Drainage

I suffer from a complete inability to care.


Except for when I’m stressed out and grumpy, in which case I’m pretty easy to piss off.


“You keep eating burritos that big, you’ll be huge!”

Thanks for the concern, sir, but burritos have beans; this is a coriander shrimp wrap. Still, you’ve got a point – what the hell am I doing, eating lunch like a normal person? Next thing you know I’ll be eating dinner or some shit. Maybe even snacks. And one day? I might descend to the level of a cupcake guzzler.

I’m not sure what it is that makes people think it’s their place to make those sorts of comments, but you know what? Shut it. Especially since I could fit in one of your pant legs and probably still need a belt.


(I’ve been sitting here listening to a bug fry in a ceiling light. The sound is like heavy radio static. Then the bug fell on my shoe and lay there twitching while I yelped and spent a good thirty seconds jumping around like Rumpelstiltskin at his most gleeful until I succeeded in shaking the thing off. And it was horrible.)


“Is there any way you could photocopy part of this book for my daughter so she doesn’t have to buy it?”

“No way that’s legal.”

Had to love the eye roll I got for that one. And I suppose my stance was pretty ridiculous. After all, what’s the problem in making illegal photocopies of books that also negate the incentive for our customers to actually, like, buy merchandise? I should be catering to even the cheapest of these peoples’ whims.

But I fail at cheapness catering, so they left. Sad news.


So, Wednesday. I was pretty relaxed on Wednesday. I’d popped some biscuits in the oven and was curled up in my nest of blankets, reading a novel completely for pleasure – no highlighter in sight. I had tea and I felt great.

And then came the stress lasers. Do you know the stress lasers? Those blazing little shitheads. They skewer your brain cells and push them out through your eyes, which, in turn, causes the cells to take on the form of giant glittering stress tears. The empty space left by these former cells is then filled with pooling golden stress light that completely incapacitates the surrounding brain material and sends the body housing the brain in question to embark on a wonderfully fun panic attack.

Stress lasers blow.


The upside: dressing as a hipster zombie for Halloween, as in the photo at the top of this page, and as below:



I may not look enthused, but I wouldn’t have relinquished that Guinness for anything.

Thanksgiving break come quick, so I can be chipper once again.

The Witching Hour

I hate midnight. I hate being awake at midnight when I’m alone and there are drunk people outside loudly attempting to waltz. All the booming drunken guffaws with their breathy giggle counterparts, catching on burps and cigarette smoke…it’s painful. It makes me feel horribly guilty for all of my drunken shenanigans.

Trying to hide behind curtains while peering through the gap in them is hard. Impossible really. Luckily these people are oblivious.

The waltz has devolved into…I don’t even know. Vague circles that stretch into ovals and then snap shut. I don’t know what you’d call that, except for maybe stupid. Very, very stupid.

I enjoy listening to these people talk. I like hearing their words stumble over each other and collapse before the sentence is complete.

I’m going to pretend now that I have an actual alcohol tolerance, because if I don’t I’ll start to feel something vaguely like shame. No, my hand has never gotten confused and chucked my cell phone at a glass of hard cider, submerging said phone in the cider’s bubbly depths. And it definitely did not do that twice in one evening.

The couple is in the building now, climbing the stairs to the top floor. I can hear them walk down the hallway, with their irregular weaving steps. I can hear a door slam shut, and then, for the hundredth time this month, I can hear the creaking springs of the bed upstairs.

Seriously, this girl needs a hobby. I might destroy her otherwise.

Squeak. Squeak. Squeak squeak. Squeeeak.

I need some tea.

Labor Day

There are times when life does not make sense. Like when you wake up to find a nearly nude Russian exchange student frantically searching for his boxers, explaining, while still thoroughly obliterated, that he has all his cash hidden in said boxers.

"Well, but how much cash?"
"Two thousand dollars."

And then everyone's faces flatten and sag.

"But...why? Why would you have that much on you...?"

I mean really. There is nothing logical about that scenario. Especially not in the morning, when waves of stale vodka are crashing against your temples and you don't know where your glasses are. And you're standing in a hallway while the Russian stumbles drunkenly around, and his 40-year-old host mom looks flatly on.

Then you notice that the Russian appears to be wearing your boyfriend's shorts, as they're far too big for him and are exposing the majority of his skinny ass. You're wondering how exactly they stay on, since you walked past the bathroom at a very inopportune moment the night before and know conclusively that there is distressingly little to hold them up in front...

So your boyfriend and his roommate are searching for the boxers in the bathroom, and the kid has passed out on the bed you woke up in. You're still standing there in the hallway, alone save for the host mom; you look into the kitchen, at the empty bottles of Jameson's and Jack, the one-third left in a bottle of vodka, various crushed beer cans and empty glasses scattered over the counter, and you suddenly feel like the Worst Person in the World.

Then you notice your shirt for the first time. It says "Do Something With Your Life. Get me a beer." Your humiliation is compounded.

"So. So yeah." You try to cover your shirt with your hair, crossing your arms high up over your chest to keep it in place. The host mom blinks at you; stupidly, you bluster on. "I mean, so those boxers. I know I saw them somewhere. They just...yeah. They've gotta be around."

Your brain and your vocal cords mercifully detach. You continue talking, but your brain's submersion in last night's booze renders you unable to recall any of the idiot things you say. Your boyfriend finds the boxers in the cabinet under the bathroom sink ("he must've hidden them last night"), and you all take a moment to observe the wad of cash sewn into the crotch. The Russian wanders into the kitchen and vomits gracelessly into a wastebasket, as you gaze pensively out the window and consider your life.

But all you come up with is, god damn I need an aspirin.

This Is the Abridged Version, On Account of I Am Lazy

I went out for a beer last night with a friend, and then we ran into another friend, and then we made a friend, although I don't believe she ever told us her name. But then it's hard to remember all that when you're so trashed that you start hatching schemes sure to win you a Darwin award.

"I want a log cabin that's built around a tree, and I want the tree to be a chimney."
"But...then it would burn."
"No no no! I would scorch it. I would scorch it really, really well, and then it would be fire resistant."

Our new friend flicked the ashes from her cigarette into our bowl of pretzels and continued, claiming that, while she did want to live in a forest, she couldn't always tell the difference between forests and cities.

"Well, what if there were more trees than people?"
"See, now that's a forest."

She took a pretzel, swirled it in the salt and ash at the bottom of the bowl, and popped it in her mouth. I tasted it vicariously, the ash gritty and wet between my teeth, and, grimacing, washed it down with a swallow of beer.

And then our friend was standing, grabbing her empty glass, and deserting us - she was, apparently, in search of more beer. It was only after she left that we noticed her wallet, also deserted, sitting on the table. Rachel picked it up and turned it over in her hands, saying:

"You know, if we weren't such nice people..."

Huh.

I just ordered a Star Wars book for someone who was holding a coffee cup full of booze with a curly straw sticking out.

Just thought I'd share that.

Something I Noticed Last Night

I have a pair of wire cutters, but no screwdriver. Also, I have orange juice but no vodka, meaning I couldn't even make a screwdriver. I guess I'm screwed in both departments.

The Horror

At dinner last night I used the phrase "I've never saw." I blame the red wine (the menu boasted of its "peppery overtones") and mood lighting.

That's right: a single glass of wine turns me into a redneck faster than a six-pack of PBR. (Not that I've ever had a six-pack of anything - and if I did it certainly wouldn't be PBR, which is disgusting - but, you know. At least I hope you do. 'Cause I sure don't.)