The Pool

The moderately wealthy enjoy installing pools into their backyards. Well, when I’m filthy rich I want to install a pull and a jacuzzi in my backyard.

Filled with whatever I want.

Obviously the go to is pudding (a mix of tapioka and chocolate) but I think a pool filled with the fresh dough they use to make bread/pizza would feel good all over my body, too.

It’s going to take a pretty expensive filtering system and, also, a long time to ever actually happen. Today, I bring you what would be the fruitions of a person focused on making money– not friends.

Pool filled with Pudding
Estimated daily cost: $350,000
Estimated pleasure: High

Pool filled with Dough
Estimated daily cost: $750,000
Estimated pleasure: High

Pool filled with Rubbing Alcohol
Estimated daily cost: $100,000
Estimated pleasure: Low, but fun to watch

Having a pool really stews my creative juices. I’ve found that I do my best writing underwater. So a pool will help me actualize a workplace where I can focus. Writing underwater is great too because whenever people try to talk to me underwater they sound like like they’re drowning– and that’s as close as I’ll ever get to true nirvana.

Pool filled with Diet Coke
Estimated daily cost: $100,000
Estimated pleasure: High to low. Oh the highs. Oh the lows. So high. So low.

Most people suggest not drinking pool water. Don’t drink from Diet Coke pool, either; you can taste the schizophrenia.

Pool filled with Glue
Estimated daily cost: Worth it
Estimated pleasure: Highest

A pool filled with glue means a pool’s worth of horses died. It may not be fun to swim in every day but the real fun is the journey, not the destination. Although, metaphorically, I think all the dead horses make a great destination.

Day Three.

Basically, I’m a telemarketer.

Imagine there’s a list of people out there who fuck their dogs— or other peoples’ dogs. Or wild dogs. These people are just the bottom of the barrel of the worst dog-fuckers if there was a list. Now, lets pretend I have access to this list of people into hairy dog nipples and shit. I paid somebody for this list. It was a thousand dollars but that’s not the point— the point is that I have a business line and I’m going to call these sick fucks and sell them things dog-fuckers like— things like dog-fucking.

So I’m calling people that have interest in fucking dogs— for fucking dogs.

But instead of dog fucking I call people about business insurance. But insurance is boring so I made this dog-fucking analogy instead.

You’ve gotta give me the benefit of the doubt. Most of my calls are pretty non-intrusive, like so:

Me: Hi ma’am, this is Charlie Brown from VCR Insurance.

Receptionist: You have to stop calling.

Me: Ma’am, you know I’m a pilot, right?

Receptionist: No you’re not.

Me: Then who’s flying the plane?

Can’t get fired for this stuff. See, I’m the smartest guy in the office so all incoming calls at our call center get routed to me first. And because I’m the smartest guy in the office I also play a convincing receptionist. So every time I get a complaint about myself I just route the call to myself because, well, I also play a very convincing and apologetically regretful CEO.

Receptionist: One of your telemarketers called me today and said he was a pilot.

Me: Okay, what would you like me to do about it?

Receptionist: Take us off of your list.

Me: I can do that but—

Receptionist: Thanks.

Me: You didn’t let me finish. I can take you off of our list but I’m going to have to put you on a Chinese one.

Receptionist: I don’t even—

Click. Rinse. Repeat.

Day Two (2).

No response from Katy yet. I mean, we’ve texted but she hasn’t had time for Skype. So it’s not that I don’t know she’s safe, it’s that I can’t be sure she hasn’t been fucking Argentine men for 24 straight hours and I’ll know once I look inter her eyes.

Bryan and Jeremy want to take me out to bars so that I can “wingman” for the two of them. They think I’d make an excellent wingman but it’s really difficult to wingman for a guy with a girlfriend and a 27 year old with his virginity. Nobody wants to date somebody who isn’t single and another dude who always has been.

Katy’s been the first girl I’ve dated that couldn’t be compared to a dilapidated barn. In fact, the only time Katy seems fat is when she’s being a complete bitch. Like right now, the bitch.

Listen— I don’t plan on cheating on Katy unless I’m sure that she’s cheating on me or planning to cheat on me. And right now it seems like no face-to-face contact in over 24 hours is groundwork for cheating.

I’ve read some of her texts and she likes going out to coffee with old classmates of hers I’ve never met or even heard of before. Male classmates. She solicits them first, too. It’s like she’s trying to hop ship but won’t do it til she finds one better than my partially capsized schooner.Our partially capsized schooner.

To be frank: I don’t trust her. Maybe she shouldn’t trust me either. After all, I went to the supermarket today and was approached by seven different women and ended up getting all their phone numbers. And usually I’d dress up like a Safeway employee to do that but this time I was in my civvies.

Kind of a dick thing but at least I haven’t been fucking Argentine dudes for 24 hours. I have reason to believe she’s not above doing that— one of her friends told her to sleep with Argentine dudes or else she would be disappointed in her. She said this in front of me.

Katy didn’t say she would. But she also didn’t say she wouldn’t. The whore. What am I supposed to think?

Maybe it’s time to hop ship, myself. Suck off some Argentine dudes. I mean— chicks. Suck off some Argentine chicks.

Day One.

Of course I didn’t drop her off at the airport. How could I? She’s the one with a job that will still be there for her after leaving for three months. When I leave work for more than three minutes I have to worry about my seat being sold to the lowest bidder. That’s how telemarketing with drug addicts works.

Really, I wanted to drop her off but driving to LAX at 9AM is a death wish on a man’s psyche; There just isn’t enough alcohol in the world to get me to drive there. Or weed— don’t forget about the pot, that shit is important.

The last thing she said to me before she left. She said it to me yesterday, she said, “Charlie, you’re failing the world if you’re trying to make everyone in it happy”. That made not taking her to the airport easy. And a bit harder for her since she was relying on me for that ride, but still.

Oh yeah: Katy. Her name is Katy. And she is going to Argentina as a gift to herself because nobody would buy it for her. I wish I could— I really do. I’d give my left arm to send whoever I wanted to Argentina whenever I wanted. Orange County would be a quieter place, I tells ya.

Tonight was great. Jeremy lost his job at the dry ice factory so he invited us over to his place to drink super cold beers and play with dry ice. Dry ice shenanigans are a great replacement for girlfriends, let me tell you. And beer? Well, it’s cold as frozen winter shit because you replaced your girlfriend with a tub of dry ice. I named the tub Jeremy gave me “Katy 2”.

Bryan, Jaye, Jeff, and Krisandra came over to Jeremy’s too. I’ll get around to describing them later unlike Katy because she’s not going to be around and they will. Jeff did ask me tonight, before unsuccessfully swallowing an entire beer bottle whole, that he was worried for me now that Katy was gone.

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” I told him, “that’s what her weight is for.”

“It sounds like she was trying to break up with you,” he said. Asshole.

“No, I know what it sounds like to be broken up with. This wasn’t that.”

“Oh, and what does it sound like?”

“I don’t know, actually. But my heart didn’t sink like it normally does when I’m broken up with.”

“Anything else, Charlie?”

“Wouldn’t it be crazy if facebook knew that I masturbate to profile pictures?”

“She broke up with you.”

Me and Katy have broken up a couple times before. Three times, actually, if you’re counting the next one.

Last time I broke up with her. And the first time? That was me too.

I’ll probably be the responsible party for the next one, too. Katy made me promise, though, that I wouldn’t ever break up with her again. Is that fair? Is it Stockholm Syndrome at this point?

Not that I’m planning a break-up. I just think it’s inevitable when it comes to Katy and Me.

It would be easier to understand if you knew that she says the break-ups were “[my] fault”.

That was fun:

Me: You’re just waiting for the next best thing to come along.

Her: I can’t believe you’d say that.

Me: You won’t break up with me. You can’t.

Katy: Oh my God.

Me: You couldn’t. I bet you couldn’t break up with me.

And then she did. But that was on me and you know it. She wouldn’t have done it with my righteous words of encouragement.

Now that I think about it: that didn’t even happen. Maybe next time.

I arrived at my dark and quiet apartment— the one I call home. Apartment J. It smells like cats. I don’t have cats but the previous tenants did. They catted up the place, I’ll tell ya. Cat piss-stained walls, floors, refrigerator. Just a goddamned kitty massacre.

It being dark, I assumed Chaz— my roommate— wasn’t home. And— based on the lack of crying sounds— neither was his girlfriend. She doesn’t live with us but she is over enough that she should start paying for rent. That and the weed she smokes; she’s a moocher, I’ll tell ya.

(When Torrey isn’t crying she is smoking weed— and she’s usually out of it. She’ll start with an ounce on Saturday and be out by Sunday night. Then Chaz and I smoke her out the rest of Sunday night. And she tells us, “It’s okay, I’m going to go on a break this week to build up my tolerance” and then smokes all our weed throughout the week until her parents give her money on Friday night.)

I’m out of weed. I could either call Aaron 4— my fourth concurrent drug dealer named Aaron— or I could…Ah, a missed call from Todd. I think that’s my fourtieth concurrent missed call from Todd.

Must be time to go to bed, then. Not without checking Facebook however. Honk honk.