Wasting Time

Today, it dawned on me that I've been at my job for over 3 years now.

What a fucking company man.

I don’t talk very much about my job here because, well, I’m not stupid. A regular paycheck is something that I enjoy and I would like to keep receiving. Also, insurance is nice, especially since 120 pills of Xanax would cost me a pretty penny on the street (through my insurance: $5).

And to be honest, there’s not too much to say about my job. I'm an engineer. I like it a lot. I find the work interesting. My co-workers are cool. The job is zero stress. The pay is good. I can drive to work in about 25 minutes. And I work from home at least 2 days a week. I might even love my job. I don’t know how many other non-famous 30 year olds can say that about their employment.

I could honestly do what I do for the rest of my life and not complain. Sure, I’d like salary increases and promotions and all that jazz, but I could make a good, happy, comfortable living at my job and be content. I can see myself in ten years still living in the suburbs in New Jersey, loving a sweet unsuspecting wife who maybe is missing something physical (hand, knee, etc), raising two horrendously obese children, owning a large dumb dog and a luxury automobile, carrying on an affair with one of the lawyers I work with, drinking myself into a state of emotional deadness, spending sleepless nights praying for a heart attack - basically, living the American dream.

But of course, that doesn’t mean that I don’t aspire to other things. While I can appreciate how good I have it right now in the corporate world, that doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to get paid to write jokes about shitting myself while sitting in my underwear in my bedroom, taking frequent beer and jerk off breaks. Also, with a big bag of yellow corn tortilla chips and a jar of Newman's Own Peach salsa, which is the greatest salsa I’ve ever had - by far. Great fucking salsa.

And I’m kinda close to this writing poop jokes while eating/drinking/masturbating for a living thing. I'm determined to write a book or something, and that determination will end only if I die or if I lose my eyesight. Since I’ve been doing a lot of experiments recently that involve fire and cans of hair spray, I’d say the blindness is more likely, but death is not that far behind.

I just need to find a way to get rich first, so I can take lots of time off to do this writing thing. As of now, I work full-time, write here sometimes, AND still find time to live a (semi-)happy and (not really) promiscuous lifestyle.

I don’t even know where I was going with this, but the points are:

1) I’ve been working for the same company for three years and I'm 30 now (though I like my job)
2) I need to get rich so I can take time off
3) I’m busy now and it sucks
4) Send me pictures of your boobies
5) This post is completely fucking retarded or at least very incomplete because I have great difficulty writing anything about work

Yeah, that about covers it. Um, more later.

Find Something To Do

I’m sorry, but you’re just going to have to find some other way of occupying your time today, because I don't have anything worth posting.

Why not pick up a hobby, like gambling? Or picking fights with strangers? Or racism? Or trying to find a new way to get higher than you ever have before?

Maybe you can get really fucked up on all the pills, vitamins, contact solution and hair gel you have in your medicine cabinet and call the ex that you’re still in love with, and tell him/her that you’re pregnant/you’ve impregnated someone else? When he/she says “congratulations”, maybe you can tell them that you’ve put a curse on them, and all their offspring will have a really big left hand, and a very tiny right hand?

Maybe you can call your parents, and thank them for raising you to be neurotic, disloyal, and impotent? When they start to sob, maybe you can say, “I’m just kidding”, then say “Happy Birthday” and hang up, regardless of whether or not it’s their birthday?

You’re going to have to find something, because there is no post tomorrow. Uncle Johnny will be too busy being hungover, eating pancakes, and downloading pornography. So there.

High-Fiving A Homeless Guy

Most of the time - and I’m not ashamed to admit this - I am the drunk one.

I’m the one buying shots and beers for everyone, running up my credit card bill to an exorbitant amount, because, after all, it’s fake money.

I’m the one harassing women way out of my league, spitting all over them while I talk to them, kicking lines like, “You know, in my spare time I teach music to retards” or “I haven’t hit a woman in about three weeks” or “I definitely want to get married and start a family, because family is the most important thing to me. Hey, have you ever made out with another chick?”

I’m the one who gets “escorted” out of the bar and goes straight to the nearest deli, where I order two pounds of imported ham, sliced thick, take it home and dip each slice in a jar of mayonnaise as I eat it, as if I were dipping chips in salsa. [Also, most times I do this I’m not wearing a shirt, and the mayo fails in little globules on my chest.]

So it is rare when I am out with friends and I’m the sober one who gets to see the debauchery first hand, with vision unclouded by gin, Bud Light, and Southern Comfort. Thursday night was one such rare occasion.

On Wednesday night there was a going-away party for my dear friend, Beth. Knowing that this night would be a long crazy one, I took the day off today, just so I could be hungover in the comfort of my own home, rather than in my office at work, ignoring my ringing phone, and taping a piece of paper to my door that says, “Hungover - Please Come Back Monday.”

And it was a crazy night, though not in the respect that I thought it would be. Why? Because I remained sober, while Beth got blasted.

My friend Brian and I got to the bar at about 9, already having had a few drinks at our place. Brian, god bless him, came out even though he had to be at work at 6am Thursday morning, meaning he had to wake up at 4:45am, a time that we only see at the ends of evenings, not at the beginnings of days.

When we arrived, the first thing we noticed was that Beth has some really attractive friends. Like, really attractive. I don’t know why it took me seven years of being friends with her to realize this, but this didn’t make me happy. Definitely information that would have been useful years ago, rather than her last night in the city. Given my record of dropping the ball, neither I nor Brian were very surprised by my failure in this regard, and spent most of the night ogling the women, breaking our silence with the occasional “Oh my god” or “Are you fucking serious?” or “I think I have to run to the bathroom to take care of something before the Sex Crimes Unit has to get involved.”

And Beth, god bless her, was absolutely fucking wrecked. It quickly became apparent that my job was to be protector over Beth, and make sure she got home unharmed without being sexually assaulted by a gang of Haitians (which is ironic, because if you’re looking to not be sexually assaulted, I’m probably the last person whose care you should be in).

My friend Chris showed up with a lady friend, Lisa. Chris had met Beth a few times, but didn’t know her too well - it was the sort of thing where Brian and I were out and about and said, “Hey, why don’t you join us for a beer? You can watch us make these women really uncomfortable.”

Chris showed up with Lisa, a charming girl. By this point, Brian had left, so Chris and Lisa sat at the bar next to me. Beth, seeing the new arrivals, came over (read: stumbled over with eyes half-closed) and introductions were made.

Chris: “Hey Beth, happy going away party. This is Lisa.”
Lisa: “Hi!”
Beth: [drunk to the point of lacking motor skills, but angry, vituperative] “Let me tell you something: Chris is a man-whore. You’re just another pretty face to him. How long have you known him, ten minutes?”

A few things:
1) Beth does not know Chris that well.
2) Chris is not a man-whore, and, though in much better shape, has about as much game as I do.
3) I think Chris actually liked this girl.

Our jaws just dropped. Beth, who normally is the sweetest girl in the world, apparently transformed completely into Mr. Hyde and laid the fucking smack down. I don’t remember exactly what happened next, though I thank the gods that Lisa had a sense of humor about the whole thing. She said something like:

Lisa: “Actually, we’ve known each other for ten years.”
Beth: [slowly (I mean, really slowly) realizing error, becoming remorseful] “Oh my god - I have to give you a hug.”

And this behavior continued for the rest of the evening. We soon left that bar, and moved to the next. Beth was asked to leave pretty much immediately. As she argued with the bartender about getting “just one more” drink, I grabbed her by the hand and tried to take her out of the bar. It was quite a scene: me dragging Beth by her arm, her other arm reaching back toward the bar, grasping for floaters to drink, as she yelled at the bartender.

As we were going to the door, right before the exit Beth plopped down at a table that had a couple at it, interrupting their conversation, asking to have a sip of their drinks. I mean, wow.

Again, you have to understand, Beth is nothing like this normally. But, just like the rest of us, when under the spell of booze, all bets are off. It was glorious to see her in action, and I nearly shed a tear because my friend was kicking so much ass.

After much more struggle and drama, I finally got her home. She passed out lying on her couch with a slice of pizza in her hand, the slice just touching her mouth. It was probably the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and exactly the way I want to look when I die.

And sure, maybe it wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had, but in a way, it kind of made me feel good. I had forsaken booze so that I could take care of my friend, who had apparently had drank gasoline before I arrived.

The moral of the story: sometimes, when you’re drunk, you can be an asshole. And you know what? Who gives a shit? Getting wasted is awesome. You just have to make sure that you have someone around who will NOT take pictures of you when you’ve passed out. And I’m not talking pictures of you with “poop” written on your forehead, but pictures that might wind up on any number of sites that you can’t view at work. Meaning pornographic sites. Meaning pictures of you, lying on your couch, naked from the waist down, and me in the background, smoking a cigarette and giving a “thumbs up” with one hand, and with the other hand high-fiving a homeless guy.

Just forget it.

Tuesday Drunk

I am so hungover right now in my ninety-five degree office, I seriously think I’m dying.

It feels like every time I close my eyes when I blink, someone is hitting me in the back of the head with a shovel. And not a new shovel either, like an old, rusty-ass one. Also, the shovel is dirty.

My eyes are bloodshot, and I’m sweating profusely (even more so than normal), as I stare at my computer with an Excel sheet up, pretending to be working on it when it’s really my old "who's boobies have I touched" spreadsheet. Every once in a while, I’ll get up and walk over to the high speed printers to pick something up, or go over to the fax machine, or walk briskly out of my office in a huff like I’m pissed about something, just to give the appearance that I’m hard at work.

The reason for this is the two most beautiful words in the English language: open bar.

Last night we had this giant work party, with everyone invited. I got way, way too drunk.

But I was not in the top 20th percentile of drunkest people in the room.

That’s the great thing about work parties: the strange dynamic of people getting much too drunk, in front of people they shouldn’t get too drunk in front of, and losing all control of themselves.

It was a complete shit show. People falling on dance floors. Co-workers making out. Managers getting hit on by the people they supervise. People embarrassing themselves in karaoke.

Our table was situated by the entrance, a giant opening that was flagged by two large panes of glass. For about a third of the night we sat at the table, watching drunk people walk face first into this glass, not realizing that it wasn’t part of the entrance. Of course, nothing is funnier than people hurting themselves, unless it’s drunk people hurting themselves. Hilarious, but definitely one of those “you had to be there” things.

After the event, we went to a bar nearby (because four hours of hard core drinking is not nearly enough, unless you’re a total pussy). That’s about the time it gets all blurry…I remember talking to a friend of mine who’s having trouble with her “boyfriend” and it was kind of similar to my conversation with my ex this past Saturday night:

Me: “You know what you should do to get back at him?”
Her: “What?”
Me: “Sleep with me.”
Her: “Oh come on.”
Me: “What? Look at me! Do you know how pissed he’d be if he learned that you slept with a guy who looks like me! That’d really, really piss him off.”
Her: “That’s like a pity fuck then.”
Me: “I don’t mind at all. Trust me. I don’t think the the saying, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’ has a more appropriate application.”
Her: “Still, it’s not a good idea.”
Me: “Look, I’m not asking you to decide now. Just think about it. Do you want me to take my shirt off so you can see what you’d be in for?”
Her: “That’s ok.”
Me: “Just a little taste?”
Her: “No, no I’m ok.”
Me: “Ok, but just think about it.”

I went to the bathroom (to throw up, because I had duck at the party, and though I love duck, it was really too sweet, and something had to give), and when I came out, everyone had left me.

I made it back to Rick's place to find my Jim and five of our co-workers drinking beers, smoking up, and eating an astonishing $54 worth of burgers, hot dogs and fries (cheese, chili, and plain).

Again, blurry, so that means I didn’t do anything too embarrassing (we hope). When I woke up this morning, head pounding and covered in sweat (oh, I sweat a lot when I sleep), my living room was a disaster. I have no idea what I did, but I did it.

And now I am here, dying. And I have about six hours to get my shit together, because I am going to have to do it again.

My life is so hard.

[Have a good weekend]

Failure

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but for the fourth time in three weeks I’ve written a post, read it over, and scrapped the whole thing because it sucks. I suck. Not a good day. Or series of days.

Even though I just went through yet another romantic disappointment in my life, I'm still thinking about you, the reader. I’m trying. I didn’t want you to think that I’ve abandoned you, that I’m not trying, that I’m actually working at work. No, I assure you that I’m working to get you your regular fix of curse words and failures, but I have apparently completely lost my touch. If it’s any consolation, this bothers me much more than it bothers you. I promise.

So let me get back to being completely fucking miserable and I’ll see if I can come up with anything "good". Wish me luck.

Revelations

I went out to a bar last night. Nothing out of the ordinary really. It was typical of any bar really...I ordered a drink, sat and watched whatever baseball game was playing, and started to relax.

The bartender comes over and tells me a joke. It’s a bad joke but I laugh anyway. The bar fills up. People press in behind me ordering drinks. I take a small sip of my Tanqueray and tonic (yes, I drink old man drinks). Then another. Soon the drink is gone. I decide it’s getting noisy in here. Either way, I need to get home and get some sleep. I pull out my wallet and wait for the bartender so I can pay my tab.

Someone taps me on my shoulder. I turn around. Suddenly I’m staring at a man with no face.

“Are you leaving?” the man asks.

The man’s been horribly burned. His skin is tight and waxy looking. His nose has been roasted down to the nub and moved off center. One eye seems higher than the other. A baseball cap hides what’s left of his blonde hair.

“Almost,” I reply.

“My girlfriend’s tired,” the man says, “I just wanted to get her a seat.”

A pretty blonde comes into focus. Why didn’t I see her? She’s holding the man’s hand.

“Hi,” she says,

“The seat’s all yours,” I say, sliding off the stool.

“Thanks buddy,” the man says.

“My pleasure.”

The girl takes my seat. While she’s settling herself on the stool I notice she has blue eyes and freckles above her cleavage. I wonder how her boyfriend got burned. Car accident? An unlucky fireman or a solider charred by a mine? Will she stick by him? Was he like this when they met? Is love stronger than appearances? Or will she leave him when she thinks he can handle it?

There’s no way to know their story. I’m just filling in the blanks. The girl’s standing by her man in the here and now. That counts for a lot. I pay my tab, wish the couple a good night, and head for the door.

As I walk to my car, I can't help but think how some of our problems become inconsequential when you look at the grand scheme of things. Really, it could be worse.

As

The song “As” by Stevie Wonder may be the greatest song of all-time. The first time I heard this song I was at, um, an a capella show.

Now, before you pass judgement - let me explain: an ex-girlfriend of mine was in an a capella group in college, and as a good boyfriend, I went to see her perform. This is really an entirely different post, because I need a lot of space to describe the torment I felt over seeing her not only singing a capella songs, which in itself is just really…uncomfortable, but also watching her performing the percussion parts in these a capella songs. Talk about a deal breaker. No man should have to watch his girlfriend doing a much cornier version of the beat-box. How are you supposed to feel the same about someone after you’ve watched them make those stupid beat-box noises to the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams”? Or after going on vacation with them and listening to the group’s tapes every single time you drove around in the car? I swear to god - about twelve minutes in, I was seriously considering just driving the fucking car into a telephone pole just to make that music stop (it was a rental anyway, and if I angled it the right way, I could have probably minimized any serious injury). I should stop - I’m getting chills (not the good ones) just thinking about it.

But anyway, but this other a capella group from Stanford performed at this show I was at and did “As” and it was unreal (yeah, I know, I know - I’m gay because I liked it. While we’re at it, I love George Michael and Abba. So fuck y’all.). I thought to myself, “I’ve got to hear the original of that song, but it’s going to be hard to top that version.”

But I was wrong. If you haven’t heard this song, please listen to it. Remember while you listen to it that some blind dude wrote it. Think about it: he can’t see shit! Nothing! And he wrote this incredible song (and a bunch of others too)! There are mornings when I am so hungover that I need help putting on my shoes or washing my hair, and this guy who doesn’t know a $100 bill from a $1 bill is one of the greatest musicians of all-time. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

[Well, not really. I just sort of said that.]

No Sleepy Time

I fought a major bout with insomnia last night. And I lost. Big time.

I’m used to such sleeping struggles, but I usually have a little warning. I realize that when I’m stressed about something during the day, this stress will only be amplified when the lights go out. Sometimes I still manage to fall asleep. Sometimes I do not.

Last night, I had no warning. I had a leisurely night, a couple of beers, and went to bed at a reasonable time. But then I kept tossing and turning. And tossing and turning some more. Only then did the worrying start.

It starts reasonably enough. I’ll think to myself, "Hmmm…let’s see. Mortgage payment is due soon, and that’s $xx. But in my checking account, I only have $yy. So it looks like I have to come up with $zz in the next eight days. I can live on one kidney, right? If not, even though my semen is all broken and dead, I can probably still sell it for half price. I think."

But before I know it, my worries spiral out of control. It’ll go from money to work to women to loneliness to things like, "Oh my god - IRAN! Those guys are crazy! What are we going to do about IRAN! Wait a minute! It’s supposed to rain tomorrow! And I don’t have an umbrella! Fuck! What am I going to do about Iran and my umbrella situation! Shit!"

And so it went for me until the sun came up. I beat off to relieve the tension, but that didn’t work. I took not one but two "calming" showers to try to ease myself into sleep, but they didn’t work either. Finally, at 5:45 this morning I started getting ready for work (I usually wake up at 8am). I did everything but get dressed, then fucked around, watched TV, hung out. Then I decided to go back to bed at around 7:45. Naturally, I slept the sleep of the dead and woke up to my alarm at 8:30. Getting out of bed at that time was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done; I can’t imagine childbirth is much harder.

When I have a night like this, I’ll usually call in sick and spend the day sleeping. However, I called in sick only a few weeks ago (for a legit reason) and had a bunch of work to do today, so I’m in the office. I’ve been a zombie all day long, staring at the clock in the lower right corner of my computer screen. I imagine my co-workers think I’m on painkillers. Maybe the more street-savvy ones think H is my drug of choice. One drug I have not had today is caffeine, because I’m going to go home, eat dinner, take two Xanax and drink a glass of wine, and sleep for 14 hours - and I don’t want caffeine to mess that up for me. I had plans tonight, but I’m canceling them. I’m beat. I need a night to myself.

And so I write you this post not out of my desire to entertain you, the impulse from which all other posts are borne, but rather to help me pass the time. I clarify this because I just read this post over and it sucks. I’m sorry about this. But not too sorry, since I’ve totally just killed about eight minutes writing this.

Now I have to get back to wallowing in the depression and irritation and insecurity that goes hand in hand with insomnia. But it’s almost four o’clock. Sweet Xanax, you will be mine shortly.