzilla too. Aren't we all sick and tired of hearing about her swamp ass? One thrust up the patootie, and it'll be good and cauterized. The endless bitching will surely stop.

Fortunately for those two, I properly channel my anger on the tennis courts. Every time I play, I imagine the haunting words taunt me: "train wreck... train wreck... you are a train wreck... you are Lindsay Lohan... train wreck".

This mind trick has served me well. In the Mixed 7.0 League, Lisa and I are one win away from completing a perfect season. No one has taken a match or set from us in nine tries. We are court villains compelling others to sit and watch our games in bleachers hoping we lose so their wanna-be team has a chance to win it all. They are denied each week. Muahaha! :)

In Mobile, Alabama this weekend, I will be playing in the USTA Southern Sectional Tournament where I will face the #1 team from each Southern state. I am pegged to play both singles AND doubles after impressing the Team Captain last weekend where I took down the top players on our team.

I owe all my recent tennis court success to TJ... the MEAN GIRL who gave me the motivation to slaughter the competition. This train wreck is whooping ass! Thank you, bitch cunt from hell!

Sunday, July 24, 2011

HAPPINESS IS...


1. Hiding your hands under a blanket so the little mongrel won't bite them AGAIN.
2. Catching a whiff of something foul and searching your home for little presents left behind.
3. Constantly refilling a water bowl only to wipe up a flood of puppy pee (biblical proportions) for the umpteenth goddamn time. Grr...
4. Watching the little bastard sleep so you can refrain from the first three things for at least seven good hours.

Friday, July 22, 2011

Guess WHO I am keeping for a whole week?!




I don't want to ruin my reputation and make anyone think I am a BIG SOFTIE, but I absolutely love keeping my niece's Beagle Pup Lexi. She is the sweetest thing. :) While my niece and her family is on vacation in Florida for a week, I'll be watching after Lexi.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

SCRUFF:

Monday, July 18, 2011

Haunting Dreams:


I do not like dreaming. Mine always seem to be either dreams of frustration or ones that upset me. A typical dream is like a parental unit torturing me with scoldings... guilt. WHO IS IN MY HEAD? Is there a higher power working to influence my choices and behavior? It creeps me out and I wonder if Sylvia Browne was perhaps right about an afterlife.

I blogged recently about not remembering the last time I dreamed. The Universe has apparently decided that it was unacceptable because I have since dreamed three times in the last five days. Each dream was about my ex, Tommy, who died accidentally four months ago.

Images of Tommy play in my mind. He kept an impeccably clean house. His vehicles were always clean and smelled fresh as if he had just drove them off the car lot. Every piece of clothing was neatly hung up with a perfect inch of spacing between them. On top of his extreme organization, order, and cleanliness, Tommy was a very well mannered and liked individual.

In my dreams, I feel the distinct guilt that Tommy should have never passed away. I should be the one gone. I keep a messy house with clothes stacked everywhere. My SUV typically smells like a locker room with sweaty towels, tennis balls, and used shoes carelessly tossed around.

I wake up from these dreams feeling extreme sadness and guilt. For someone that had so many disadvantages growing up poor in rural Arkansas, Tommy overcame them. He was so proud of his bright son, Matthew, who was actually living with Tommy as he attended LSU. To think that someone from such humble beginnings had conquered setback after setback to have a great career leaves me with a proud lasting memory.

It still saddens me that Tommy didn't have a very well attended funeral. He had friends, but he never made them quite the priority some of us do. I know why friends are important to me, but lately I have been questioning my own priorities and choices in life. In a nutshell, I would like to no longer feel guilty that Tommy is gone while I am still here. :/

Thursday, July 14, 2011

The Book of Brett: A Fag Hag Rises


From a land far away, where bridges and roofs regularly collapse from God's wrath at the wretched state of football played there, a Fag Hag will rise up in the political world with her lispy and nellier-than-a-blogger-wearing-a-Scottish-Kilt husband. Hypocrisy will doom her political campaign as a truth eventually comes out.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011


Jarred awake at 4:30am. I feed dogs, shower, pack work clothes, and dress for gym. I rush out house without a moment to spare. I workout, report to job, and battle promiscuously against other males on the tennis courts. I limp back home by 9pm, having only a small window of time before I must go to bed to do it all over again the next day.

This strict routine prepares me to be in the best possible form for tennis. I may not win all of my matches, but I at least give myself a fighting chance. I am conditioned to play tennis for hours each day under high humidity and scorching hot temperatures.

The downside is that I morph into a lean and mean T-1000 Terminator machine bereft of human emotion. I experience no joy in conquering foes. Victories are regarded as confirmation of my hard work, preparation, and skills. My brain is imprinted with a giant scoreboard tallying statistics, rankings, and the accumulation of points.

Just last night, I observed to my Mixed League doubles partner Lisa that we have lost the first game of the second set in every match this season. The female player on the other team annoyingly asked, "Who keeps track of statistics like that?" Lisa shrugged, "I don't know... Brett does." By the way, we crushed that team 6-1,6-2 and raised our record to a perfect 7-0 (14-0 in sets).

It is terrible. I find myself going to grocery stores and scowling at imperfect humans buying booze, cigarettes, and lottery tickets while their squishy children whine for more candy. With contempt, I think "what a waste... none are prepared for battle... such slothful and gluttonous creatures!"

SHITTY, EH?

All is not perfect here. It has been eons since I remembered my last dream or enjoyed a blissful 8 hours of sleep. I can't remember the last time I experienced strange human emotions of: "happiness", "sadness", and "love". Why have they become foreign to me? Have I intentionally programmed myself to NOT feel those things?

Sith or batshit crazy? Could it be that my heart was hurt one too many times? Perhaps a momentous decision was made to raise the defense shields high and replace the wiggly heart with a computer chip so that I will never suffer from pain and disappointment again? It's all very plausible.

One day, I will meet my soul mate. A smile will return to this face and my heart will soar once more. Just us... perfectly made for each other... together and partners for life. That is my dream.

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