Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Category Archives: Advice

Everyday Hero

19 Comments Posted by on May 31, 2013

Color me impressed. Maybe it’s his apathetic demeanor or maybe it’s his apparent philosophy that blends self-confidence with a desire for perpetual comfort.  Regardless, this man has me in awe. Truly a modern-day Paunch De Leon, his portly self traverses the globe on his own terms without regard to the impression he leaves.  He’s a throwback to a time when we weren’t concerned about what designer clothes we wore, what makeup we put on, or what our friends were gossiping about.  He embodies the spirit of a tribe of hunters and gathers during an era when the only criteria for mating was that both parties were currently alive—a criteria shared in contemporary society by only sex addicts and unpopular, obese, fifteen-year-old boys with skin rashes and orthodontic headgear.

I’ve never been formally introduced to my idol—I’ve only longingly gazed at him while in the locker room at my gym.  He’s a paradigm of indifference, abiding by a single directive to be completely comfortable with himself at all times.  It’s never been more apparent than when he will casually saunter out of the communal showers with his single towel slung over his hairy, chubby shoulder as if proclaiming to the room through his body language, “Take a good look if you want; it always goes down smooth and I could care less.”

Always one to air dry, he relishes in his naked freedom. I’ve witnessed his pasty, nude body pace about the locker rows while taking a conference call.  I’ve watched while he crouched, his bulges and ripples fomenting and subsiding like tectonic plates, as he spent twenty minutes re-lacing his sneakers before putting clothes on.  He will rush is he is in the mood; the man will round a corner with astonishing speed and no concern for what or whom his appendages crash into on the other side.  Stoic and unfazed, he’s unconcerned if said collision sparks any awkwardness, confusion, or awakening of sexual desires on the part of the other party.

On occasion I’ll catch him dipping the filtered end of a cigarette into a cup of nacho cheese before placing it in his mouth and sucking it down.  It’s a move that violates the gym’s rules of no smoking, no open flame, and no nacho cheese, but he doesn’t mind—this is his world, we just all live in it.

His baldhead, his gut, his shag rug of back hair—none concern him.  He is a man comfortable in his own, albeit kind of rashy, skin.

I wish he held a seminar, but I realize this is a lifestyle than cannot be simply taught but needs to be lived out everyday to be truly grasped.  Once you’ve accepted that one does not need to impress everyone, and, in reality, one doesn’t need to impress most people, you can perpetually exist in a serene, self-consciousness-free state, even while unleashing a thundering, grout-rattling blast from your single-barrel, 1.25-caliber fudgy shotgun into a toilet in a crowded lavatory.  Embarrassment, remorse, shame: you won’t feel any of it.  All you’ll feel is relief and maybe pride as you stroll out of the bathroom after not washing your hands or tipping the bathroom attendant trying to stifle his vomit.

My hero has set the standard high, but it is attainable if we take it one hour, or one step, or one unconscientious act at a time.

Oh, we too can be heroes, even just for one day.

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Cheese Terrors

41 Comments Posted by on January 11, 2013

I’m dead tired, but I’m not going to fall asleep.  No, this isn’t a repeat of when my butcher was grinding up amphetamines in my meat to get me hooked on his, less legitimate, side business, no, this is actual terror keeping me awake.

 

Dread writhes through my veins, my heart starts beating at the rate of a coke addicted, hummingbird air-traffic controller.  How I wish this panic was just my butcher up to his old tricks again; I’d know how to deal with it and I could get through tonight.  You know that’s not true, Justin, you know you brought this on yourself.

 

You knew you couldn’t resist that cheese plate an hour ago.

 

You knew you couldn’t stop at one kind of cheese, no; you had to have them all.

 

You had to have them all because that’s who you are.

 

You will mix and match your cheeses.

 

You mix and match your cheese, even though you know you’re going to bed soon and that that cheese medley that your stomach has churned into cheese chaos will inevitably result in horrifying night terrors.

 

They’re called “cheese terrors” to the layman or “lactose-inspired horrors of repressed fears” to the layman who wants to sound smarter than he or she really is. Although not yet acknowledged by the DSM-IV-TR, “cheese terrors”, or “CT’s” for people who are too busy to say one more syllable, have been plaguing our society since the milk proteins began coagulating.

 

Sufferers of cheese terrors have been campaigning apathetically to be included in the DSM-V.  Letters have not been written, petitions have not been signed, babies have not been kissed, and parades have not yet been held. Most likely this inactivity is due to confusion on how to get a condition elected into the book and, because the average person suffering from cheese terrors spends most of their day rapt in fear, trying to regain their sanity that was lost the night before.

 

It’s a tough life; I constantly keep buying cheese, thinking that I’ll play it safe and eat it during the day, but then every night it calls to me with it’s siren song of deliciousness.  Like clockwork, I make my way to the refrigerator as it shimmers like a beacon of pleasure amidst the shelves littered with the mold and sticky patches of leftovers from years past.  I tell myself to just eat one piece and leave it at that, full knowing that the more pieces and varieties I ingest the exponentially worse my ensuing nightmares will be.

 

Tonight I couldn’t help myself.  I gorged on hard cheese hard.  I gorged like I wasn’t going into surgery tomorrow. I gorged like I was on a gorge-centric vacation in the American Southwest.

 

I gorged like I really wanted to hate myself afterwards.

 

My self-loathing was strong post-cheese binge.  During the bender my mind had only been focused on the delicious mouth delight cheese affords one, but now, and with my eyelids beginning to droop, I recognized the folly of my gluttony and lust in the cold light of the refrigerator.

 

You ignorant ignoramus, you bumbling bumblefuck, you doody-headed dunce; my god, Justin; you’ve set yourself up to panic all night.

 

What did you do it for, Justin?

 

A few seconds of sweet cheesy release in your mouth?

 

Justin, you filthy cheese-whore, you don’t care where you get it from or what it does to you; you just eat it because it gets you off and that drives you fucking wild.

 

So here I sit, four hours, six cups of coffee, and one chocolate enema later and I’m struggling to stay awake.  Hopefully, that laxative-based chocolate the enema was dipped in will get to work soon and I can pass this cheese and get to sleep with it out of my system.  I don’t have the courage tonight to face the Muenster inspired monsters and the Gouda infused ghouls.  How many times am I going to be able to fit the pieces of my shattered psyche back together only to have it smashed by cheese terrors the following night?  Why didn’t I just remember the rhyme my sponsor made up?

 

Cheese before bed?  I’d rather be dead.  Cheese through the day?  Everything’s okay!

 

This is no way to live.  If I make it through the night, I’m going cold turkey tomorrow, and by that I mean I’ll be stocking my mini-fridge with cold turkey to eat before bed, so, in theory, the tryptophan will take hold and put me to bed before I can do anymore damage to myself or my mind.

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That’s Odd, Really, You Don’t Watch Any TV?

145 Comments Posted by on December 7, 2012

Hey, quick question, Hot Dog: how can you tell if someone doesn’t watch any television?  Actually, it’s rather simple; for you see anyone who doesn’t watch TV will assuredly tell you right away how they don’t watch TV.

 

They lay in wait, like a conceited mountain lion, waiting for a moment to pounce as soon as someone mentions anything they watched on the tube.  From there it’s a downhill ambush on the, now one-sided, conversation.  Incredible, how suddenly a pedestrian discussion about how racist or incompetent Terry Bradshaw has become or speculation about The Office’s Jenna Fischer’s belly button depth can be instantly derailed in favor of them filibustering about how “they don’t have time for that inane chatter.”

 

Way to steal all the fun out of the conversation, you little fun-burglar.  Hey, buddy, at least TV taught me not to interrupt until the commercial break, but you come in, on your high horse, touting your anti-television gospel.  It should be noted I’m taking the liberty of assuming you’re interrupting my conversation while you are literally on the back of some unfortunate, drug-addicted equine.

 

However, non-sober stallion or not, I thought in the spirit of manners you shouldn’t impede my stimulating discourse about what I think Matt Lauer smells like on the air. It’s quite rude, and, to be honest, you don’t see me trying to change the subject when your going on an on about the donation you gave to the Humane Society, the charity fun run for fat-orphans with low self-esteem and Lou Gehrig’s disease you’re setting up, or how you insist on paying a carbon tax on everything you buy.

 

Lisa Frankly, I think carbon can pay it’s own taxes and if I’m going to help someone, besides myself, on their back taxes, the list starts and stops with Wesley Snipes.  Further, I honestly think these fat orphans are the ones who could benefit from running more than you and the others who want to pat themselves on the back.  Do I air these grievances? Nope, you don’t see me interrupting; I just keep keeping my mouth shut and continue to fantasize about hitting you with my car.

 

How incredibly fascinating you are; boy, to go through life not doing something the rest of us do.  Your time must be so freed up from not watching television that you’re able to find time to read all the great philosophers, travel the world, and achieve self-actualization.  You don’t see the rest of us bragging about not doing things; I wasn’t vaccinated, but you don’t see me prancing around all smug, clamoring about how great my immune system is for keeping me polio-free all these years.

 

Seriously, have we become so boring that we need to talk about the things that we don’t do to make conversation?  I don’t tell you about how I don’t exploit children for cheap labor.  I don’t tell you about how I don’t shoot up Vicodin mixed with barbecue sauce because I’ve heard great things about the smoky, smooth, yet flavorful and relaxed high it provides.  I haven’t even broached the topic about how I’m not using my neighbor’s name and apartment address to commit mail fraud.  Why haven’t I told you about said lack of mail fraud?  Well, because it would be a lie, since I’m about six months into my personal best mail fraud caper.  Sorry, humble brag!

 

My tribe of one has spoken and the verdict reads: we like television and we don’t like you.  Don’t try to convert me; I’ve seen your side’s zealots and believe me when I say that I don’t like what they’re preaching.  This adult baby likes his mouthwash mug full and his TV on during marathons of circus or funeral accidents.  Call me old-fashioned, but that’s just how I am.   Don’t try to tell me how green the grass is on the other side; the other side does not have a video of daughter in mourning discharging a barrage of thunderous farts during their eulogy that end up overshadowing not only their dead mom’s funeral, but their dead mom’s entire life.

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Masturbation Etiquette: A Sticky Situation

57 Comments Posted by on October 12, 2012

Humans are a superficial species; a species who are quick to judge one another on how they handle themselves in public with the biggest red flag being if you are actually “handling yourself” in public.   It’s a double standard in our society where we celebrate a man’s success when he creates a company that profits off of the donations sent to starving children, but, as soon as that charity-mogul-villain whips our his flesh spout to pour himself a fresh, steamy shot of man-yogurt at the local petting zoo, well, that’s when we all finally see him as the abhorrent monster.

 

Masturbating can be great fun, but we need to recognize that with great power comes great responsibility.   On the plus side though masturbating isn’t like standup comedy, circus performing, or selling nerve tonics where you’d need to be on the road in order to really turn pro.  Take it from me, an old veteran that’s a sure bet for the hall of fame, I went pro right at home around the ripe old age of twelve or thirteen and never looked back, unless I thought someone was walking up behind me when I was in “game-mode”.

 

When your able to put the time in and be as thorough as you need to be masturbating is a beautiful, like a flower blossoming into a swan at sunrise.  However, when interrupted or done through anxiety, masturbation can turn into a dismal, bleak affair—on par with a black and white documentary about cholera in Latvia.

 

The caveat comes with sharing your living quarters; you’re roommates are likely not always going to be able to give you the time to light a butterscotch candle or two, draw the shades, and cue up the cassette tape of Danny DeVito reading 50 Shades of Grey.  So maybe you can go all out and fully (trick or) treat yourself each session, but if you can be open with your roommates you can ensure that you’ll at least have the privacy to get your money’s worth from that Kama Sutra For One you bought off Amazon.

 

As with any relationship, a successful relationship with your roomies about your jerk-off stints is built on the foundation of boundaries, communication, and trust.  It begins with everyone acknowledging that they all masturbate and recognizing that it’s just a natural, relaxing thing to do that there should be absolutely no guilt attached to.  Masturbating is simply more effective when you’re doing it than when a stranger doing it to you—you know what you like.  Think of Pandora Radio. Pandora Radio is like a handjob to me; I can make a better playlist myself, but sometimes I’m lazy and it’s nice to have someone else do it for me.

 

If the mutual trust is there between you and your roommates you’ll be able to revel in the fact that if you’re in the middle of crank yankin’ or flickin’ the Skittle and your roommate knocks on your door you can quickly communicate something like, “Hold on, broski, I’m in the middle of a fat-beat-off sesh.”  It’s as easy as relaying those thirteen simple words to your roommate mysteriously hairy ears.  You trust your roommate to respect your boundaries and give you the serenity needed to Miracle Whip up a frothy helping of your Hellman’s Original man-nnaise (or the woman-nnaise equivalent) and, in turn, your roommate trusts you that you are actually masturbating and not reading his diary or burning his clothes again.  Unless he knows your sexual aroused by reading diaries written by adult men or by the sweet, sweet, amours aroma of smoldering polyester; then he’d probably be suspicious.

 

There you have it: trust, communication, and boundaries; be honest and effectively inform your housemates of your actions if they get close to breaking through your comfort threshold and they’ll be sure to reciprocate the action.

 

Also, just be cool and use discretion if during Spring Cleaning you find a really crusty sock next to a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal in my room.

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My Hero – Written By Justin Gawel at Age Seven

11 Comments Posted by on August 28, 2012

Although I have only been in this world for seven years, I can safely say that you are my true hero and will undoubtedly be for the rest of my time on this big blue marble.  You’ve been there for me since the day I was born and you continue to be there for me, even when Mom or Dad can’t.   No matter what my problem is I know I can always come to you and, within a few hours, you’ll have made me completely forget about it.

 

You may not be always with me, but you are always in my thoughts, and, I hope, that I’m never far from yours.

 

You’re a paradigm of benevolence; sitting with us, day after day, expecting no reward, but bringing pleasure and enriching our lives with the stories and life lessons you’re perpetually teaching us.  Even when it’s a story I’ve heard before, I will gladly experience the ride again and see if there aren’t any more wisdom nuggets I can’t extract.  You’re the perfect humanitarian, deriving all of your pleasure from making others happy.  Whenever I hear the virtue, “It’s better to give than to receive” you immediately spring to mind and I feel warm inside as if someone put a freshly knit Christmas sweater on my heart.  Here is to hoping that in the course of history your noble existence and kindness aren’t marginalized.

 

Nights when we get to eat dinner with you are my favorite; everyone’s always in a better mood.  Dad won’t complain about Obama, my older brother, Zack, won’t rant about how he’s mad all the time and doesn’t know why, and Mom won’t hardly ever sob while whimpering through tears, “This isn’t the life I pictured,” over and over again during a dinner with you.  It’s really quite perfect; you really do a great job of calming us all down and letting us refocus on what’s really important in our lives.

 

The depth of your wisdom never ceases to amaze me; I don’t know how you do it, since you rarely leave the house, but it’s evident how well versed you are in all things worldly.  All sorts of knowledge, knowledge I would never expect you to know from wildlife, to antiques, to human history.  I’m baffled at how you do it, but I still remain spellbound by the comprehension you demonstrate on some of the most obscure issues; rambling on for an hour on occasion about something I was never even aware of until then.   You seriously must talk to some really smart friends while I’m at school everyday.

 

When I’m with you I feel an aura from you unlike anything else; it’s like being encompassed by a soft quilt made of tenderness.  I don’t even need to be touching you; just your presence alone is enough to make me feel loved.  I sincerely hope that you can feel the heartfelt reciprocity coming from my little body because I know I absolutely mean it.

 

Now, can you please, please tell Mom, Dad, and Zack that at seven every night it’s my turn to be with you because I really like watching Rugrats at seven and then Ren & Stimpy at seven-thirty on you?  I hate it so much when Dad insists he has to watch the news, or Zack wants to watch wrestling, or even when Mom says I’ve watched enough of you for one day and I get shooed off to my room where there are no TVs for me to watch.  Pretty please just help me out so I can be with you more.

 

 

Post Script: Teacher says I’m writing at the level of an apathetic adult baby.  I can’t tell; is this a good thing or a bad thing?

 

 

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