Dear Facebook Diary,

I am finally on the descending side of the hump of this incredibly boring summer. Aside from a somewhat random and semi blind date two weeks ago, in which my underwear and a form fitting t-shirt that was very flattering to my pectoral development was lost in the Platte River and I spent the next day pulling splinters out of various parts of my body, nothing newsworthy has happened to me this summer. I suppose English died. That was sad.

English was a cactus that I had owned for the past two years. I gave him the name of English because he was shaped like a penis and any normal mongoloid would have named him Dick or Fuckstick, but I named him English because he had a little curve on his helmet. So if he had been a penis then he would have been a shwanger with a little English on him. He contracted Pichia Heedii, or cactus rot, while I was spending a weekend at Ron and Connie’s house taking care of their dogs, and the disease gradually ate at him for about five or six weeks before he finally split from his root and a greenish slime oozed from his waistline where the disease had eaten through the equator of his polar hemispheres. On Sunday, I decided that it was time for me to dispose of his carcass. I dumped him along with his soil into the alley behind my apartment. When English was saying adiós to his familia in Mexico, I doubt he would have ever predicted that his lifeless body would be lying in a pile of dirt and gravel in an unkempt alley in nowhere Nebraska only two and a half years later. It’s funny that his name was English because I’m sure that all cacti only speak Spanish or maybe Portuguese if they’re from further south. I already miss the spiny bastard because now I have no one to talk to or silently stare at while I stand in my kitchen drinking coffee and wearing nothing but a pair of socks every morning. Now I stare at his empty pot and faintly smile while a single tear roles down my cheek as I remember the many one-way conversations that we had over the past two years. Vaya con dios Inglés, vaya con dios.

I am fully engaged in meathead mode again. I still only lift weights three days per week but now I’m pushing some serious fucking iron and neither me nor my bulging quadriceps are giving a flying fuck about the consequences. Whenever I step out of the shower I check my progress in the full-length mirror in my bathroom. My body is looking mighty swole and my head is looking smaller by the day, so I know that I’m making progress in my physique enhancing efforts. My boulder shoulders appear to be swallowing my ever-thickening neck in an attempt to completely absorb my head into my torso, creating that meathead toad look that all women find irresistible.

Aside from the iron pumping and my daily walk in which I bathe my muscles in sunshine, and working nearly everyday, I have been a total hermit this summer. I workout, I work, I sip some totties, and I sleep. That is an overly detailed summery of my summer. I have fully formed the habit of having a drink or five to calm my nerves before bed each night, and perhaps that habitual seed could one day fully blossom into a sensual blue orchid of alcoholism. I consider working out to be my form of meditation and drinking to be my way of stepping back and contemplating my next move. Before you can stand up you have to be knocked down, and when life is going too easy and not knocking me down, I knock myself down with vodka tonics that have a squirt of lime juice in them, it is the best way to knock myself down. I only see drinking as a problem when an individual is unable to wait until sunset before they partake in the process of getting shitfaced. I’m not sure if it’s because I grew up in the Midwest or because I have encountered so many human pieces of shit in my life, but people that are drunk during the middle of the day are scum. I live a block away from the college campus and every damn day when I am either walking to work or getting my cardio on, I see groups of college douche bags sitting around baby pools and being completely sloshed at like one in the afternoon, on a fucking Wednesday. I know that for the year or two after I drank my first beer I was mesmerized by the act of being drunk but these fucktards are either twenty-one or damn near being twenty-one and they are still acting like they drank their first beer yesterday. Also, why don’t they have jobs? I’ve been working steady ever since the age of fourteen and now these fucking adolescent acting shit heels are lounging around at all hours of the day getting drunk and making my already shitty neighborhood look more like the projects.

This Facebook Diary has been completely meaningless, just like my summer. But I am becoming a meathead and an alcoholic at the same time. I see nothing wrong with either of these and hope to maintain my progress. Drinking is a great way to pass the time and it can be a wonderful technique in finding some purpose in life. As I told my friend Sam, “The best view of life is seen from below and alcohol can give you that point of view. Besides, even when you fall on your face, you’re still moving forward.” That saying rings true in both the physical and metaphorical sense.