Black Ninja Pussy...cats

Ok folks, here goes.

My neighbors are cat-hoarders. Well, at least that is what I am thinking. When I moved into my townhouse the people connected to us had ONE cat. Now there are about 7 or 8 cats loitering around my house at all times.

They are ALL black and they have it out for me.

I kid you not...these are some ANGRY kitties.

They want to kill me. I know they do. I can see it in their glowing, yellow, slitted eyes. I can sense it in the way they move (which is more like 'slinking') when I walk outside.

I am not over-exaggerating when I tell you that one of them hissed, "Die!" at me a few nights ago when I got out of my car...which lead to some urine winding up in my pantaloons.

I love animals. Don't get me wrong...I really do. But, these cats...they are otherworldly. They have an eerie way about them that makes me nervous and fearful for my safety.

The other night, as I walked my dogs in the frigid winter night, I was assaulted by several of the cats.

One of the pitch-black pussies dive-bombed out of a tree at my head; hissing like a viper that had been cornered by a little middle eastern snake charmer in the hot desert.

As I screamed and flailed on the icy ground another black pussy leapt at my feet from the bushes to the side of me. I think it sprayed venom at my eyes but it missed. Yeah, I know what you are thinking...cats don't have venom....but, you are wrong. When this thing spray/hissed I felt an acidic blast of fire hit my shin. The swelling has still not gone down. I may be permanently disfigured.

After the first two cats dove at me and scampered off into the dark night a third one decided to fly out at my dog from under my carport. Thankfully, my dog did not run off after it...but they have in the past.

These black ninja pussies are driving me bonkers.

I want them to go away and leave me in peace.

I don't want any harm to befall them though. Just so my readers know...I do NOT condone kitty-murderings. Save the kitties!!!

On another wonderful note...my lovely mother had the humor to say, "Ahhh, now I know why you go out late at night...to get yourself some black pussy."

Yeah mom...that's the exact reason why I go out.

Love me some black pussy.

Sorry this was a short post. I am exhausted from my tedious day of nothingness.

Tootles my darlings. Much love. Peace.

Where has the time gone?

Hey Y'all! (I said that JUST like Britney bitch!)

How is everyone?! It's been too long since my last blog. 2009? Seriously, where has the time gone? It seems like it was just yesterday that I was writing about my escapades!

Well, I'm back.

I just don't know what to write about. Total brain freeze.

I want my blog to become a mega-smash hit sensation that gets made into a movie just like Julie/Julia (which was crap compared to the cinematic adventure that MY life could potentially be!). I think I would want someone who looks JUST like me to play the part...so, the casting director better start calling Ryan Phillippe, Ryan Reynolds, Ryan Gosling and maybe even Ryan Seacrest. I look like all of them. You know I do. Don't deny it. Not only do we share the uncanny facial similarities but we share the same first name...so, duh...one of them should DEFINITELY play me in my autobiographical film adaption.

With my luck they will cast Paul Giamati. Oy!

Anyways, I just wanted to stop in and get some thoughts. Should I blog about a certain topic? Should I blog about my favorite items? Recent splurges? Current events? What do you think?

Much obliged.

Love you.

Tootles.

R. Kelley (Not the one who pees on underage girls)

I want a plastic face

I saw my reflection tonight in the glass of a window while I was standing on my deck waiting for my dogs to do there business and noticed how large and unsightly my ears are. Not just the lobes but the entire ears themselves.

They are quite Dumbo-like in size. I actually gasped when I saw myself. I feel as if I have the capabilities to actually flap them and fly away.

I am beginning to notice more and more physical flaws that I (in a fantasy world where there were no risks of turning out like MJ or Priscilla Presley) would like corrected.

Isn't it crazy when you realize that you have reached a point in your life where your skin isn't as vibrant or tight as it once was? Your eyes start to sag and puff up and you always look tired and hung over. Sometimes I fear winding up looking like Benicio Del Torro, with massive dark circles and lines racing under my eyes. GASP! The thought actually gives me chills.

I can't believe I have wrinkles near my eye corners and you can't even begin to understand how many HUNDREDS of gray hairs I have littering my once vibrantly chocolate-brown head of hair.

That isn't arrogance speaking...I actually used a tool in a salon once that matched up my hair color to a shade called, "Vibrant Chocolate".

The grays don't bother me as much as the fact that my hair now falls out in giant clumps. You know it's bad when it's in clumps!

This fact is soothed by my constant mental chanting of "you have no bald family members...you will be fine!" but subconciously I am aware of the fact that most men gradually lose there hair at some point or another.

I think the hair falling out issue freaks me out because I am short. I do not want to wind up looking like George Costanza. I think short AND bald is a double whammy against a guy in the world.

So, I unabashedly purchase luxury shampoos and conditioners from Sephora.

Phyto, Fredderik Fekkai, Rene Furterer, Ojon...I have um' all! Will they save my head of hair...who knows!!? Probably not!

Isnt it insane how these trivial concerns even bother me??? Whatever happened to aging gracefully? Why can't I be graceful? Why must I be so addicted to trying to stay young? It's not as if I am good-looking? It's not like I have anything INTERESTING to maintain? I am not arrogant or cocky...I am not a metrosexual in terms of the way I dress or appear out in public. I take a normal 20 minutes to get ready. Sure, I have worn man-bronzer from time to time...is that a crime?!?!

THERE AIN'T NO SHAME...IN MY GAME!!

I think getting older sucks. A lot of people are super content with the age they are at...but for me, I wish I was 16 again.

Not many people would want to be in high school again...and I have to admit, I had a rough time during high school. I can't even tell you how many times I was slammed into lockers and called a faggot. Hell, I was a poster child for verbal abuse...but, I would trade everything to go back and live it over again. I would want to change so much! I would live it up! I would party! I would dance! I would do EVERYTHING that I didn't do because I was too shy or too worried about what people would think of me. I realize now that no one REALLY cares what you do. Sure, they can talk about you or call you names...but it doesn't matter. When it's over, you never see those people again and you never think twice about them.

Oh well...I wish I was younger and I am sad that I am getting older. I will try to age with more acceptance, but I can't promise that an eye lift isn't on the horizon.

Oh, and I'm getting my boobs done too.

I will chat more on this topic soon...Right now...I have to let the puppy out!!!

Love ya lots!

Save A Horse, Shoot a cowboy...

What can I say about Cowboys?

What are they exactly???

Doesn't the word "Cowboy" seem strange to you?

For myself, it conjures up disgusting images of half-man/half-cow creatures. A cloven hoofed, cud-chewing man-beast with unsightly udders dangling from his filthy front-area.

That's right...FRONT-AREA!!!

I would imagine them to be gentle monsters though.

I hope that flesh-eating cows aren't that common.

That wouldn't be pleasant at all!

The word Cowboy makes me cringe a bit. What are they? Why are they? WHO are they?!

These strange individuals who have the gall to proclaim themselves "boys of the cow!"

These boot wearing, skoal chewing, wrangler jean loving, stetson smelling people who sing with irritatingly warbled vocals about dead dogs and truck-driving ex-girlfriends with revenge on there minds.

My own father has proclaimed himself a cowboy at times. He (much to my dismay) wears wranglers, owns various pairs of boots, and occasionally (and randomly!) screams, "YEE HAW!"

I find his views of being a cowboy somewhat skewed though, since he also sees himself as somewhat of a Native American.

Yep...a red-feathered Injun!

How do you call yourself a cowboy and also call yourself an Indian?

Isn't that somewhat of an oxi-moron?

If I HAD to make a guestimate of what a real, TRUE cowboy was, I would instantly picture someone fairly ANTI-native american, in the sense that...errrrrrrrr (how do i say this delicately?)...well, they KILLED most of them back in the day!

Cowboys, to me, are the guys that wrangled up the native american's and forced them into reservations. They are the guys that shut the native american's up! These are the BAD guys!!!

I personally like Native American's more then Cowboys. They are definitely an endangered species to this country called America. Isn't it funny that Native (by Miriam's standard) means:

{a local resident: especially a person who has always lived in a place, as distinguished from a visitor or a temporary resident}
or
{belonging to a particular place by birth}

Which just peeves me more about how we came about BEING...AMERICANS!!! (I am saying AMERICANS with gusto and bravado-like I am proud!)

Yet, we are JUST Americans. We are not NATIVE American's.

Most of our ancestors came here from foreign countries, hoping to find work, opportunity, freedom and CHOICE....some came because the potatoes were bad.

Woah, that got serious real fast!!!

Back on track...Cowboys.

Not a fan.

I don't really understand them. I don't like country music, I don't like Kenny Chesney or Brad Paisley and I most certainly do not like taxidermied animal heads mounted on my walls.

That said, I don't HATE them. I can't really get up enough gall to truly hate ANYONE. I can, however, find them highly annoying to look at. I can't stand the sight of them!!

Nuff said! That is my rant for the moment. Cowboys irritate me!

Followed

I must say that I am very excited to have three followers.

Who cares if one of them happens to be myself!

Why shouldn't I feel the need to follow myself?? I'm a pretty cool person!

I must say though, that I have an AWFUL sense of directions, so while following me, we are bound to get lost one or more times before we arrive at our final destination.

I can barely manage my way from my bed to the bathroom sometimes. I get lost that easily.

It's just so hard though. Walking 5 feet from my computer desk and making a left into my bathroom can be a tough thing to do. Sometimes I feel an urge to continue straight and head to the kitchen. Sometimes I veer right and walk into the wall. Other times I aimlessly wander around, wondering what my initial intentions were and why I am meandering about my home.

Sometimes I find myself outside, staring at the sky and listening to the birds chirp and tweet. I have no clue what lead me out there. I am just THERE.

Traveling is not my strong suit though. Some people were born Navigators. They know where they are at all times. They know the precise location including the latitude, longitude and approximate temperature in degrees fahrenhite of the spot they are in. They are THAT talented.

I, on the other hand, have no idea where I am at most moments in my life.

Being lost isn't fun to me either.

I panic. I freak out. I often find myself randomely in a strange city, not sure how I got there. Unfamiliar with it and completely clueless as to get back home. I have had to call family members several times to rescue me from these situations.

Bottom line here: Watch yourself if you continue to follow me. I get lost. I daydream and dawdle. My head is always in the clouds. Following me can only lead to trouble. But, at least it's an adventure!

It also feels really neat having people "follow" me.

From now on, I am always going to feel like I am being watched.

I am going to see eyes peering out at me from every bush I pass. I am going to hear my name whispered at random moments. I am going to feel your presence lingering near me at all hours of the day!

You know this is only going to lead to something very bad. I am going to wind up becoming a paranoid schitzophrenic. It's my destiny.

My new theme song will slowly become...

"I always feel like, somebody's watchin' me!!"

Oh well...such is life! We'll see what happens!

Have a fantabulous day my 3 followers.

The Luck O' The Irish

Yeah, So I was just sitting here thinking about leprechauns. I have always wanted to catch one. I think it would be really fun. Especially since I am half Irish.

Well, at least I THINK I am half Irish.

No one really knows much about one part of my family, so we just SAY we are Irish.

My name pretty much defends the Irish background though.


Ryan Patrick Kelley.


I sound like I could be a member of Michael Flatley's Lord Of The Dance team. Which I could. Since I have such an amazing gift in clogging.

Of course, I would never look as amazing as Mr. Flatley, with his fantastic smile, chisled Irish Abs and of course...his FABULOUS jazz Hands. Let me just say how much I admire a man who can pull off embroidered velvet pants and headbands. That pretty much makes him the coolest man alive in my book.

Where was I headed????

Oh yeah...Leprechauns!!!

They are pretty much the awesomest little fellas you can find. Despite the fact that some UNBELIEVERS call them "mythical"....

Mythical my ass!

Those tiny guys EXIST!

TRUST ME!!!

Anyways, I was thinking of how fun it would be to actually catch one. Hopefully, I would grab onto it's pot o' gold first and then get to converse with it. Catch up on all the Irish lore that I have missed out on during my 28 years on this planet. I'm sure there are countless things a leprechaun can tell me. How to scramble up rainbows like spiderman, how to keep the buckles on my shiney leather shoes sparkley, how to deep fry shamrock. All sorts of Irishy tidbits.

I think the leprechaun could teach me a few things about Irish Jigs too.

Not as much as Flatley...but probably a decent amount. I might even show him a few pointers.

Hopefully, the Leprechaun I meet isn't too mischievious. I want it to be fun and whimsical, not Warwick Davis circa The Leprechaun horror series. I prefer my Leprechauns friendly...not hungry for my blood.

I imagine him to have a cute green outfit on, a red beard, red eyebrows, green eyes, black shoes with buckles and a crazy-wild crooked smile. :)

His name will be Mick O'Blarney.

I don't know why. I just thought of it...and I think it's great.

Anyways, we'll see what happens. If I find my leprechaun. You will be the first to know. Keep your fingers crossed and your shamrocks watered.

Attack Of The Nusing Home Zombie Women

So, I was sitting here, staring at my computer screen, ruminating over my life and the various situations and events that have turned me into the person that I am today. I think of all the incredible people I have met and the thrilling adventures I have been on...mainly in the books I read. I was looking back on my life and started to realize that I am no longer a spring chicken-even though I have no factual data on what exactly a SPRING chicken is. Is it a chicken that is born in the spring? Does is spring up and down when you approach it? Is it's favorite season spring? I have absolutley no info on what that means...but, I say it anyways.

Since, I am getting older, I am realizing-with intense terror-that I will one day, most likely, wind up in a nursing home.

The idea of spending my final days confined to a room with some random stranger who smells like urine and decay scares me a lot. I try to remind myself that I myself will smell like pee and old flesh too...but, I like to think of myself as the kind of person who wouldn't let that happen to himself. I can't imagine squandering away in my own waste. It makes my eyes practically bulge from the sockets....probably because they want to explode from my head and seek out a younger, fresher, more youthful head to plant themselves in.

Turning 28 was a big eye opener for me. It made me realize how I truly do not enjoy birthdays anymore. I hate them. They don't get me excited or happy...instead, they are like an ugly reminder from God that time is running out and I haven't done much to brag about in this dull life of mine. Every year now is like losing a year. It's not exciting or eventful.

It's the countdown to death!

I know what you are thinking...28 isn't old. But, really...it is! When I was 16 years old I used to look at people who were mid-twenties and think, "Jeez, that's a LONG way off!" and now, here I am...ready for my daily suppliments. It's sad that one day you are living it up, 16 years old, partying with yourself in your bedroom, reading Fear Street books and dancing to Britney Spears and then the next day you are 28 years old...reading Fear Street books and trying to decipher the meanings behind Britney Spears' new song, "If You Seek Amy". SOOOOO much has changed, can't you tell??


The fear of nursing homes was only intensified for me after my grandmother was "retired" to one several years ago. It was the dingiest of places you could imagine. It looked like a hospital in a early 80's horror flick. With all white walls and white, dirty floors. The moans and groans of the patients was horrifying to me. I could hear a woman screaming, "Whhyyyyyyyyyyyy!?" over and over again and it still sticks with me to this day...I understand where she was coming from! I would be screaming like that too just for the smell alone.

My poor Grandmother, who has since passed on, was just about the cutest little woman you could ever picture. She was this feisty Italian firecracker! In the years prior to the dementia and altzheimers setting in, she was the toughest woman I have ever known. Her most common response to questions asked of her would either be, "Shove it" or "Who cares"...She was a spitfire of attitude and I loved that about her more then anything else! It was very hard for all of us to come to terms with her gradual downward spiral into the dementia...but families deal with these issues all the time, and we did it the best we could.

It was always best to take one or more heavy duty anti-anxiety pills before entering the "home" to help take the edge off. I tried everytime to put myself into a "zone" of sorts to lessen the traumatic occurances around me.

I would think of gumdrops and fairies, or unicorns and lollipops. Or a unicorn with a lollipop for a horn. That would be interesting. Going to my happy place was always helpful during a trip to the NH (nursing home).

Anyhooo, rambling...

My most horrific nursing home memory happened while I was with my cousins in some sort of "entertainment" room of sorts. It was more like a white room with a 13 inch tv in a corner and scattered folding chairs strewn about in a half hazard way. Super comfortable and UBER-chic!! Very Martha Stewart...If Martha lived in the ghetto as a crack addict with no sense of style.

I was standing outside the room staring in at whatever was going on when I hear the groaning of several patients behind me. I turn to see my cousin, several feet away, staring at me with wide eyes. For some reason, I always see this moment in slow motion.

Her mouth forming a perfect "O" as she screams, "Nooooooooo!" and "Looook Ouuuuut!" as the claws reach for me.

I hadn't noticed the gang of shambling geriatrics cornering me. This was my mistake.

Never let your guard down at these places!!

They are danger zones for elderly gang wars. You think those arthritic fingers are contorting into those shapes for no reason...but, truthfully, they are throwing up gang-symbols!

By the time I had noticed the group of elderly African American women batting there toothless gums at me, it was too late.

I was trapped.

I was cornered.

They were surrounding me!

There was NO escape!

All of the zombie movies I have seen were suddenly made real as several gnarled up hands groped at my petrified form, the unkempt fingernails digging into my flesh like the talons of a hawk gripping into a frightened mouse. Suddenly, Michael Jackson's 'Thriller' video wasn't so fun to me.

The groaning and grunting intensified. The ogling eyes glaring at me from beneath far-t00-large glasses turned my blood cold. The smacking of the lips and gums grew louder. My heart pounding so hard in my chest that I thought it would explode right out of me! They tore and pulled at me. A tug O'war over my meek innocence. I know not what they sought, but I have an inkling it was my soul. Either that, or just my blood. Either way, it wasn't looking good!

I came to my senses and struggled away from the drooling hoards of zombie-women. I turned as I fled, gazing glassy-jaundiced eyes, sagging skin, and one or two snaggle-toothed mouths. I wondered briefly how awful it would be to be gummed to death by elderly folk. I still to this day wonder what the obituary would have read. "Boy 18, mauled to death by a group of 90-something year olds at nursing home" That wouldn't have been cool.


I remember looking down and seeing blood pouring from a fresh wound in my arm where one of the assailants had slashed me with her claws. My first thoughts were that I had been infected. I knew that my time would be coming soon and that the transformation from youthful 18 year old to flesh-eating elderly zombie would begin shortly. I just didn't know when.

To make a long, rambling story short...I don't trust those nursing homes. They let the old, dangerous people loose and keep the sane ones strapped to beds and left to moan and groan.

My transformation from normal boy to geriatric monster has been taking a bit of time...but, i'm sure that the infection is still coursing through my bloodstream. It'll come out sooner or later.