I like-a the way I feel all skinny in the morning after I drop a massive deuce. Today was one of those days, but then I also realized that hunger pangs are extremely deceptive. My digestive tract storms a thunderous ruckus, like it's rearranging furniture in my belly. Almost instantly, I feel deprived. It is in that moment where I can make good choices or bad ones for the day. The manboobs staring back at me in the mirror certainly aren't lying anymore. Portion control is my weakness and it's obvious I've made many bad food decisions in my lifetime. On the other hand, it's always a good morning when the sight of my own titties is disturbingly arousing - just kidding, I'm not that weird. But, I am really making a conscious effort to pay more attention to my expanding waistline. I don't suppose preventive measures would allow two sausage egg mcmuffins right now.

There's a fine line between ninja and creepy perv. Just ask my peripheral vision. I like to think I'm pretty slick about treating myself to eye candy - hot girls, that is. Not that I needed to clarify that or anything. I'm just saying, I never think of dudes as candy; or dudes as something pleasurable, for that matter. Anyway, I've realized that cleavage is my weakness. I know, pretty groundbreaking. My peripheral ninja skills crumble at the mere sight of partially exposed lady lumps and I'm instantly demoted to white belt, at best. I reckon it must have something to do with our innate animalistic desire to mate that possesses us so. Or maybe boobs emit a magnetic field I didn't know about and my eyeballs of steel are purely victims to the laws of physics. In any case, women wear them like a trendy fashion accessory and my clumsy pupils always seem to notice.

Seasonally speaking, I've witnessed underboob cleave, sideboob cleave, breastfeeding cleave, wonderbra cleave, and silicone cleave, to name a few. Sadly, it doesn't even have to be good cleavage for me to sneak a peek. I don't discriminate. But please don't feel too special either because my brain usually requires a brief second to reboot in order for me to process the fugly connected to them. Other times, it's the cleavage that you're not supposed to notice that gets you into trouble. I'm talking about friend cleavage. I hate it when that happens because it's always a little tricky. Well crap, I just outed myself on that one. In my defense, it was an amnesic blur, highly unenjoyable, and it made me want to bury my face - in shame, of course. Accidental or not, getting caught with your eyes on friend cleavage is no laughing matter and unspoken rules need apply (i.e. deny, deny, deny). Dare imagine it belonging to someone related to you and you'll want to stab your own eye out. I could not scream awkward any louder.

Forgive my corrupted brain and it's digression into bizarro land.

Boobs are the ultimate visual pheromone and great power resides within them. Lucky for us, with great power comes great irresponsibility. Sometimes they mesmerize. Sometimes they make you stutter. Sometimes they call your name. Sometimes you're allowed to peek. Sometimes it's not okay to stare. Sometimes they stare at you. Sometimes they want your money. Sometimes a combination of cleavage and nipple protrusion will render you completely defenseless. But most of the time, perverted thoughts are inevitable.

Fellas, please tread carefully for El Cleavo will tease you and test your resilience. You mustn't falter too noticeably, maintaining a stoic poker face; wherefore them breastesses shall hypnotically consume you and her every wish will be your command.

It's never a good sign when I can stop wearing a belt with my jeans. Essentially, it's a little red flag that I may need Richard Simmons to pay me a visit. The fear of a sassy greasy glittery lubed old man in candy-stripe shorts would surely motivate me to sweat to the oldies. I didn't wear my belt this morning because I have reached capacity in these jeans. The pathetic part is that lately when I wear my belt, a reverse 'S' from my Superman buckle becomes imprinted on my belly because my gut fatly hangs over while sitting. Today, I can only breathe properly with the top button undone. I need to release one of those ten pound Domo-Kun-like dumps again. I kind of just did already, but I need like two of them in a row to shave off the discomfort in my waistline. Even though I'm just a cheeseburger away, I absolutely refuse to buy bigger pants.

I hate it when my ball sack annoyingly sticks to my inner thigh. The summer weather this week isn't helping my situation either, nor is the Double Quarter Pounder with cheese I ate for lunch. I'm almost certain a contributing factor is the cluster of fat cells I've accumulated in the area over the years, but maybe it also has something to do with the laws of gravity with respect to my aging left testicle. I swear it only happens on my left ball, which coincidentally hangs lower than the right. Whatever the case, I cannot seem to find a lasting solution to this problem. Applying baby powder provided a temporary fix. Underwear quality seems to be irrelevant as I've tried them all with the same slimy escaping, testicle-adhering result. I suspect that my scrotum has some kind of desire to be Spidey, too.

I've repeatedly had to peel my lefty from my inner leg today, which never looks cute at work. It's especially embarrassing when your coworker catches you in the copy room lifting your leg outward with your hand on your crotch. I usually implore the hand-in-pocket maneuver, but I'm so fed up with it today. Even worse, my jeans are hugging my fat much tighter than usual. On days like this, I'd normally retreat to the file room to do a set of push-ups to feel better about myself, but the last thing I need right now is even sweatier balls.

I've learned that this phenomenon going on down there is called batwing. Which also reminds me, I'm pretty excited about The Dark Knight movie coming out next week.

Work still sucks. Inertia is my enemy. "Initiative" is still not a part of my vocabulary. The cost of gas has reached triple digits to fill up my Nissan Titan. That just about sums up life since my last entry. Oh yeah, and the glass is always half empty. I'm not exactly saying that life sucks and then you die, but my mind has wandered into dark places. I have abstained from blogging for nearly two years, but even back in 2006, I had already faded into obscurity. Recently, I got this itch to rediscover my voice again. I once assessed that my motivation to blog was impaired by a "kryptonite rock." However true that may have been or not, my blogging powers appear to be returning - at least for now. From what I can gather from my own psychoanalytic investigation, my urge to blog seems to be fueled by frustration, horny thoughts, and boredom; all of which are pretty related. The one thing I can conclude is that there is a therapeutic value in blogging.

Guess it's about time I dust out the cobwebs, get my mind right, and blog away! The Milk 2.0 is long overdue.

Captivity.

Today is Day 4 since my office buddy abandoned me. She managed to hop the fence in search of greener pastures while I still remain in captivity here at Sun. This is an event of monumental proportion seeing that it has forced me out of blogging retirement. My work days feel like eternity and my empty cubicle's gotten a few degrees colder since she left. I never thought I'd actually miss the heater fan she blasted 24/7. But, I'm happy she's moved on to bigger and better things. One of us was bound to get it together first. Now, I just have to follow her example. And I don't mean going through an accelerated nursing program in the middle of the desert. I just want OUT of here. Speaking of out, congratulations to Lance Bass!

I knew that parting ways with mel-dork was going be difficult, but I never imagined how miserable I'd feel again at work. Five plus years as a contractor with no benefits and a one dollar raise that happened over three years ago. On top of all that, hot tax girl quit back in February AND got hitched last month. But, she's spilled milk as far as I care since she managed to get un-hot in recent months. I guess everything I hated about being here is finally resurfacing and I just have to acknowledge it and figure out how to pull myself out of this rut. I always knew that my job sucked, but having it suck with a friend made it slightly bearable. But then again, maybe it's not the job that sucks so much. Perhaps, I'm more disappointed with myself for sticking around for so long. I complain and bitch about how crappy things are, but the reality is that I'm the one who sucks. I'm capable of so much more and I want more for myself. The real challenge is doing what it takes to get there.

A couple of weeks ago, I misplaced the humongous bulge in my pants. I never realized how frightening it could be to lose a simple wallet until it happened to me. I swear I damn near had a braineurism just thinking about my entire identity being out there for anyone to snatch. I lost my license, five credit cards, a pasta pomodoro coupon, $80 cash, and a school id conveniently displaying my social security number. Luckily, I was able to remember most everything I carry and immediately begin the "lost my wallet" process: 1) Contact and alert the three major national credit companies: Equifax, TransUnion, and Experian; 2) Cancel and report all lost credit cards; 3) Shell out another $20 for a replacement license, etc. But even after doing all that, my conscience could not rest. As long as the pocket of my right upper thigh where my wallet usually resides was empty, it was a reminder that my identity was still at risk.

Funny how I used to complain so much about feeling tied down by my bulky wallet and how it was such a burden to carry around, especially in my snug David Hasselhoff jeans. Simply walking was an uncomfortable task with the subsequent sweat that developed from my body heat in this area. Now, I could only long for the day to be reunited with the BIG secret in my pants. I used to be such a magnet for grinding on the dance floor. Since the loss of my bulky, bulging wallet, not so much luck. We used to make quite an impression on the ladies. Sadly, I keep it Filipino yo.

Fortunately, to my pleasant surprise, my wallet came home on May 11, 2005. I've never felt such a huge sigh of relief when I discovered that everything was in one piece but the missing cash. I suppose the culprit who stumbled upon it must've pocketed the $80 and dropped the wallet in a mailbox. It was mailed to me by the post office after being found loose in the mail bag. I'm so lucky this time. I've read so many horror stories about identity theft that going thru this experience has forced me to take extra precautions. I reach down in my pocket every now and then just to make sure it's there. If no one's looking, I also play a little pool while I'm at it. Home, sweet home, dear wallet.

my royal flush

It thrills me to inform you that I have discovered Wet Ones Flushables at Wal-Mart. I don't think you can begin to grasp how groundbreaking this actually is. As a child, I always dreamed of a day when we'd have pre-moistened toilet paper. I mean, let's face it, without the proper facilities, dumptaking can be quite a messy ordeal. Trust me, I've had my share of sharting incidents, especially in grade school.

My hesitation to use the public restroom at school for number two is a clear reflection of how extremely shy I was as a child. Consequently, I did most of my business in my underwear and prayed that no one noticed. The funny thing is I don't remember the cleaning up part. I do remember the car rides home because I had to stand in the backseat with my legs straddled. I'm guessing mommy and daddy probably took care of the rest.

I never really did get over my fear of taking a dump at school, but I did get really good at clenching my ass cheeks together to momentarily subside the turtles from peeking. It's weird how we somehow come full circle as adults because I have absolutely no problem squeezing out number two at work. In fact, in some ways, I actually prefer it. The toilets here are so monstrously powerful, I rarely ever clog them.

I think my obsession with dumptaking led to my obsession with dumptaking cleanliness. I credit my dad with passing on the idea to finish off my toilet blessings with a Wet Ones Antibacterial Moist Towelette. I feel totally refreshed after using them and those pesty dingleberries and hershey underwear streaks are no longer an issue. These Wet Ones allow you the freedom to take that post-shower dump. It's awesome.

The only problem with these original Wet Ones is that they aren't really designed to pass thru our sewage pipes. I've been using them for over three years now and I suppose I've done some irreversable damage to our local sewage system. But now I need not fret because an unplanned visit to Wal-Mart brought Wet Ones Flushables into my life. There are some cheap imitations out there, i.e. Target, but nothing cleans up the stink like a Wet Ones Flushable wipe. Cottonelles work too, but I'm a loyal Wet Ones brand customer. My ass has never felt more like a King.

I've been resorting to extreme measures of meditation, desperately trying to pinpoint the source of my involuntary blogging hiatus. In the last couple of months, I've been posting fewer and fewer entries. Sadly, they've also been very uninteresting and stale as a bag of old Doritos. I thought I was just having blogger's block, but I'm starting to suspect that there may be something much more serious going on. The super ego that is the milk appears to have been tamed; my blogging powers rendered useless. I think I may have stumbled upon my kryptonite. It's as if all the energy I used to put into this blog has been unconsciously redirected to this little green meteor rock, aka the girlfriend. I'm not saying it's necessarily a bad thing, but it probably explains a lot.

The embarrassing part is how it's sorta revealing in how I was probably craving attention and wanting to feed my own ego when I started this site a little over a year ago. I am truly ashamed - I've been blogging for all the wrong reasons. But, I guess I'll be back when I need to fill that void again.

Until then, milk over and out.

I am happy to announce that I am now the proud owner of a ginormous Nissan Titan Crew Cab LE 4x4 Black Truck. I had my mind set on the Jeep Grand Cherokee HEMI, but when I thought about what I really wanted, I realized my heart belonged to the Titan. The Titan is a fucking animal on wheels and the V8 engine roars like one too - exactly what I've been wanting since last year around this time. It's a world of difference driving this high off the road compared to my Nissan 300ZX.



Friends, I am in love.

Dude, I know I don't blog very much anymore, but I just got back from the restroom totally inspired. I took my late afternoon dump and it was one of those light-weight kinds where gravity is the enemy. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I squeezed out girly pellets again and they failed to penetrate thru the toilet seat sanitary sheet. The last time this happened to me, the smelly logs lightly grazed the bottom side of my penis. Wait a minute -- I take it back. That unfortunate incident was actually due to the defective toilet seat sanitary sheets being poorly perforated in production. Anyway, I was able to saturate the sanitary sheet with enough urine to break it, thereby submerging the stinky kids (note the plural). The stinkers almost looked alive the way in which they slowly inched their way into the toilet water. I don't think they wanted to go, which made me kinda sad for two seconds.

I've been experiencing a major case of acid reflux ever since I treated myself to this super burrito on Wednesday night. These super burritos ain't no joke either because I could swear they probably weigh close to two pounds. It never fails to hit the spot, but it also never fails to make me feel like such a fat ass. I paid for the effects that night, busting ass at every sleepless tussle. My undies survived the night without any hershey mishaps, but as soon as I stood up and walked around, I could feel the digestive juices emanating from my burrito's temporary residence in my stomach just wanting to come back up. I drank a gallon of water to pacify the annoying heartburn.

It seemed to hold me over until lunchtime when I indulged myself at Joe's Chinese Fast Food. I should've known by the name of the place itself that Joe was so not gonna go easy on me. It looked pleasantly appetizing behind the glass case, but boy was I wrong. I tasted a hint of Indian spice -- a huge red flag to do my stomach a favor and toss it. But, I'm such a stubborn eater that I couldn't let $5.79 go to waste.

Needless to say, massive acid reflux consumed me yet again. It was so bad I started to empathize with Ashlee Simpson for having to lip sync on SNL because of it. I mean, it really took a toll on my vocal chords and I could barely hold a note while singing alone in my car yesterday. I didn't have dinner last night and I was almost tempted to skip lunch today. Fortunately, my digestive system appears to be good as new again. I had a turkey/roast beef sandwich and currently, I am stuffing my face with tortilla chips and guacamole dip. So far, so good.

Today is Day 6 without hot water in our home. The damn water heater broke last Saturday and there has been a slight delay in having that thing fixed. Since then, the rest of my family has been using the facilities at my sister's house two minutes away. Me being the soldier that I am, I've been numbing my balls by toughing it out in freezing cold showers. Well, I did take that hot shower on Monday and Tuesday, but other than that, you'd think I was half penguin.

I've learned that life without a water heater is completely doable. I typically take 15-20 minute hot showers and am partly responsible for racking up the water bill. Lately, I haven't lasted for more than two cold minutes in there. I feel like I'm totally giving back to the community by conserving water. If you think about it, this broken water heater is sorta like a blessing in disguise because now I realize what a careless and wasteful citizen I've been. I mean, what the hell was I doing in there for 20 minutes? I've always believed that for showers beyond the 20-minute mark, we can assume one is just playing in there. But, that's so not I said the fly. I'm just extremely thorough when it comes to personal hygiene, sometimes.

I have to tell you that these cold showers have done wonders for my sack. I truly believe something different is going on down there. Not during the shrivelling cold shower, of course, because then we're just talking raisins. But, I'm talking about shortly after when my body temperature returns to normal. I think my testicles have actually gotten larger. Which makes perfect sense because I've heard that spraying cold water in this area can actually stimulate and increase your sperm count. So I'ma have to make a mental note of that for future reference. I totally want bragging rights to owning super sperm. But until then, I really hope we have that water heater fixed this weekend. I might literally reach grapefruit status if I go another week like this.

So I've decided to go with a black Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited with the 5.7-liter HEMI V8. I was looking for a vehicle with horsepower comparable to my Nissan 300ZX Twin Turbo, but one that is also passenger-friendly and capable of plowing thru a snow storm. The Titan seemed like the logical choice. But unfortunately, finding a place to park that sumbitch would be such a pain in the ass. The Acura MDX and The Pilot just don't do it for me in terms of vehicles with gi-normous testicles. Hence, the Jeep HEMI.

However, I've also decided to take my time before making such a grand purchase. A couple of days ago, I was so ready to throw my money at the Jeep dealer. Then I did something I was trying so hard to avoid. I started to think. I thought about how HUGE a dent this new Jeep would be leaving on my bank account and how I'd be a slave for my car for the next five plus years. And then I thought... my job isn't completely stable, I should be investing my money in a house, my current vehicle still works, my expensive taste is unnecessary, I like my expensive taste, I'm not thinking about my future enough, I HATE my conscience.

Ultimately, I just don't NEED a new car right now... although I still WANT it. I usually have a habit of needing what I want, so we'll see what happens.

Decisions, decisions...

2005 Nissan Titan Crew Cab


2005 Acura MDX


2005 Jeep Grand Cherokee Limited


2005 Honda Pilot

Happy Valentine's Day. An overrated holiday, I couldn't agree more. The commercialized nature of our society has turned Valentine's Day into a corporate scam. And those yearning for love and happiness usually succumb to the dark side of this "special" day in February. I know because I happen to be a victim. Every time Cupid makes his annual round, I've been so resilient and careful not to acknowledge his presence. But this year, I misplaced my balls for just one second and it consumed me. I'm so ashamed.

It's been exactly one week since my surgery. Which means for one week I've been sitting at home doing absolutely nothing. I suppose that's no different than me being at work, just without the getting paid part. Not that I consider myself a lazy fuck, I just don't think I utilize my time to my full potential. But, then again, that is the definition of a lazy fuck, isn't it? I complain and complain about my miserable job and yet I do nothing to improve my situation. I tried to make use of my free time this week by browsing job postings and updating my resume. In doing so, however, I've realized that I still don't know what I want to do with myself career-wise and that I don't have much to show for with all my years wasted in the crappy tax department. Hence, being productive got exhausting and I opted to read comics and watch dvds instead. So much for that damn computer science degree.

Recovering from surgery has been a really frustrating experience, especially the first couple of days. It sorta gave me glimpse into what it must be like to grow old and weak; feeling like a burden to your loved ones, but knowing you need to depend on them. I don't know if it's pride or stupidity, but it wasn't very long before I started hopping around writhing in pain to do things on my own. I probably stretched a few stitches in the process trying to do too much too soon, but I only grimaced in private. As a challenge to myself, I refused to take my prescribed pain medication, just to see what would happen. But, it actually wasn't that bad which leads me to believe that my ankle will be brand spanking new in no time. I have my post-surgery appointment this morning. Hopefully, everything goes as expected and the biopsy comes back negative. I can't wait to get rid of this unintentional pimp walk.

Guess what?!? Jello Pudding Pops are on sale at Safeway two for five bucks with your club card!!! I carefully re-read the sale sign ten times as if I were matching winning lotto numbers before I immediately began somersaulting thru the ice cream isle with euphoric glee. I might as well have pitched a tent in my pants with how excited I was in that moment. But then I opened the freezer door to grab me some and there were no more boxes of Jello Pudding Pops to be found. I was so extremely disappointed that I was tempted to take my rage out on the other popsicles. I imagined the best way to sabotage the popsicle section was to relocate a number of crappy popsicle boxes to the pets isle behind the dog biscuits. Then I remembered I'm a mature 27-year-old adult and that kind of behavior would've been fine two years ago, but not now. So I decided to accidentally rearrange the hallmark cards section instead.

I feel as if I've been violently yanked back into reality because I'm starting to notice significant flaws in my image of perfection that is hot tax girl. I've always emphasized that work eye candy is on a level slightly below regular eye candy, but somewhere between giving her so much blogging time and dying of boredom at work, I managed to put her on a grand pedestal. Sadly, I think the wool over my own eyes must be transparent now because the walls of her temple are crumbling before me.

I seriously believe her spell over me is wearing thin because I don't even get nervously sweaty like I usually do anymore. She requested my assistance in retrieving a few boxes from storage and I agreed to help her without hesitation. Now, normally I'd be doing cartwheels at the chance to have any kind of interaction with her, but for some reason she had absolutely no affect on me. I mean, it's not like she wasn't radiating her usual beam of hotness either. Maybe not in the sense that would typically yield a woody, but she was still quite attractive.

It was in that pivotal moment that I started to dissect her under a much clearer microscope. I noticed a grayish strand of hair stemming from her scalp. A few seconds later, three more strands surfaced! And another!!! Needless to say, I was completely in shock. Hot tax girl appears to be aging at a rapid rate. I tried to dismiss it and reasoned that stress must be the culprit.

However, when I saw her in the hallway, I began dissecting her with even closer attention to detail. Hot tax girl has saggy, drooping breasts that resemble the form of re-refrigerated melted butter. They're also quite sharp in the nipple department. I only know this because she didn't appear to be wearing a bra. I've never been an advocate of breast implants, but I think she could totally benefit from the procedure. It's just sad because the rest of her body, at least to my present knowledge, is still hot like fire! She has so much going on for her from that provocatively sexy walk to those awesomely shaped buttcheeks. I mean, when I walk behind her, I still get an urge to beat my meat like it owes me money. It's just such a shame that she has below average breasteses. I dare not say hot tax girl, no more. But rather, hot tax girl, new boobies please!

I'm scheduled to undergo surgery on Thursday, February 3 to remove that painfully annoying schwannoma in my right ankle. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I have to say that I'm growing a little more nervous the closer that day approaches. Not so much about getting my ankle cut open, but about that minute possibility that something might go wrong. I'm probably just being a pussy because it's not like we're dealing with any broken bones here. But still, I can't help but imagine that performing surgery is sorta like driving an automobile. When you get into your car, you can never guarantee that you'll get from Point A to Point B safely. You can be the best driver in the world and take extreme precautions, but you cannot predict the numerous factors that are simply out of your control.

What if my body responds negatively to the anesthesia? What if they find out the tumor is cancerous? What if the nerves connected to this tumor result in numbness or loss of feeling in some part of my body? Perhaps, an adverse effect on the franks and beans? The pain does shoot up into my leg. What if the nurses are hot and decide to take advantage of me on the surgery table? What if my doctor comes into work totally wasted? What if they don't know the difference between my right ankle and the ankle on their right? I so think paranoia is getting the best of me right now.

Part of me is also really concerned with how inconvenient the next few weeks will be. I hope I won't have to depend on others too much. But, I wonder if I could convince someone to wipe my ass for me. The doctor said I could return to work within a matter of a few days as long as I can sit at my desk with my leg elevated. I was more worried about not being able to get to the cool, handicapped shitter on the third floor fast enough. I'm usually as slick as a navy seal about my dumptaking habits, so this is going to be a real challenge.

Dude, I really wish I made more time for snowboarding before this surgery. By the time I heal up, all that good snow will be long, long gone. Surgery is such a kill joy.