Sometimes I feel like I’m writing the next great American novel. But then I realize I’m writing just a really long, unfocused suicide note.
My grandma complains I don’t call. But not anymore. With this new app, all it takes is a push of a button and we’ll connect you with any random grandma with a cell phone. Thanks, Instagram.
I feel like every problem on Sons of Anarchy could have been solved if the characters just stopped wearing leather and bought minivans.
You might not know this but there is a difference between simple baby wipes and Clorox Disinfecting Wipes. I’m letting you know before your asshole does.
I was never beat as a child. Sure, my parents hit me plenty but they never let me lose a baseball game. And there’s a lesson there, somewhere.
I’ve always wanted to write a novel. Unfortunately, I’m not a very good writer– and even if I could write good it’s only good short bursts is are.
This is all I have mustered over the years. Well, there was one story. But, like everything ever in the entire fucking universe it was my own downfall. Besides that bitch, I mean. Ooh, that bitch. It still gets me, that bitch.
There’s always a bitch in one of my stories. Somebody’s always wronging me. Somebody’s always sucking my dick. There’s always a bitch. Always.
So bitch Kelly and I were nailing each other in my apartment. It was hot. Lots of pee-pee. There’s always gotta be lots of pee-pee in my stories. So there was lots of pee-pee going on between each other. First year college stuff, you know what I mean? After the pee-pee we were laying down in the pee-pee, spooning each other in the pee-pee, giving each other sloppy pee-pee kisses. She goes, she says, “Hey”. Yeah, that’s what she says. And I roll over in the pee-pee and look at her all covered in pee-pee.
“Hey, you,” I say, all smooth-like, covered in pee-pee of course. Lots of pee-pee.
“Tell me more,” she says. “I want to know more about you.”
And shit, you know? Even after all the pee-pee she yearns for more? I tell you, these thirsty pee-pee bitches are just the fucking worst. All they want is more, more, more. They want all dat piddy. You know what I mean. You know all them piddy bitches are just all kinds of piddy-wack. You know it– that’s why you’re here. That’s why we’re all here. We’re all just looking for a little more piddy-wack.
“I’m working on a book. Novel, actually,” I say.
“That’s cool,” she says. She’s now staring into my beautiful green eyes. “What’s it called?”
“Women Are Fish,” I say.
“Why’s it called that?”
“Because fish can’t read. So it doesn’t matter what I write about them.”
…It was a joke. Not even a good joke or even a respectable joke… I recognize this now. I’ll be the first to admit that my ‘women are fish’ joke blows whale dork. But I was high off all the pee-pee. The pee-pee made me do it is what I’m telling you.
This was back in 2009, right at the beginning of this new era of feminism where white women started looking out for each other and only each other only when other white women were looking. So I had no idea that racism and sexism were going to be totally uncool just one year later. But Kelly, this pee-pee bitch. Kelly fucking outed me to everybody. It seemed like everybody in Orange County knew me as “Charlie Brown, the Sexy and Racy Sexist and Racist” after that one, single, sexist joke I made that one, single, sexist time.
The backlash made it impossible for me to get a job– especially at Five Guys. I’ve always wanted to work at Five Guys because it seems like just the right amount of employees for a business. But after that? Job opportunities dried up faster than boiled pee-pee water. Plus, that bitch stuck around for some extra sloppy pee-pee kisses even after I made that stupid joke. That makes her a pee-pee stealer, you know? She’s a goddamn pee-pee burglar is what she is. And I was the one who was pee-pee burgled.
How did it all end? There was a knock at the door. “I need you to go,” I said. “Your replacement is here”. That was also a joke. It was also not a joke because her replacement was there. And by the time that sweet young pig named Cora jumped into bed, the pee-pee had gone cold.
I told you. I said I wasn’t very good at writing.
Apparently deaf people care about what the non-deaf say about them. They complain that they aren’t “deaf”. Apparently they’re “hard of hearing”, which involves far too many syllables when spoken aloud. So I won’t do it. Apparently this makes me an asshole. But the truth? I’m just hard of caring.
After Michelle broke up with me, my friends told me that getting in shape would be the best thing for myself. They called it a revenge body. Think of it like that, they said. But you know what’ll burn even fewer calories than a revenge body? Straight up revenge. In fact, the only thing I’ll be burning this holiday season is her house. That and the calories from running away from all that screaming.
It’s a joke, Michelle. You know I’m not going to burn down your house because you live under a bridge.
At least you can’t get diarrhea if you already have it.
Can you help me with some grammar real quick? Okay, how should this phrase be written:
- Is Tinder just for burn victims? Because the only people I’ve matched with look like their face is melting off.
or is it
- Is Tinder just for burn victims? Because the only people I’ve matched with look like their faces are melting off.
I can’t figure out what’s going on with that last sentence.
A close friend told me he was feeling “pretty suicidal”. I told him that was ridiculous.
“What,” I said, “As opposed to being kinda suicidal?” Dude was a moron. We don’t talk anymore because of the suicide.
“Grab her by the pussy” is something I’ve taught every single one of my friends when showing them how to throw a bowling ball. You gotta grab the ball by the pussy. Everybody knows that.
I teach all my friends how to bowl. The world revolves around me, by the way. You know what’s up.
I’ve said similar lewd things in the locker room too, I guess. I understand where Trump is coming from. My friend, Sam. Him and I, for instance, were standing there naked. You know. In the locker room. Then I realized that we’d been in the locker room changing all these years, you know? But neither of us had been naked together at the same time. And I told him– this is filthy, I swear to god– I told him that if he wanted to grab me by– hold on. Never mind.
Why aren’t there any charities for normal people?
Whenever somebody says they’re a foodie, I always ask them if they would eat people. And they always say they wouldn’t. What shit bullery. Why wouldn’t you eat people? It’s one of the most abundant foods in the world and you’re just going to pass it up like chinamen? I thought you were serious about this food thing, man.
What? Do you think President Obama– a notorious foodie– didn’t sit down for his first meal at the Whitehouse, look up from the Whitehouse Menu, and not request from the Whitehouse waiter “I want to try the people”?
“People?” The chef grips the white linen cloth laid upon the magnificent oak table President George Washington himself once ate at. “But people? The people are the ones who put you in office, my leader.”
“Yes,” President of the United States Barack Hussein Obama says. “And now I will put the people who put me in office into my stomach. See, I’m a foodie. On top of that, I’m the most powerful man in the world. And if I’m the most powerful person in the world then I should be able to eat a person. Lesser people do it. If lesser people can do this, then a greater person should, goddammit. A greater person should do it. I want people and mashed potatoes.” A limber and presidental arm is placed on the chef’s shoulder. An impassioned, presidential look is exchanged.
“Of course, Mr. President,” the White House chef says.
“Now go,” the first black man to ever be President of the United States said, “Please hurry. And– Preston?– It’s Preston, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Whew. I almost went eight years without writing about our President eating people. Almost missed an opportunity to make jokes about whoever the current President is. Heh. That one was for me.
Peter Pan isn’t as popular in Thailand as I thought he’d be.
Chicks crying is a major turn-on for me. So when we broke up it was hard for the both of us.
I’m all for gender equality but man walked on the moon almost 50 years ago; what’s taking women so long?
That’s how you fuckin’ do semicolons.
I’ve been doing this thing where I just eat a butt-load of fuckin pickles. Sliced pickles, whole pickles, miniature pickles. And the pickle juice. All of it.
This isn’t some sort of thing where I’m exaggerating the amount of pickles I’m eating per day. It’s not like I’m just having pickles a couple times a week or I’m asking for extra on my McDouble. No. Let me be clear: I am eating pickles three times a day, seven days a week. Pickle frenzies have replaced my meals. For breakfast it’s a pickle frenzy. For lunch it’s a pickle frenzy. Dinner? A classic pickle shuffle and do another pickle frenzy.
My hands smell like pickles all day. People at work are starting to notice. Like, Ted called me out on it yesterday. Ted. Ted never says anything to anybody. That might have to do with his comically egregious under bite. Or it could be that he’s going to shoot-up the place. Either way, I don’t like him. Underbites are God’s way of telling parents they should have a SIDS-related “accident”.
“You smell like pickles, Charlie,” he told me in the break room.
“That’s odd,” I feigned, stepping back in the corner to block Ted’s view of my locker because there are pickles in my locker.
“Are you washing your hands with pickle juice or something, dude?”
“What? Why would I wash my hands with pickles?” I turned around and pickle-shuffled my pickles out of sight. Ted would have to go on a serious pickle hunt now if he wanted to find them.
“Because you smell like pickles, Charlie. Countless pickles,” he said, taking a step forward. At this point in the conversation I was worried for my life more than a white person has any right to feel. And it’s not because I’m a racist– I am– but Ted is white just like me, and, like I said, this poker-faced rat fuck and his teeth are abominable. What if he touches me or something and I develop some sort of god awful under-bite like him? This is also something that bothers me about old people. It’s disgusting when they touch you. Like, seriously, don’t get your old on me. I don’t want my skin to end up like yours, old man.
“You don’t need to be such a dick,” I said, both talking to Ted and myself.
“I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt that you’re only washing your hands with pickle juice and not all over,” he said. It was at this point I realized that Ted’s dramatic under-bite made him look like a piranha. A piranha with a job. The drugs were working.
Ted continued: “Nobody should smell like pickles. Not like this.”
“This is sexual harassment.” I went on the attack. Ted wasn’t going to bring me down. No. The only thing that can bring a pickle glutton down is not having anymore pickles.
“I never mentioned anything about sex,” Ted reeled back, giving me some much needed room.
“There it is. You son of a bitch, you think I’m fucking the pickles.”
“Jesus Christ, Charlie. I never mentioned you having sex with pickles.”
“There are no pickles, Ted.”
These pickles are kosher, too. You know, just in case you’re the kind of person who would object to a pickle Jesus Christ wouldn’t eat. Hey, I said “Jesus Christ” a couple times there in completely unrelated pickle scenarios. Neat. I guess He is everywhere. Good for Jesus.
So I did the right thing and went to CVS and bought a pregnancy test.
When you google “Am I an addict?” you already know the answer.
“When you google “Should I break up with her” you already know the answer.
When you google “Oh god, it burns” you’re probably on fire. Dunk that ball.
I was in the grocery store thinking about babies at weddings, movies, and airports acting annoying with all their crying and shitting because I hate being happy. Crying and shitting in public is illegal for everybody but babies, but that still doesn’t mean it’s okay to do. It’s embarrassing, really. Who do you think you are, Aiden– or whatever your bullshit name is. This is the produce section.
A baby crying and shitting baby at a funeral, however, is appropriate and it’s a joyous occasion. Here we get this tiny little person who’s so sad that they’re crying and shitting themselves on another person? What a deal!
No Shave November is dangerous when you’re dating a feminist. And itchy.
It’s a vagina joke, by the way. Like half of this web page. The other half is dick jokes because I’m all about equality.
Men don’t have more rights than women. More rights would make us worse drivers.
Therapy today was eye-opening— that’s for sure. I’ve been seeing Dr. Russo for about three months now— you know, ever since the fire. And he started today’s session with a conversational rocket knockdown punch:
“So, Charlie,” he asked, “What’s been bothering you? Why are you here?”
“Let’s make some breakthroughs, then. Well, I think I’m dying,” I told him.
“Tell me about that,” he said. He adjusted his spectacles in a clichéd manner reserved for old and out of touch psychiatrist types. “Do you mean in a physical or figurative sense?”
I took off my hundred dollar Birkenstock’s and hoisted my right foot to show off the blood soaking through my two dollar Fruit of the Loom socks because, you know, I Wear Socks With My Birkenstock’s™.
“Oh my God, what happened?” Dr. Russo gasped.
“No, no, it’s fine. Nobody Is Spilling Blood On Your Carpet This Morning™,” I assured him. “What kind of carpet is this, anyways? Did you steal it from Hometown Buffet or something?”
“What— what happened, Charlie?”
“Check out my new tattoo,” I said, attempting to lift up my foot but, alas, I was already too decrepit for even the simplest of operations. That’s the price you pay for getting “ANDY” tattooed on the bottom of your foot as a hemophiliac. “Got it two weeks ago,” I said.
“It can’t be good for it to still be bleeding.”
“Because of the hemophilia, Dr. Russo.”
“You got a tattoo and you have hemophilia?”
Dr. Russo, ladies and gentleman. Unable to understand and apply even the simplest of slang terms used by today’s prodigious youth. What a rube.
“It’s not being retarded; it’s just a bleeding disorder.”
“So is this related to what’s bothering you?”
“No, but I’m glad you asked. You ask a lot of questions.”
I brought up the image issues I had shared with Dr. Russo from a previous session. “What about all of these ‘Keep Calm and Chive On’ shirts? Somehow I’m supposed to believe they’ve existed since the 1940’s?”
And there are so many variations of this phrase. For shopping addicts there’s “Keep Calm and Go Shopping”. For people who purchase Apple products there’s “Keep Calm and Think Different”. For bakers there’s “Keep Calm and Bake On”. For people who bake. Get it? I don’t. Is it a pot reference? There’s even a “Keep Calm and Eat a Cookie” shirt for the Cookie Monster. Cookie Monster doesn’t even wear shirts.
Where’s “Keep Calm and Smoke Crack” for crack heads? Where’s “Keep Calm and Don’t Make a Sound Or I’ll Kill You and Your Entire Family” for people who are fans of threatening the meager and impressionable? Where’s “Keep Calm and Don’t Make a Sound Or I’ll Kill You and Your Entire Family” for people who are wearing it because they are fans of threatening the meager and impressionable ironically?
But what about shirts for the people who are so poor or fat that they can’t find a really good shirt. Like, people who wear pumpkin heads for shirts. Or the people who are so large that they can only wear shirts made out of shower curtains? Where’s the shirt for my homies looking for that coveted sousaphone scholarship that’ll get them straight outta Tuscon and into the Sousaphone Big Leagues?
Dr. Russo told me that that wasn’t the problem. He said that the “Keep Calm” shirts were a “projection, as in “[I’m] projecting [my] problems onto other people.” Here’s the thing: I don’t own a single “Keep Calm and Keep Calm and Don’t Make a Sound Or I’ll Kill You and Your Entire Family” shirt, mug, or hatchet. This is something I shouldn’t have to worry about. Like DNA tracing.
“What’s really bothering you?” he interrupted my train of thought with. Also, check that out: it’s a sentence that ended with “with”. And now two.
“Reality. I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I said.
“Explain,” Dr. Russo leaned back, letting out the sigh of an exasperated giraffe-like figure from a shitty young-writer’s first attempt at inserting fantasy fiction elements into his story would imagine.
“I don’t know if Shia Lebouf is a cannibal or not,” I confessed.
“Who?” Dr. Russo once again said all fantasy-like, again. Whatever; I’m over it.
“The kid from the first three Transformers movies. Does he eat people or not? I can’t tell.”
“And this is something that is bothering you.” He almost accused me with that tone of his. I feels like it lacks a question mark when typed out loud.
“I can usually google shit like this. I should be able to do it from my phone. Three seconds, tops, I could have an answer. But google isn’t helping me at all with this because I’m The Sucker Who Bought A Windows Phone So Now I Have To Use Bing™. And it’s not even all that easy to look up on google. There is no hard-sourced information about him eating people but tons of people are saying he’s an actual cannibal. I have no idea.”
“It doesn’t bother me if he, you know, eats people but it’s good to know which people are the ones that eat other people— especially if you’re going to be hanging out around them.”
“You’re hanging out with this guy?”
“I mean, not on paper. But yes.”
“Are you thinking about harming him?”
“No, but I’m wondering if he’s thinking about harming me.”
There was a long, pregnant pause. Like nine months pregnant. It reminded me of my ex-girlfriend.
“And my ex-girlfriend,” I said.
“Does she know Shia Layboof.” Another sharp accusation from the Doctor himself.
“Which girlfriend was this?”
“Not the last one but the one before her.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Yeah, I just can’t remember the stupid thing.”
Which was true. Is true. I miss my ex-girlfriend, whatever her stupid name is or was. I miss her stupid eyes. I miss her stupid non-pregnant belly. I miss the stupid son I could never have with her because she didn’t want to get stupid pregnant right out of high school, the bitch. What about my needs? What about my wants? You’re like a sponge; all you do is take, take, take, and drain others of their love and emotion.
We had gotten in a fight one night. Sure, it’s long behind the both of us but sometimes I go back and visit this fight because it was one of the most notable moments of our entire relationship because, when it came to this fight, I was right.
So when it’s her turn to make up and say her graces, she goes, I swear to God she says, “I apologize. I apologize for disrespecting your needs and wants.”
What is this shit? I’m pretty sure I whispered that out loud. And then I said
“That’s all you have to say?”
“I mean, yeah,” she said. “I figured I should apologize.”
“Oh, so you figure you should have. You don’t mean to say it. That’s why you, in the third person vernacular, say ‘I apologize.’”
Michelle was starting to get those big ass fake tears in her big ass unapologetic eyes. Her tears and eyes kind of matched her face, ass, tits, and face. But I wasn’t going to fall for this trick. Not this time, Batman. Saying “I apologize” isn’t the same as actually saying “I’m sorry”; that’s a cop-out. That’s referring to yourself in the third person, apologizing. I want you to be in the moment when you’re apologizing to me.
“Sweetie,” I said, “then why don’t you say you’re sorry?”
Michelle sniffled and tried to make it seem as if she had already done so. But both you and I, reader— we both know she didn’t do that. She didn’t actually apologize. She just said “I apologize”. So, so trashy. So I so, so told her that.
“That’s so, so trashy,” I said.
“Charlie, I didn’t mean to make fun of you for asking me to dress up as a lobster and have sex with you.”
“It’s more than that,” I said, “You can get the surgery. You can pay the hundreds of thousands of dollars to get it done. You can change your name; you don’t have to be Michelle Powell forever. You can be Bob ‘The Lobsterman’ Dabadino. I know you can.”
“Impossible!” I whisper-yelled back.
“Unfeasible then, Charlie.”
I grabbed both of her shoulders and went for the Oscar: “You can be the lobsterman I want you to be. You can be the lobsterman I want us both to be.”
By the way, I’m not gay. But I am a demagogue scandalmonger and I want to be sure my girlfriend is always willing to do whatever I want her to. Not just what she wants to do but what I want her to do. Because that’s love.
“That’s real love, baby” I said. “And I know you’re scared. So am I.” This was accented with me grabbing Michelle by one of her stupid fat cheeks and squeezing it like I was some kind of grandmother that was also dating her. She ate this all up (no surprise for a fatty) and kissed me.
“You think I’m smart to stay with you?” she asked, pulling away and straightening up her hair.
“I know it, pumpkin,” I said because she was the pumpkin in the relationship.
“What was the reason for the breakup?” my therapist burst into the narrative like some fucked up donkey.
Her birthday was two weeks later. My gift was something she surely wouldn’t like. It wasn’t the kind of “surely” when you know the smell of another man on your girl is just her brother. No, because I got her 10 cans of Fancy Salted Mixed nuts. And Michelle hated surprises.
“Really?” she said, pulling the first can out of the plastic shopping bag I used as gift-wrap. Plastic bags really are cheaper than fancy gift bags, by the way.
“Happy Birthday, Michelle,” I said. My hands shot out for hers and I looked her in right in her fat ass eyes. “You said these were your favorite so I went all out this year for you.”
Poor girl actually believed I thought her favorite kind of nuts were Fancy Salted Mixed nuts for just a second. Everybody knew her favorite nuts were Deez Salted Mixed nuts. I mean, these salted mixed nuts. As in my testicles. Because I’m half-black and I salt my balls and dick because I’m a goddamn weirdo.
Fuck you. Leave me alone.
Michelle’s hands were trembling, holding the can. She didn’t notice that her trembling wasn’t creating a rattling sound from the nuts that were supposed to be inside.
“Why not have some right now?” I asked.
“I, I,” Michelle stuttered. Everybody stutters in stories, don’t worry about it. “I’m not hungry right now. Maybe later tonight.”
“Oh come on,” I pleaded, “Eat some.” I lit a cigarette in her living room and immediately threw it to the wood floor, crushing it out with a child-sized -11- steel-toed boot (Now just $49.99 at Payless. Get More, Payless™).
She started crying. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“What’s in the cans, Michelle?”
“Nuts, Charlie. They’re just nuts.”
“You think they’re nuts?”
“I don’t know!”
“Open the cans, Michelle.” I lit another cigarette and threw it back on the ground, crushing it with my other child-sized -11- steel-toed boot (Now just $49.99 at Payless. Payless, Where When You’re Looking For More, You’re Looking For Less. Payless™).
“I don’t want to,” she cried.
“Open the cans, Michelle.”
Michelle grabbed one of the cans of the Fancy Salted Mixed nuts with her long, dead lady spider fingers. They reminded me of my mother who also had dead lady spider fingers because she was— and remains—dead and her fingers were eaten by spiders.
My girlfriend took her nasty phalanges back to her fat self and turned the Fancy Salted Mixed nuts can halfway. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”
“You don’t want to open the cans because you know what’s in the cans!” I bellowed, banging my hands on the plastic coffee table (Starting at $65.47 this Labor Day. Ikea. A Better Every Day Life, At Home™) that was situated in her living room.
“Stop it!” she screamed
“WHAT’S IN THE CANS?”
“NO NO NO NO NO!” she slammed her hands down on that bitchin’ Ikea table I just told you about. Her hands were all balled up. Dude, you should have been there; it was like she was Donkey Kong or something playing Whack-A-Mole with her ape-like hands. I don’t know, man. I don’t write this shit for you people.
And then I saw something I hadn’t seen in so two weeks. A look that was missing from our sex-life since the very start of our relationship: Stacy looked sorry. And not fat.
“Snakes, Charlie Brown,” she said shortly after I deposited that look into my mental spank-bank.
“I can’t hear you,” I shot back.
“SNAKES!” she erupted like a volcano made of marshmallows— big but ultimately powerless. Powerless but delicious.
“SAY IT AGAIN!” I roared like goddamn fucking indian savage.
“THEY’RE FUCKING SNAKES CHARLIE! ALL OF THEM— EVERY LAST ONE IS A CAN OF FANCY SALTED MIXED NUTS FILLED WITH SNAKES, OK?”
I didn’t want to tell Dr. Russo any of this, though, so I just told him that she just moved away.
“But hey,” I said, “At least I now remember her name was Amanda.”
“That’s good, Charlie,” he said, not quite even believing himself as he said it.
“Also,” I continued, “I think this guy is selling drugs at my work.”
“Why do you think that?” Dr. Russo asked, again because all he does is ask questions.
“Because I bought drugs from him.”
“Let’s call these 15 minute a breakthrough,” Dr. Russo said.
“Sure,” I said. After all, I’d forgotten everything about the fire. And that was enough of a breakthrough. Until I started the next one.
I can’t tell you where I work but I can tell you that it’s a place that serves ice cream, the employees— myself included— must sing birthday songs to children, and domestic terrorists should really give it a shot— if you know what I mean. And I mean it.
Remember how I said that if Amanda was pregnant then the kid better be black or there’s no kid at all? Well, first of all: there isn’t going to be a kid. Fuck dramatic tension— she tested negative on three tests (one from the dollar store and two from CVS. Oh, and a popsicle stick, just for kicks.)
So I brought up the whole “black kid or no kid” thing again because I hate kids. Especially the ugly ones. And at my job? Yep: I sing birthday songs to kids. Even the ugly ones.
They don’t even deserve it— nobody loves ugly kids so why should we celebrate their birthdays? Fuck that. As a society we shouldn’t celebrate ugly kids’ birthdays. Instead, we should save all the celebrations from all their birthdays for their funerals. Just throw the biggest party on the day they die or something— not even bother with the funeral. I don’t know; it’s never too soon to bury a dead, unloved child. Or adult.
This all may seem a little harsh but this wasn’t what I expected my life to end up like.
Anyways: this is an excellent job to show up drunk for. Here’s the key: you pound four, five, seven shots, get in the car, and hightail it to work. My record is five minutes. It’s great because your blood alcohol content isn’t actually, you know, high when you’re speeding your way to Satan’s den. Fucking swell, you know? And I do this six days a week. Sometimes ten.
One of my favorite co-workers— it’s like having a favorite person in a gulag slowly filling with water— is my roommate Drew. I don’t know all that much about Drew, although he did recently pick up a DUI. Or he was slapped down with one. I don’t know, I don’t get pulled over when I’m drunk driving. Drew was telling me about it today at work because this isn’t the kind of shit you save for home.
“The cops pulled me over again last night,” he says in between birthday celebrations for a pair of kids that should have been on American Horror Story last season. “They pulled me over,” he says, “and they told me it was too dark to be riding my bike without lights.”
“Did you get a ticket?” I said.
“No— they gave me a ride home,” he said.
“Sounds like a good deal,” I said.
“Hardly. Where were those pigs when I was drunk and needed a ride home from the bar?”
“Giving you a DUI.”
Drew didn’t talk to me for the rest of the shift. Probably because he’s jealous that he’s been pulled over twice in the last month and that I’ve never been pulled over. It’s nice.
Anyways, the point I was trying to make is that my girlfriend isn’t pregnant and she’s still my girlfriend.
Maybe I should tell you about the people I surround myself with. You know, my co-workers. Associate employee contemporaries, if you will.
Starting with Kelly Gallagher is the best, probably because he killed himself a month ago so you never have to hear about him again. That’s it; there’s no joke: the man shot himself in his backyard.
And you already know about Drew, my roommate with the DUI— you know him just as well as I do at this point.
Then there’s Jenna. Or Jennifer. Or both of them. See, Jenna is a fat girl. And so is Jennifer. And on my first day of work a year ago I mixed the two of them up.
Jenna (or, Jennifer) goes “You’re mistaking me for Jennifer (or, Jenna)”— and the look in her eyes when I did that… it was the look Asian people get when you call them “Taro”— know what I mean?
Of course, there’s Miles. Miles is the dumbest person I’ve met on this planet, newborns notwithstanding. Miles is the reason white people are looked down upon on Tumblr. Seriously, he’s dumber than a shoe.
Miles once asked me if it was snowing. I was in front of a window. He was outside. In the snow.
Miles is probably my most special co-worker. He has had the job at the ice cream palace longer than anybody else— probably combined, too— including the founder, his wife, and all the extra paid time he got for molesting small children on the clock on their birthdays. What a gift!
Miles once asked me how far away North Korea was from the sun. I told him to Google it. He did an image search that came up with zero results.
Miles is also a big fan of fighting. Don’t know why he hasn’t been fired but since I’ve been here he has tried to fight me twice and everybody else mostly twice.
I remember one of the days that he pushed me.
“Why do you have to be so smart all the time?” he said.
“What’s the alternative?”
“See, there you go again, acting all smart using big words. Fucking smart ass.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“What, smart ass?”
“You don’t know what ‘alternative’ means?”
“What’s the alternative to being a smart ass, smart ass?” he says in a mocking, condescending tone.
“Being a dumb ass.”
“Did you just call me a fucking dumbass?”
“Lookit! He finally put two and two together. That’s four, by the way—”
And then I remember paramedics and no assault report being filed because ruffling the animals is apparently against zoo rules.
But let us not forget Aaron. Now, we tried to give my co-worker Aaron the benefit of the doubt when he was new with his anger issues because he used to be in the Army. We all figured that he was suffering from the PTSD people in the Army get when they find out they’re not good enough to join the Marines, Navy, Airforce, or the workforce.
But then we realized that Aaron is just a shitty person.
Aaron had this theory, and like, don’t get me wrong: if you told me his theory and you threw in a couple chuckles and smiled— you know, threw in a few jokes, you’d think he was just having a good laugh. But he wasn’t. His theory was this: He get one. “One” being a kill. Because he actually does have PTSD from whatever the Army did to him, he is granted at lease one (1) civilian rage kill (CRK) with virtually zero (0) long-standing repercussions (LSR’s).
I have to get going. I’m going to try to break up with Amanda over the phone and she’s calling right now. Wish me luck.
This was supposed to be easy; I was going to break up with my girlfriend, write a blog about it, and maybe smoke an egregious amount of clinical-grade marijuana. You know, The Good Stuff™.
Lets address point number two: “Write a blog about [breaking up with my girlfirend]”: That didn’t quite work out the way I wanted it to. And not just because I couldn’t quite go through with point number one (break up with my girlfriend).
What happened? After dinner— the dinner where I was supposed to sever the emotional and physical connection with Amanda over creme brulee— I went home and got high. Egregiously high (which is point number three).
My roommate, Drew, was watching something on Netflix— probably Dr. Who or Sherlock or whatever hip shit is available— when I figured I would eat a coconut. Coconuts are always out of season in the High Sierras, but I was high in the Sierras and they only cost a dollar regardless of the season. So I bought a few coconuts.
Butcher knives weren’t on sale but I’m sure you can understand why our kitchen had one of those. Or even thirty.
This wasn’t my first time chopping up a
cocunt coconut with a butcher knife whilst being higher than the Dalai Llama’s kite. It wasn’t my third time either, but still. And it’s like, the hospital workers knew I was blitzed when I showed up with my left pointer finger (or “trigger finger” if you’re playing the home game) hanging on by a thread. They’re professionals; they’ve seen some shit.
But I’ve never seen so much blood in person. That’s mostly because when my mom died all the blood was building up in her internal organs and not on her hospital bed, but I digress.
You have to make a phone call when you go to the hospital. Not because you’re worried about your family wondering about where you are— mine still lives in Orange County so they don’t actively worry where I am. But you wanted to be dramatic. So I called Amanda.
“Baby, I’m at the hospital,” I said.
“Oh my God, is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I just almost chopped off my trigger finger with a butcher knife.”
“Why would you do that?”
“It was a coconut that did it to me. Everything’s going to be fine— thanks for asking— the doctors said they’ll be able to get it back on.”
“I’m on my way right now.”
“No, please don’t come.”
“Because I’m higher than the Dalai Llama’s kite,” I didn’t say.
Oh yeah. Breaking up with Amanda. Yeah. That didn’t work out. I mean, things didn’t— Amanda and I didn’t break up. Things didn’t work out for me. Things are still working out for us. On paper.
At least the creme brulee was good, although it was unmarred by (ex)girlfriend tears. Which is a crying shame. Or a non-crying shame if you’ve made it this far. I know I haven’t.
What happened was, well, I ordered the creme brulee. At least that went according to plan.
“We’ll split the creme brulee,” I said, knowing full well that she’d be crying so much from the breaking up thing that she’d be having none of it.
“Great, that’ll be out for you shortly,” the server— waitress, if you will— said. I grabbed a hold of Amanda’s hand and squeezed. This was my last planned sign of affection.
“There’s no way I can enjoy this creme brulee without going right now,” she said. She pulled her hand away and headed for whatever corner the restaurant kept its bathroom in. Now’s when I wished that smoking indoors was still legal. Now’s when I wished that I still smoked. On paper. I still smoke, but Amanda doesn’t know that and you better not fucking tell her I swear to God.
Part of the problem with this whole bathroom dalliance of Amanda’s was that this was the time I was supposed to be breaking up up with her. This was supposed to be the time for me to break up with her. This was supposed to be an important moment for the both of us. Instead, it was a moment where I pined for menthols and she was crapping.
I was going to at least be half-way decent when she came back; I was gonna wait for her to put her napkin back on her lap, maybe take a sip or two of her water, and then I would lay down the heart-break. But no, Amanda hadn’t even sat down and she was already dominating the conversation at the table:
“I want to take a pregnancy test,” she started with. She pulled herself back into the table and takes of of those sips and doesn’t even bother with the napkin. Goddamn heathen. This was supposed to be the prelude to the end of our relationship— now? Bad manners showmanship, if that’s even a thing. Maybe it is for hippies, I don’t know.
“Okay,” I said, “How come?”
“I feel weird, you know?” she says.
“No, I don’t. What’s going on?”
“Well, I just went to the bathroom and it was really hard for me to go pee,” she says.
“Go on,” I say, taking a sip of Diet Coke. I decided against getting wine that night because it seemed a little too expensive for a break up. At least, I thought it was a little too expensive for this break-up. Wine is for my future black girlfriend. Diet Coke is for Amanda.
“And when I did go pee it kinda burned a little.”
“So it sounds like you’ve got a UTI.”
“So’s being pregnant.”
“You’re right. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well I have to worry about it now. If one of us is worried about you being pregnant then we both have to worry about you being pregnant.”
“Maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk about it, Charlie.”
“I’d agree with you if you weren’t the one who brought it up.”
“I texted you before dinner and you said nothing about it. You didn’t even reply. You never reply to my texts.”
And, gee wilikers— the bitch was right. I pulled out my phone and saw four missed texts from Amanda— all of them from between 3:51pm and 3:56pm on that Thursday. Shit.
Why didn’t I notice the texts? Because I’m the sucker who bought a Windows Phone. Goddamn, what a mistake. Just like Amanda. Wait, no— that’s a terrible thing to say; that could be my kid inside her. Our kid inside her. Or nothing— just a side-effect of being a vegetarian, you know what I mean? I hope you don’t because even I don’t know what I meant by that; it just seemed like the right thing to say.
Our kid.That feels weird to say. Gosh, I really hope the kid is black— if there is a kid, I mean. This is confusing. I don’t want the kid to be black, actually, and not because it won’t be mine— no. See, I’ve actually always wanted a black kid. For me it’s black kid or no kid at all. Part of the fun of having a black kid is you can tell them how scary the world is and it’s considered “good parenting”. You’re doing the kid a favor. It doesn’t work the same way for white kids— or a kid with autism, regardless of race.
So, no: I did not break up with Amanda. She totally cock-blocked my maneuver except it was a cock-block that keeps the pussy coming. Not that I need it; not to say I’m gay but maybe I’m asexual…which is not to say I don’t fuck— it’s to say I can reproduce without the need for a sexual partner.
Although Amanda would be proof against that.
We shouldn’t have made it past Valentine’s Day. Or Mother’s Day.
My dreams can get pretty crazy. Last night I had a dream that I could fly. It was great but I still remembered that I had only nine dollars in my bank account.
Flying isn’t fun when you have only nine dollars in your bank account.
Just go with me on this one. What if I got into the lion-feeding business? You know, like, I start a company that made food for lions. I would totally call my product “Christian’s”. You’d never forget what to feed your pet lion.
Thank you, thank you. Tips go in the jar.
The sign of a true alcoholic is not only justifying why you drink but also being able to justify why you would drink if you were somebody else.
Just the other day I imagined myself to be a pregnant woman and I thought to myself, “Well, at least I’m not drinking alone.”
As a side note, I think I have an unhealthy obsession with pregnant ladies.
All I’m saying is I wish I had tried eating mashed potatoes with ecstasy instead of gravy at least once in my life.
Breaking up with her over a nice dinner is the best thing to do. Hear me out on this: we’re both dressed classy, there’s some wine, and it’s a Thursday night at the third nicest place in town. Sure, I could take her to the first or even the second nicest place in town but I may need those restaurants for future break-ups.
Amanda’s a nice girl so the last thing I can do for her is take her to some place we’ll both remember as “a nice time”.
It’s just that I don’t love her anymore. See, a couple of weeks ago we were in some post-coital position on my queen-sized bed and we were doing the typical sweet nothings whispering. And then she said something that made me wish for our relationship to land like a bad 9/11 joke— or an airplane on 9/11 for that matter:
“It’s just us against the world, Charlie,” she said.
And then I agreed with her— I don’t know why. The next sentence out of my mouth should have been “It’s over” or “I’m not into team sports”. Instead, I said, “I know baby. Just you and me.”
What a crock of shit, right? Us against the world? Come on. My friends don’t approve of her, sure, and neither do my parents. But those cunts are hardly “the world”. The whole “us against the world” comment would make me think that her friends and her parents don’t like me. I know better, though, because she has no friends and her parents are dead.
That conversation ruffled my feathers. The next morning she made me breakfast as if she didn’t know she had unwittingly ended the best thing going for her in her life. Me? I just wanted to get out of the house.
“Lets go see that new Ben Affleck movie,” I said. “I think it’s still in theaters.”
“He didn’t kill his wife,” Amanda said.
“Right,” I said, winking. “He didn’t kill his wife.”
“No. He seriously doesn’t kill her; it’s all a rouse.”
“Exactly. I want to see how he gets away with it.”
“There’s nothing to get away with,” Amanda says. She sounds pretty angry, but she’s still making me breakfast so I haven’t completely offended her sensibilities. She continues: “He didn’t kill his wife.”
“I catch your drift.”
“I don’t think you do. Anyways, I was hoping we could…”
Don’t remember what she said after that. What I do remember is I didn’t get to see the movie where Ben Affleck totally gets away with killing his totally hot wife.
What I do remember isn’t something she said but something terrible she did: Amanda made me ride to whatever it is we did on her motorcycle. I say it’s “terrible” even though one of my dreams was to have a girlfriend who rides a motorcycle. Until I met Amanda.
First of all: We live in a mountain town where it snows between November and April. Amanda seems to think this is the perfect place to ride her motorcycle around. She also claims to be a bad driver. She also thinks it’s cute to be a bad driver.
Being a bad driver is not cute. Being a supermodel in overalls, picking flowers with kittens, and blowing bubbles is cute. Pigtails are cute. The Powerpuff Girls are cute. Rabbit ears are cute. Being scraped off the side of the road is not cute— regardless of the involvement of pigtails, overalls, bunny ears, and the Powerpuff Girls.
The last straw was— is— her memory. Amanda’s memory was— is— at best, the kind of memory you could ask of a geriatric gold fish. She can’t remember how we met. She doesn’t know my birthday. She doesn’t remember—or know— her favorite food items.
No, really. One time she asked me what her favorite food was. I thought it was a test, you know? This was before I realized her brain had more static than a radio.
“What’s my favorite food?” she asked as we left a local sushi joint. Even though we just had sushi I knew that wasn’t the answer.
“Pizza,” I said.
“Really?” she said.
“Yeah. Is— was— that the wrong answer?”
“No, I guess not. I didn’t know the answer, actually— so I was asking you.”
“Oh, okay,” I said.
“Where did you park?”
“We took your motorcycle here.”
Amanda’s memory was— is— so poor that she even regularly forgets her rights and lefts. This sort of thing would make planning where our friends and family sit at our wedding an almost impossible task. Luckily, as I said before, she has no friends and her family is dead. The only impossible task that comes out of her directional forgetfulness is driving. And elevators, I guess. Those are ups and downs but it still may be difficult for her.
Yes, she was the first girl— or woman, rather, that I was giving serious thoughts to marry. Or at least accidentally impregnate and then later marry. Because Amanda was— and is— extremely attractive. We’re talking tall, skinny, a quarter Chinese, and breasts. She’s a solid 9/10— that one point subtracted because she’s a vegetarian who eats fish.
This break-up would have happened sooner but her birthday is in early December, Christmas just happened, and I wanted to have a guilt-free New Year. Now’s the time to get moving— lest we start talking about Valentine’s Day plans.
Reservations are at seven. I’m assuming it’ll all be over by 8:30, although I’ll probably take some extra time with the dessert of creme brulee whilst she’s crying in the bathroom. Then I’ll take her home, take myself home, and maybe catch up on some Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’m like, 86 episodes in thanks to Amanda; it’s her favorite show.
What’s cool is if you name your dog “Bill Cosby” and you yell “NO BILL COSBY DON’T DO THAT” he will actually listen.
The hardest working glue in the industry is “crazy”. What does that say about us, man?
Yet we call measuring tape “tape”– and for what reason? It doesn’t even stick. If anything, measuring tape should be called crazy tape; then it would help explain why measuring tape is just so goddamn whack in the first place.
Come to think of it, I’d have to say the only crazy tape I’ve seen was something my mother and father once recorded. You know, after she died, I mean.
If I had to choose between being homeless or a vampire I would pick both; if somebody tried to stake me through the heart it wouldn’t work because home is where the heart is.
Isn’t the first person sent home on the show technically “The Biggest Loser”?
This Kickstarter project thing has gotten out of hand. Not because it’s a scam or it’s stupid– no, not at all. This Kickstarter thing has gotten out of hand because I’m not participating. Yet.
Some may say I’m late to the game but the people who are saying that can’t actually talk because they all have duct tapes over their mouths. And they’re in my trunk. And that trunk is at the bottom of a small pond. It’s actually more of a swamp but that’s not the point.
It’s going to be a coffee-table book filled with lesbians. All sorts of lesbians in various states of (un)dress. Variety will be appreciated. It’s going to be called “Women Sitting on Women’s Faces”. Because that’s the whole book– women will sit on other women’s faces.
Seriously, variety isn’t just appreciated; variety is endorsed. I want all kinds of women sitting on all kinds of womens’ faces. Whether it be blacks on whites, Asians on Mexicans, or a bunch of dirty crack-whores sharing all their dirty crack with me. I want it.
No. I don’t just want it. No. We want it. All of us.
That includes those conjoined twins, Brittany and Abigail. I want to see two women sitting on one of their faces. Hell, I want to see one woman sitting on both of their faces. That would be impressive. That would be Kickstarter-worthy.
Because this is Kickstarter, we have to think about the donation levels. Luckily for you, my dear reader, I’ve given this plenty of thought. Let’s proceed:
Level 1 Donation (10.00 USD): You get a PDF file of the book and I’ll email you some pussy shots from my personal collection. Unless you’re my ex-girlfriends. If you’re my ex-girlfriends then those pictures were deleted a long time ago just like I said they were.
Level 2 Donation (25.00 USD): You get the PDF, the emails, and I’ll thank you in person– you pick the time and place and I’ll be there. With a gun. We’re going to rob a convenience store in broad daylight.
Level 3 Donation (50.00 USD): PDF, emails, and a copy of the book– hardcover and all that shit. Plus, I’ll throw in signatures from all the little chinese kids who put it together, too.
Level 4 Donation (75.00 USD): PDF, emails, signed sweatshop edition, and you get to design a page. But we get to pick the women.
Level 5 Donation (100.00 USD): I’ll suck your cock.
This is what my mother had to say about Women Sitting On Womens’ Faces:
“My son is a pervert.”
She didn’t actually say that. Not because I didn’t tell her about Women Sitting On Womens’ Faces but because she’s dead. I keep her ashes in a Diet Dr. Pepper can next to my bed.
I found a butt-load of quarters in my car’s trunk. They can almost double the amount of money I have in my bank account. And I say “almost” because those quarters are for buying beer.
Also, you can fit a lot of quarters in a butt.
My parents– the ones that are alive, at least– want me to take more responsibility with my life. So the first thing I’m taking responsibility for is getting my math teacher pregnant. I may not have done it, sure, but I don’t think it’s illegal to take the blame. Her husband might not appreciate it, either, but this is my son we’re talking about.
Before Katy goes on her trip to San Fransisco or wherever, I’m going to shave off one of her eyebrows when she’s asleep to ensure she won’t cheat on me because nobody’s gonna sleep with a girl who only has one eyebrow.
And so what, that doesn’t make me a bad boyfriend. That makes her an insufferable bitch that is really starting to stick in my craw.
Insecurity is a big thing for me. I try to mask my own insecurities with fantasies to make myself feel better.
For instance: I like to imagine all my girlfriend’s co-workers are gay. And in the circus. The gay circus.
I bet the lions at the gay circus are gay, too.
I don’t want to start trouble but– Instigator? What does that mean, instigator? You think I’m looking to start shit?
I think I’m misjudged: I thought the shit already started when you put on that dress– not when I told you it makes you look fat.
You started that shit.
I’d like my pot dealer to walk in one day– knocking first, of course– after all the waiting and I’d like him to show up with some weed and just tell me “Man, this stuff will kill you”. It’s just that weed is so tame. It’s so boring and that’s why it sucks to get busted for it.
I want to smoke some shit where the cops don’t just give me a ticket– I want to smoke some of that felonious shit, ya hear me?
Maybe PCP is the right drug for me.
When dear American citizens confide in me– either in person or through my Facebook feed– that anybody would be a better President than “Barack Obama”, I let them in on a secret of mine: I’m voting for Casey Anthony in November too.
If voting is such a big deal– if you hold it as something you truly think everybody should be doing– should you really be saying things like “anybody, and ANYBODY would be a better President than Barack Obama”? If you truly believe this then why don’t you throw your vote to me? Write my name in.
If I’m elected as President of the United States I’ll make sure everybody’s dick is getting sucked. Hell, I’ll suck anyone and everyone’s dick that votes for me. I don’t even like sucking dick but if you put me in charge of the free world I want to prove to everybody that I can keep a promise– and dutifully so. That’s important these days.
My therapist calls this “gay-daydreaming”.
I am empathetic– almost severely. For instance, I saw a guy eating alone at Jack in the Box today. I sat across from him and told him I’d kill myself for the both of us tonight.
One day on the news there was this story about a guy who lives in a blue world. And all day and all night– er, sorry. That song’s been stuck in my head all day. And all night. And everything he sees is just blue, like him.
So they’re reporting this story on the news about this little boy who was crushed to death when a TV fell on him. A real human-being was bested by an object that does not, by nature, move. Even after it fell on the four year old it spent the next 100% of the next hour not moving. Spongebob did not make anybody laugh that day.
This got me thinking: what if during that news story was being broadcast another TV set to that channel fell on another small person?
I really want to see it and I know that is wrong.
I’d been driving around for at least an hour– and this place was only supposed to be 20 minutes away. Where was this girl? What was her name again? God, how could I forget, this was only yesterday.
First left after Figeuroa. Second right after Thomas St. Go to the end of the road and make a left, “My place is on the left”.
That’s what she said. But there’s no home to be found. Why don’t…why haven’t I called her again? My phone was sitting in the passenger seat with two frozen Hot Pockets and four boxes of Top Ramen. Radio reception was bad down here so I had long since given up on listening to any music– that’s right, there wasn’t a CD to be found in the car. These were terrible times.
Oh, yes– now I remember: I know why I don’t have her phone number. It’s because I’m a pussy. That definitely makes sense.
Ever since the end of the musical, Melissa and I made friends online. Her myspace had her AIM screenname on it, so I figured it was fair game to message her on my account. Of course, it had been a while since I had been on the account. Opening the ancient program proved to be a trip down memory lane: it was a treasure trove of disaster-like conversations I had had with the various women I never ever dated.
At some point, you know, you have have to assume that if your favorite place to talk to your future girlfriend is in a cemetery filled with all your other future girlfriends, you’re doing something wrong.
Finally I refuse to pull over but I still grab my phone off the passenger seat and sign on to AIM and message my friend Jay. “Can you do me a favor? Sign onto my AIM account. Here’s the password:” I told him what to do off the bat because if you want to get somebody to do something for you you just tell them what to do instead of just asking them to do a favor without giving them the first step. So Jay never had to choose whether or not he wanted to do me a favor– the first step was the hook that got him in.
So I text Jay and he says he’s in my AIM account. I text him again: “MSG the sn Doublemey and ask her to give me her address one more time because I can’t find the place. Thank her when she does it”. This whole dialogue took nearly 3 messages to get out because I think I swore more than I have presented for you here today.
And, as calculated, Jay did it for me. What a bro, right? He sent me the address: 1161 King Ct. Shit, man, I must have passed that 15 times by now. I was coming up again on King Court so I thanked Jay again (without pulling over) and prepared myself for something I’d failed to notice. Failing to notice things is a big thing for me: literally. One time I didn’t know that my ex-girlfriend had a penis. Longest relationship I’ve been in, too.
Pulling up I saw what I’d seen time and time before: A couple of trailers, some mailboxes, and trash everywhere. So I drove to the end of the block, seeing the same picture time and time again: All of it just a bunch of trailers, mailboxes, and trash. And then it hit me: Melissa lived– lives– in a trailer.
Oh my God.
I pulled over back at her place and we had some good times– ate a couple Hot Pockets, talked shit on people we knew, and went on a walk. But she lives in a trailer. There won’t be a second date.
I never delete pictures of me and my exes on facebook because I want my future ex-girlfriends to think that I’m on good terms with my past ex-girlfriends even though that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Could I ask her to marry me? Of course I could– I’m sure of it. I don’t know how sober I would have to be. But still, should I even be asking that question? Maybe there’s a better one, like “Why are we together?” or “What do you like about me?” or “Have you put on weight?”
Wait, sorry. Let me back up for a second; I think we’re really getting somewhere with this.
Convincing her to stay is out of the question; Maddie’s always been a free spirit and I’m not down for messing with free spirits. I don’t have anything clever to say about that because I really don’t want to get hurt. Of course, I want her to stay but I also want to be buried alive on Easter Island when I’m 37. Basically: I’ve learned that if I want something then it’s probably not good for me.
“Just tell her you don’t want her to leave,” Drew was telling me at the T-Club, a local dive.
“What?” I said.
Drew yelled over the music: “JUST TELL HER YOU DON’T WANT HER TO LEAVE!”
“I heard you the first time,” I said. I slammed the rest of my beer down and continued, “but it’s out of the question.”
Drew finished his beer. “Don’t you love her though?”
“Yeah I do, but think about the opportunity this affords me.”
We both got up and squeezed our way out of the crowded shit-hole. T-Club is the kind of bar you go to when you want to get drunk and not get bothered by anyone asking you if you’re driving home. Plus the beer is cheap; it’s great.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Drew said.
“Check this out: Maddie moves out of town in two and a half months. I get to stay. And nobody gets broken up with.”
“But the relationship ends.”
“Sure it does. But nobody has to get broken up with. Nobody has to do the actual breaking up. Two and a half months and the relationship is over.”
“Sounds kinda fucked.”
“No really, this expiration date is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“What about her?”
“Maddie. Your girlfriend. Drew headed for our cars so I followed.
“Oh I don’t care.” Drew turned around and cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, I do care but if you think of it like a crashing airplane…you know what I mean?”
“No clue,” he said.
“When the plane’s going down and they drop the oxygen masks,” I said, “you put yours on first. And then maybe help the little kid next to you.”
“What are you saying? You wouldn’t help the kid?”
“The plane’s going to crash anyway.”
I got home fine. All the lights were out which is good because that’s how I left them. My parents still weren’t– aren’t– back from their three month long vacation. Good, I thought. I’ll be really surprised if they stay gone for the whole three months.
So that’s where I sat with my original opening to the next blog. Or maybe that’s where I sitwith it. My Girlfriend Is Out of Town is like a pie to me and my next project is also a pie but it’s a better pie. Sure, some of it is going to taste similar but goddamn it just go with me on this pie simile.
Check this out: I’m a vegetarian now; I only eat chips and coffee now and I feel great.
There was this yoga class I took the other day and the instructor asked us to sit on the ground. That shit was fucking bananas because the teacher tricked us into doing yoga from the start.
Shit, man, I’m the pinnacle of good health.
That was where I sat (or is it “sit”?) with the second opening of my next blog. My last few paragraphs have been kind of like a pie– kind of like my next project which is kind of like another pie. But better. Yeah, I know: some of the ingredients are the same but goddamn it I’m doing the pie thing again
What you previously read was the third opening of my next blog. Any and all instances of sitting have been entirely eliminated from the first sentence of this paragraph and its quality shows. This is a paragraph that is also entirely void of the word “pie” except for this instance that shows you just how strong-willed I am.
“This writing is going nowhere” is what I mean to say.