51 Things I’ve Done to Pass the Time While Waiting to Return to School

As some of you may know, I’ve had to postpone my trip back to good old Ann Arbor due to some unforeseen obstacles. Fret not, friends and hipsters, I will be back this January! Save me a beer.

Many people have asked what I’ve been doing these past few months to prepare myself for my junior year at college. To help explain I have compiled a list of several things I’ve done to pass the time in case you’re one of the nosy bastards who feels the need to keep tabs on me at all times, Jessica.

1. Hanging out with my niece and nephew.

2. Writing prompts.

3. Independently studying the Dutch language.

4. Getting heartburn.

5. Trying to make a Dark Souls character look exactly like Darth Maul.

6. Perfecting my Estuary English dialect.

7. Air drumming.

8. Looking up cute pictures of Slow Lorises.









9. Visiting petting zoos.

10. Writing bits and pieces of my three screenplays.

11. Studying serial killers.

12. Dodging bill collectors.

14. Being superstitious.

15. Being clever.

16. Writing this:


17. Reading all the books on my shelf.

18. Wishing I never sold my custom computer.

19. Wishing I never sold my DSLR.

20. Trying to overcome my fear of birds.

21. Failing to overcome my fear of birds.

22. Going on a Criminal Minds binge.

23. Missing Breaking Bad.

24. Trying to memorize all the words to “Rap God.”

25. Annoying people on Snapchat.


26. Sweating.

27. Tweeting.

28. Changing my phone number.

29. Listening to this song:

30. Winning caption contests.

31. Talking to women on Tinder.

32. Feeling inadequate.


33. Wondering who would win in a fight between Warwick Davis and Peter Dinklage.

34. Putting money on Dinklage.

35. Being a curmudgeonly young adult.

36. Researching how to be an intern for Conan O’Brien.

37. Laughing at Nathan For You.

38. Having a sweet idea for a restaurant:

Blood drives every weekend for 35% off your meal!

Blood drives every weekend for 35% off your meal!

39. Hitting the online dating scene:

Worked like a charm.

Worked like a charm.

40. Wondering what I’d look like if I were skinny.

41. Trying to stay sane.

42. Finding this absolutely hilarious:

43. Re-learning Spanish.

44. Being nostalgic.

45. Teaching myself how to cook.

46. Burning food.

47. Teaching kids how to properly swear.

48. Definitely not stalking my high school crush.

49. Poking fun at Apple products.

50. Being attacked by people offended by Apple jokes.

51. Trying way too hard to come up with a list of 51 random things.

OK, that’s all for now. Take care. Or don’t. S’up to you.


I’m a part-time insomniac. I don’t mean to make light of those who suffer from grown-up insomnia, but I only find it impossible to sleep maybe four days out of the week, five tops. If you’re keeping track of the time at home (it’s pert’near 4:00 AM here) then you are well aware that tonight is one of those restless nights. I’ve tried watching boring movies, reading a book, taking medication, mastur– WHOA! No. This isn’t a tell-all, naughty time blog post. My apologies to the five of you who really wanted that mental image.

Psst... Call me ;).

Psst… Call me ;).

With the annoyance of this shitty sleeplessness comes random bursts of creativity, something I don’t get nearly as often since my good-for-nothing doctor put me on Zoloft. Yeah, sure, sometimes I feel like that bouncy little fuckhead from those old commercials, but it also drains my brain and makes me, dare I say it, somewhat normal. Perhaps the insomnia is a side effect of this, a sort of fuck the system rebellion my body is pulling so that I can someday share my clusterfucked bullshit with the world.

Though I don't think anyone's super ready for that yet.

Though I don’t think anyone’s super ready for that yet.

Looking at the bright side, I have had a lot of time to do things that I hope to someday release — screenplays, comedy bits, short movies, etc. For instance, I have a couple of stories outlined that I’m converting into screenplays within the next few months. One is a sort of fantasy/sci-fi number about a man who is actually addicted to dreaming. Just like how heroin, sex, and Nutella are habit-forming for a lot of people, this dude gets high on his dreams, no matter what they may be; the more intense, the better, he believes. He begins dishing out tons of money for sleep aids and experiments that thrust him into lucid dreams so that he can get his fix, since that is the only way he seems to be able to function in day-to-day reality. S’a good one.

The next project I have been preparing is more of a drama that pulls from my own life experiences. I won’t go into details on this (it can get a little sappy), but let’s just say there’s going to be lots of laughter, crying, drugs, and maybe even some softcore lesbian sex. Trust me, it’s not there because I’m some kind of perv, it’s there for a reason that I’ll explain later. For the time being, just think about how the fuck lesbian sex is pulled from my own life experiences.



As for the comedy, I’ve got a lot of new material that is, well, more me. If the Zoloft is doing anything right for me, it’s definitely made me realize that I have less fucks to give. Crowds don’t faze me anymore, nor do spotlights, controversy, or self-deprecation. I’m ready to showcase a newer version of me, while still remaining faithful to my storytelling and slightly fabricated tales of truth. I don’t promise much, but I can sure as fuck guarantee a fun time and maybe even a change of underwear.

On top of all of this, I still have plenty of time to indulge in games on my computer, educate myself with some nonfiction reading, and maintain a very sad yet hopeful online dating profile. It’s a lot of multitasking, but goddammit I have to show everyone that fat kids like me are totally capable of running the marathon. Am I right or am I right?

OH! ONE MORE THING! I also do these shitty things in my spare time. Got quite the collection going and they’re only getting better (?).


That gentleman at the bottom riding the velociraptor is Turner Watson, a damn cool dude with a blog of his own. Check out http://www.turnerwatson.com and prepare to be amused.

I’m out, folks. Peace up, A-town down… One love… Bye-bye biatch… Whatever the kids are saying these days.

Rip ‘is bloody froat out!

Doctor? I DON’T NEED NO STINKIN’ DOCTOR! Well, actually, having a doctor check out my throat would be a grand idea, but I’ve been against the idea lately because I’m uninsured until I go back to school in the fall. Uninsured. Ain’t that some shit? My idea was to have a heart-to-heart with my immune system and enforce a strict “don’t get fucking sick or I’ll jam pack my body full of Flinstones vitamins and Children’s Robitussin” rule. Turns out vital bodily functions can’t understand you when you talk to them. Figures.

So here I am, jamming to new age instrumental music alone on my sister’s couch, reviewing English grammar (there’s an app for that!) ’cause I don’t think we learned enough about it in school, and bitching about feeling like Jake Busey in Identity.

Hey, some people haven't seen it. This visual is important!

Hey, some people haven’t seen the movie. This visual is important!

The truth is, I like to think I have a pretty high pain threshold, guys. I’m a fucking MAN! The dude I play in everyday life, the sensitive daffodil of a boy with nothing but love to give, he’s just a candy shell over the Snake Plissken-esque rugged motherfucker that I truly am.

Pictured: My face stubble (50x magnification)

Pictured: My face stubble (50x magnification)

Being such a bad mama jama, I rank this sore throat at a solid 4. That’s nothin’! That’s… That’s like a wasp sting, except, you know, in the throat. A stubbed toe? I’d give that a 5. Passing kidney stones: 7. The surgery I had on my testicles (the thought alone): 8. The Holy Grail of pain — the rare 10 — has to be the double thigh cramp. Have you ever felt such a godawful pain in your fucking life? There you are, chillin’ in bed, finishing up a Kitchen Nightmares marathon on Netflix, when suddenly your holiday hams decide to seize at the same goddamn time. You’re wrapped up in blankets, the cat’s on your chest pinning you down, and the dog is acting as a pair of furry shackles around your ankles. “FUCK EVERYTHING!” you shout as you flail about like you’re an epileptic fish out of water getting tased by the fish police. Your dog whimpers as you kick him off the bed. Your cat hisses as she claws the moles of your man melons. Your blanket cocoon flies to the other side of the room. All this commotion for fucking thigh cramps. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have my inflamed tonsils ripped out by Captain Hook right now than endure that shit anytime soon.

The point I am trying to make is that everything is going to be OK. I’ll just keep sucking on these cough drops until my shit’s better, then I’ll be back to 100%. Until then, I’m off to re-learn prepositions! Remember: Prepositions aren’t words that you should end a sentence with.

Stay in school!

Stay in school!

Camedyr Stoneforge and What Happens When We Die

I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell. I even feel kinda weird capitalizing the first letters to make them proper places, as I see that as a sort of a way of saying that they definitely exist and are for sure, 100%, exactly like some ancient text describes them. But, you see, I’m not here to put down everyone’s beliefs or belittle their ways of life by any means. Actually, I want to praise the believers for having a solid foundation in something that gives them strength and hope during this, the Era o’ Bullshit; it’s nice to see some people use their faith (in whatever) as their own personal set of Legos instead of a set of unreadable diagrams and instructions.

Seen here: Timmy getting his shit together.

Seen here: Timmy getting his shit together.

To get back on topic, this little blog…essay…bunch of words is for me to let you know about a little drunken eulogy I had recited while I was playing D&D with some friends over the summer.

“Charlie, I thought you said we were getting back on track? How is this related to Heaven an–”

Shhhhhhut. Shut. Shut your mouth. Gimme a second.

Now, I don’t remember the whole thing by heart because aaaayyyyy, I was inebriated. Nevertheless, I remember bits and pieces and remember Jake and Nate telling me how fucking beautiful it was. In order for me to explain it, here is some back story:

Jake, Nate, and I were playing some D&D, throwing some dice, doing tequila shots bigger than the Hulk’s fist, and all-in-all having a merry time. I was Camedyr Stoneforge (thank you, thank you, please hold your applause), a Dwarf who was fond of the drink and even fonder of the bonds he had with complete strangers. The quest involved three men who were invited to a fallen comrade’s funeral to celebrate his life and, after all was said and done, receive specific instructions on where they could find unfathomable treasure and fortune…

Or sum’in like that. I was drunk, see? You can’t expect me to be J.R.R. Motherfuckin’ Tolkien after a night of nerd debauchery.

Anywho, the night went on and the drinks were getting slammed. In the game we were finally at the funeral, sitting in different seats, wondering why we were there for this dude’s funeral. Camedyr Stoneforge, a man with very few fucks to give, was not going to sit still during the lovely memorial. Nay, when asked if anyone had any kind words to say about the deceased, my bearded ass stood up to a towering 4′ 6″ and stumbled my way to the front of the crowd. Once the audience was captivated/too scared to boo him offstage, Ol’ Camedyr — ahem, I — spoke these (paraphrased and soberly enhanced) words in remembrance of the Stranger:

I did not know this man as some of you knew him. I did not pass him in the morning hours or visit him in the night. I do not remember his birthday or dammit, even his name. There are two things I do know, however. The first is that he was a good man. I know it. You know it. Otherwise, this ceremony would be one for the crickets. The second: he is dead. And whether you believe he will ascend to the sun or become a part of your vegetable garden, the fact of the matter is that we will most likely never see him again. The way I see it, he will not go to the sky and look down upon us, nor will he emerge from a cocoon as a colorful butterfly. He is dead.

Cheer up! That is not to say he will not have everlasting life. The opposite, in fact, is true: HE WILL LIVE ON FOREVER. In our memories. Each and every one of us holds a memory of this man in one way or another. His soul has been divided among the hundred of us so that he may never become less than what he ever was. That is heaven, my friends. Do not look to the clouds or to the forest to see him again. Simply close your eyes and remember. That is heaven. That is where he will forever be happy.

Me… Charlie Gallagher… I said that shit! Not only that, but I more or less said it while piss drunk at a card table. OK, Camedyr Stoneforge said it, but without me there would be no Level 4 Dwarf Alcoholic, would there? And for the past few months, I’ve been thinking that maybe that short, hiccuping prick had a point.

This is Hank, another drunk dwarf. He's nothing like my drunk dwarf, but eh, you get the point.

This is Hank, another drunk dwarf. He’s nothing like my drunk dwarf, but eh, you get the picture.

I had considered myself an Agnostic/Atheistic person before this game of D&D, though I had so many more questions and was kind of unsure about everything. Now that I’ve seriously thought about my own beliefs, I think this whole memory thing is a great way to think about life after death. Maybe there is no Heaven, reincarnation, second dimension, Tree of Life, etc. Maybe what we think of when we hear “everlasting life” is just the notion that the memories people hold within their heads are pieces of an always friendly, always happy, always smiling you. They’ll constantly close their eyes and see you, everyday, no matter where they are. All it takes is a split second and a reminder and POOF! there you are. The hundreds or even thousands of people that you’ve touched over your years each have at least one memory of you, and those little memories create an entire person when brought together. That is how we live forever. That, to me, is a beautiful thing that no one can ever take away.

An Interview with an Ass

I didn’t watch the VMA’s. The people of the United States kept tweeting, blogging, and freaking out on Facebook a couple of weeks ago, trying to convince me to turn on my television and sink my teeth into MTV’s show bait, but the joke’s on you, everyone; I don’t even HAVE cable! I do, however, have a high speed Internet connection and knew that news of the event would be floating around at least one website shortly after it aired.

Although the post-ceremony stories were posted all over the place, there was one thing that caught my eye the proceeding day on the Internet that I do believe most VMA viewers missed. I was browsing the underground media site Reddit (I’m sure not many of you have heard of this gem, but I insist that you check it out when you find time between your important desk job and the raising of your young) when I stumbled on a picture of — how do I say this without coming off as crude? — an ugly ass. Literally. It was a human ass hanging out of what I could only assume was a pair of skin-toned, two-sizes-too-small Spanx®. Who did this ass belong to? Who went out in public, nay, who went on national television wearing these godawful pants that showed off their horrific posterior? I just had to know.



I contacted my friends in the bureau to see if they had the technology to zoom out and enhance a photo similar to the way every nerdy detective could in any given crime movie or TV show. “Of course we do,” they said. “That’s something that exists.” I attached the photo to an email and sent it to their work mailboxes. Within twenty-four hours I received a reply from each of them, all with the subject line “FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.”

What they sent me back is something that I wasn’t prepared for. I opened the attachment on each email and they all matched.

It was Billy Ray Cyrus’ daughter, a.k.a. Hannah Montana.

Photo Attachment: (Subject: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY)

Photo Attachment: (Subject: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY)

I was shocked. But I was also curious. I wanted to spread the word about what I just uncovered. The world caught a glimpse of the ass, but how could they know who it belonged to with the camera zoomed in so far? Most of them probably thought it was a technical goof. Perhaps one of the men behind the production desk accidentally synced his phone up to the MTV computers and what the audience saw was one of his personal stills. I, of course, knew the truth and I wanted to alert the world of my findings; however, before I did so I wanted to talk to the ugly ass in question, get some details out of it, and find out what it was thinking stepping out of the house dressed in the strangest of materials and hanging out for the world to see. Utilizing my friends in the bureau (thanks Tom, Bill, and Carlos!) I tracked down Hannah Montana’s ugly ass. I needed to hear her side of the story and find out if there was more substance to it, so I flew her out to meet me at my Ohio office to discuss everything that was on my mind. The following is an uncut, uncensored, and very revealing brief interview. I didn’t want to release it, but something within me has told me to do so. This is exclusive. Some if it may shock you. Proceed with caution.

Interview, Ugly Ass: August 30, 2013: Undisclosed Location, Ohio, United States

2:34 PM: Beginning of Interview

Charlie: Good afternoon, uh, Ass? Miss Ass? I’m sorry, what do you prefer to be called?

Ass: My closest friends call me Rhonda.

Charlie: Rhonda. Got it. May I proceed to call you Rhonda? Also, do you mind if this session is recorded?

Rhonda: You may. And no, not at all. I’m used to the attention.


Charlie: Good, good, good. OK, Rhonda, I’ll begin by asking the question that is on everyone’s mind, which is why?

Rhonda: Well, Charles, if I may be honest for a second, I certainly don’t know what I was thinking that night. Miley, my controller, she has —

Charlie: I apologize for interrupting, but her real name is Miley, not Hannah?

Rhonda: Correct.

Charlie: Thank you. I will make note of that.

[Slight pause for note-taking]

Rhonda: Anyhow, Miley has always had a tendency to put things inside of me, illegal things that I won’t get into right now. Most nights I don’t mind because the contents are wrapped up tightly in a balloon or sandwich baggy. This night, the night of the Video Music Awards, she was in a hurry and stuffed a handful of prescription pills inside of me. I wanted to spit them out as soon as she did it, but I did not want to disappoint her. Have you ever pissed off — can I say that?

[Pause for silent approval nod]

Rhonda: Have you ever pissed off a Disney star? It’s not pretty. Miley, Britney, Selena… They all have a history of violence, a long record of hurting those who cross them or disagree with their way of life. Hell, the other day Vanessa Hudgens threw her date out of a speeding Camaro after he allegedly told her that he didn’t want to go to anymore clubs. He said he wanted to just go back home and cuddle (allegedly) and she (allegedly) tossed him out. He is still in the hospital with several broken bones and a severe concussion. Miley is sadly cut from the same cloth.

Charlie: Wow, I had no idea that these former “princesses” could be so wild. So is this why you were wearing those hideous shorts, if you can even call them that? Did she make that fashion decision out of spite?

Rhonda: I mentioned to her that I did not think that she needed that many pills for such an occasion. A couple could have been taken out and she wouldn’t have lost out on any fun, I said. She then proceeded to angrily slap me and attempt to suffocate me in the shorts that you see in the photo. I wanted out so badly, but I did not fight for I did not want to upset her further. She screamed, “Do you like that? I hope so, ’cause that’s what you’re wearing to the show!” I knew I looked atrocious, but the feeling of ridicule and inability to breathe was my main concern. That whole night I saw people flashing their cameras at me. It hurt me, it really did. I knew the media would be plastering my pictures everywhere. I knew I would be mocked for the rest of my life. I will never forgive her for that.


Rhonda: I will never forgive her for being so cruel. She’s a monster, but one that I have to live with for the rest of my life. I’m sure I will be receiving much worse after the exposure I’ve received these past few days.

Charlie: Being attached to Han — sorry — Miley, do you think you’ll be on the receiving end of punishment for a long time to come?

Rhonda: I fear it may never end, honestly. Miley is young and reckless. It’s a dark time to be an ass attached to someone so determined to live the “YOLO” lifestyle. She’s hellbent on destroying me. At least that’s how it seems.

Charlie: Rhonda, you have given me your side of the story. I would have never thought, not in a million years, that there was this much to you. It’s been a privilege. Before we pack up and I send you on your way, do you have any final words to say to the world? Anything you’d like to share?

Rhonda: Certainly. If you are an ass or if you know of any asses that have taken this kind of unnecessary, cruel punishment, there are options. If you need another ass to talk to, you are welcome to contact me via Twitter or by phone at 1-888-FREE-ASS. (Be sure to dial 888 and not 800.) Being an ass is a tough job, but if we work together we can pull through anything. You are not alone. We may just be asses to them, but dammit we are people too.

Charlie: Rhonda, you are truly an inspiration. An ASSpiration, if you will.


Rhonda: Thank you for allowing me to come here and talk about this. And thank you for making me smile in such trying times. Your generosity will never go unappreciated.

Charlie: You are so welcome. Take care, Rhonda.

[End of Interview]

On the Tail of a Q: September 6

Basic RGB

I’m doing this thing where I drink NyQuil and write “poems,” a term I should really use lightly here. This will help me accomplish two things:

1) My insomnia is dying and I’m feeling tired. Too tired, even. I should be asleep now, but I’m pulling through just to write this for you.

2) I lost what the second part was going to be, but it’s OK. I think you get the gist. I do, so you should too. You’re not the one who’s doped up on NyQuil. That’s me. I am. Because of my insomnia. Sorry, I’m done.

This poem doesn’t have a title, but you understand where I’m coming from. Here it goes.

Bitter ol’ Green Eyes

Atop the Cotton Mountain

Hurling dark horses

Aiming right for the head


Sightless troglodytes

At the Necromancer’s lair

They charge through the gate

In hopes of feeling death


Gold dragons take flight

A new forecast of fire rain

Eye-opening glow

The heat of creature’s breath


Men wait in shadow

Under the Silk Blanket Way

Claustrophobic space

A wire around their necks


Liquid, oh liquid

Down the black rapids we go

Down to the top of Cotton Mountain

Alone with bitter ol’ Green Eyes

Stay tuned for more On the Tail of a Q. That’s what I’m calling these things. Isn’t it fun? I think so.

Maybe I’ll write more poetry right when I wake up, see how that goes for a while.

Love you.