Things to note about a dislocated shoulder

It fucking hurts. Also, I always believed that once said shoulder was back in location that it would no longer cause pain or discomfort. Turns out when one dislocates a shoulder it rips and tears muscles, ligaments, and cartilage. This means 4 to 6 weeks of discomfort. It does, however, have the bonus of no heavy lifting and general sympathy from those around you. So he who injured said shoulder does not have to help out with the family garage sales nor with his sister's house move. The downside is that being on top during coitus cause irritation to the injury. Bad news for the Heart of Austria crowd. . . Good news for downstairs neighbors.

an open letter to freeze tag

Dear Freeze Tag

You have given me many joys in my life, especially in my childhood. The long summer days of you and me running around, crawling through people's legs to unfreeze them have always been fond memories.

Recently I visited you while camping. You were not the kind and cordial freeze tag I remember. You have become an abusive friend. I do not appreciate your hand in dislocating my shoulder. We are no longer friends, freeze tag. Maybe this will be a lesson for you. When you injure people, freeze tag, they no longer want to spend time with you.

I hope you feel proud of yourself, you jerk.

Your (ex)friend in a sling,
Ian Prebo

Film Making is an Art best Served Pretentious.

The problem with Seattle Film making is that it is a small pond with fish who think they are big. You can only grow as big as your tank, and, let me tell you this my coy friends: We are all small fish. That being said, film making is an art. But lately I've been watching my peers create bourgeois "AHHHT" as I kindly refer to it.

I may not be the best film maker out there but I know what I like and it ain't what you're serving. Go ahead and make films that satisfy your ego and make you feel like a pretty little unique snowflake. I'm gonna go and make some real art and pee in your cereal.

So fuck you very much and have a nice day.

P.S. I shat in your cornflakes.

Everybody Gets it in the End

Last night I watched the film "Shortbus." I find myself at a loss for words; the film was amazing.

Lately I have been feeling more fucked up. My mind has been caught in knots of misfiring synapses, my mylar sheeth a big sheet of peanut butter. My OCD has been acting up. I have been feeling restless or listless or anyother "less" that makes one feel disconnected.

But last night was good.

I feel like I cut down another barrier in my life, another one of those invisible obstacles that stand so cyclopean. The kind of barrier that can only be removed through force of will; or through removing a barrier within yourself.

Drew and I talked. Words I have wanted to say poured out like rivers of slime and drown her apartment. We swam in the mirk and we enjoyed it. Fear and saddness and feelings of inadequacy met headfirst in a cacophany of love.

I have never met anyone like Drew. She is, in many ways, my antithesis. Together we create harmony. From each of our thesises we create a new thesis. A synthesis. I don't know what the future holds for us, but for the first time I feel "okay."

And then we watched "Shortbus." Which, coincidentaly, is a film about these very barriers that must come down for people to be complete. It is as much a film about fear and vulnerability as it is about the human condition. We are all fucked up. Every last one of us contains foibles for days and years and centuries. For miles and kilometers. We contain these imperfections and bash ourselves against them in fear and anger and frustraition. But, if we truely try, in the end we all get it. Everybody. Everybody gets it in the end. Even if there never really is any end in sight.

Love you.

Me.

An Open Letter To My Ticks

Dear OCD inspired twitches,

I hate your guts. You make me late for meetings and get in the way of relationships. If you were a political prisoner I would have you executed. Maybe I would just lock you up in Guantanamo and throw away the key.

I hate how people look at me when you are around. You are the obnoxious friend that will not go away. No matter how mean I am to you, you still show up at parties, social functions, and even at my house when I am alone.

You suck. I hate you. If I could kill you, I would. I would hang you upside down and slit your throat so that the blood would drain out. It makes disposing the body easier. Then I would cut you up at the joints and bury you in the woods.

Die.

All the best wishes,
Ian "Twitch Master" Prebo

An Open Letter To Drew Zandonella-Stannard

Dear Drew,

I love you baby. You are so patient and caring, something that can be difficult, especially with me. I love pressing my face against your face. I am glad that you do not mind my scraggly beard or the fact that it sometimes causes you breakouts.

I am the luckiest man alive to have met you. I love you, pretty lady.

Love,
Ian

An Open Letter To White Guys Who Think They're Gangsters

Dear Whiggers,

You're fucking white.

Sincerely,
Cracker-ass-Cracker

An Open Letter To My Balls

Dear Scrotum and your Inhabitants,

You rock. I love that no matter where I am, you are always there, just hanging out. Whenever I am in need of a friend, you are there. You guys are awesome, and I want the whole world to know.

I love you, balls. I even love the crazy big vein you have as well as the big krinkle you have on the left nut.

Love,
Ian

An Open Letter to my Blog

Dear So Picante It's Enfuego,

I love you. I love having you around, and while I have been neglecting you, I want you to know we are friends and always will be. That being said, I am tired of posting in open letters. I know it may be cute and a little cheeky, but I can not allow myself to continue.

I am not saying that no more posts will be open letters, just that I have become bored with the format. It seemed so fresh and new, the way we interacted, but now. . . it has become old, tired, lame.

I will still post on you, baby, but I need some change. Think of this as a new step in our relationship. At first we started out just making out, and then we moved on to missionary. And, for a while, that was nice. But now I want to stick it in your proverbial butt. I love you baby, now bend over.

Yours Truly,
Ian

An Open Letter To My Alarm Clock

Dear Alarm Clock,

Shut up. SHUT THE FUCK UP!

I will kill you.

Love,
Your pal and confidante
Ian

An Open Letter To My Subconscious Mind

Dear Subconscious,

We have had many fun times, you and I. All the wonderful dreams you have given me have been a blessing. Remember the time we went to the mall? You ate too much ice cream and I got a headache from the Orange Julius. That was great. Or how about the time we went flying? What a wonderful evening that was.

Many times you come out while I am near sleep, and give those around me jems of joy, such as "feeding the bears" and "don't take it all." When you come out like this it is appreciated and wonderful.

You cannot, however, be mean to the ones I love. I will not stand for your negative comments to my girlfriend, nor your need to vent frustrations and be a general nuisance.

I understand it can get lonely in the recesses of my mind, but that does not give you the excuse to be unpleasent. If needs be I will put you in your box and never let you out. The gauntlets are off, my dear hidden friend; I will no longer tolerate your intrusions into my life if they continue to bring daytime discontent with Drew.

And finally, please no more nightmares that cause me to clog dance. We all hate it.

Sincerely, your pal and owner
Ian Fucking Prebo

An Open Letter To The Guy Who Always Sits Next To Me On The 37

Dear Man With a Creepy Mustache,

I have no problem sitting next to people on the bus who I don't know. When I first started dating my girlfriend, Drew, I also started catching the number 37 Metro, and for the most part it has been a pleasent ride. There is the lady who keeps her dog in a purse, often it is wearing an adorable sweater. There is the cute punk rock girl, with her wry smile and constant look of boredome. And then, there is you.

Every time Drew gets off the 37 at 2nd and Union you move from where ever you sit on the bus, which lately has been a seat or two behind me, to right next to me. Not only do you sit next to me, but you scoot in and lean on me. Sometimes I push back with my legs, the international sign for "you're sitting too close to me on the bus."

When the bus comes to your stop on 1st avenue you look for me. How can I tell you might ask? I believe it is the smile that forms under your serial killer mustache when we make eye contact.

You lurk there on the bus, waiting for Drew to leave, and then you quickly slide in. This must stop immediatly.

I have tried many tactics to stop these offences: eating food that makes me gassy, but you just sit through the stench. Staring at you has not worked either. You look perfectly forward and ignore me even when I sing along to my Diskman. But you still lean. And, finally, when I give up and look away you turn and stare at me.

When I try to get off the bus at 4th and Union you purposely position yourself to block my way out of the seat. No amount of politeness or "excuse mes" have done anything to sway you from your perverse attempts.

I hate you and your damn creepy mustache. I hate the way you lean on me and the way you nod to me as I leave the bus cussing you. I hate your serial killer eyes and your child molester smile. And, I hate the fact that Drew calls you my "Bus Boyfriend."

If these attacks on my person do not cease I will be forced to make a pre-emptive strike with my weapons of mass destruction.

Sincerely,
Seattle Metro Patron Extrodonaire, Ian.