Well? What do I do?
I've gotten back. I've been home a total of five hours. My friend brought my home from the airport, where I loaded her up with chocolate products: chocolate covered mac nuts, chocolate covered coffee, chocolate covered bark, etc. I came back with about 20 or so pounds of chocolate candies, and another 2 or 3 pounds of Kona coffee. Right now, I'm the "go to" guy for Hawaiin coffees and candies.
I'm thinking about moving there. Why not? I've got nothing here.
My friend asked me what would keep me here. I said little Asian girls for one, but I guess there are other things that could keep me here. I said it was totally up to her whether I stay or go. She says she'll find me a nice girl to make me stay--something so complicated, I won't be able to leave. If she wants me to stay, I told her she's got to give me a reason to stay.
Hawaii. Live rent-free, eat tropical fruits all the time, swim, snorkel, etc. Of course, if you want to take a road-trip on the Big Island, your choices are limited: you could go to Hilo or...Hilo?
It sucks to be back. I'm calling in 'sick' to work tomorrow.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Saturday, July 30, 2005
I'm not stoned--just lost.
Today I went to Hopuna, or whatever the fucking beach was called. I don't know these Hawaiin names. They're so odd, the names all start to sound the same.
"Yeah, to get there you take the highway to Lako, take a left on Lako, and a right on Mahuahua. To get to the beach, you take a left on Ponciani to Waimea to Waimea, and then take a left on Waimeaa and when you get to Waimeaa, take a right. If you get to the Royal Waimeaa, you've gone too far. But if you're at the Waimeaa Beach, go to the next one, because that's not the right one. You want the FURTHER Waimeaa Beach. For dinner we'll have Waimeaa steaks dipped in Waimeaa sauce with Waimeaa Waimeaa. Waimeaa?"
So Hopuna. Gorgeous. When you think of the 'perfect' beach, this is it: white sands, blue water, gradual slope into the water, slightly cool (but not too cool) water. Perfect, perfect, perfect. No girls to look at, though. I got bored and left after an hour, despite being at one of the World's Top Beaches. There wasn't much to do, really. You know, you can look at the palm trees and admire the blue water for so long...and then? I don't know. Harrass other tourists?
So I hopped back in the car and drove to our family friend's candy factory where I made some chocolate covered white pineapple, chocolate covered cashews, and a chocolate Elvis portrait. I was supposed to drive from the candy factory to his house, where I was to wait and meet him and his wife and step-daughter for dinner.
Instead, I was talking on the phone telling a friend how awesome Hawaii is. I was admiring the sunset, and telling my friend how fucking far apart everything is. Then, I see planes. That can't be. The only place that has large planes is the airport, and that's about 45 minutes out of town PAST his house...Then my phone rings on the other line as I made the connection in my head.
Somehow I'd passed his street, passed Palahni (the major thoroughfare that leads to downtown), passed about 100 other landmarks and ended out at the fucking airport.
"Where are you?"
"I think...I think I'm at the airport."
He laughed. "Where are you really?"
"The airport. I see planes. Big fucking planes."
Long silence. Then he said I had to have been stoned to drive for 45 minutes without realizing I was lost, and that he's going to tell my dad.
"Yeah, to get there you take the highway to Lako, take a left on Lako, and a right on Mahuahua. To get to the beach, you take a left on Ponciani to Waimea to Waimea, and then take a left on Waimeaa and when you get to Waimeaa, take a right. If you get to the Royal Waimeaa, you've gone too far. But if you're at the Waimeaa Beach, go to the next one, because that's not the right one. You want the FURTHER Waimeaa Beach. For dinner we'll have Waimeaa steaks dipped in Waimeaa sauce with Waimeaa Waimeaa. Waimeaa?"
So Hopuna. Gorgeous. When you think of the 'perfect' beach, this is it: white sands, blue water, gradual slope into the water, slightly cool (but not too cool) water. Perfect, perfect, perfect. No girls to look at, though. I got bored and left after an hour, despite being at one of the World's Top Beaches. There wasn't much to do, really. You know, you can look at the palm trees and admire the blue water for so long...and then? I don't know. Harrass other tourists?
So I hopped back in the car and drove to our family friend's candy factory where I made some chocolate covered white pineapple, chocolate covered cashews, and a chocolate Elvis portrait. I was supposed to drive from the candy factory to his house, where I was to wait and meet him and his wife and step-daughter for dinner.
Instead, I was talking on the phone telling a friend how awesome Hawaii is. I was admiring the sunset, and telling my friend how fucking far apart everything is. Then, I see planes. That can't be. The only place that has large planes is the airport, and that's about 45 minutes out of town PAST his house...Then my phone rings on the other line as I made the connection in my head.
Somehow I'd passed his street, passed Palahni (the major thoroughfare that leads to downtown), passed about 100 other landmarks and ended out at the fucking airport.
"Where are you?"
"I think...I think I'm at the airport."
He laughed. "Where are you really?"
"The airport. I see planes. Big fucking planes."
Long silence. Then he said I had to have been stoned to drive for 45 minutes without realizing I was lost, and that he's going to tell my dad.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Fresh from Hilo
I just got back from Hilo. Yesterday morning, I snorkeled and swam with some big fuckin' endangered turtles and big fucking fish.
I saw some little bastard--about 12 years old--swim to the bottom of the water (about 10 feet), pick up a large rock, and then he fucking dropped it on this big turtle as it dropped by. Obviously, he ignored the signs warning of fines and imprisonment by fucking with the ENDANGERED turtles. So Ryan (that's me) swam over there and yanked on his arm to get his attention.
"What?"
"What the fuck is your problem dropping rocks on the turtles?"
"It scared me."
I was so shocked at this kid's response. No wonder the locals get pissed at the fucking tourists--we're evidently there to destroy everything. I wanted to drop a rock on him.
Yesterday evening, I flew on a helicoptor out over some volcanoes and some fucking lava. Awesome as fuck. They wouldn't let me handle the controls, though. Assholes.
I saw some little bastard--about 12 years old--swim to the bottom of the water (about 10 feet), pick up a large rock, and then he fucking dropped it on this big turtle as it dropped by. Obviously, he ignored the signs warning of fines and imprisonment by fucking with the ENDANGERED turtles. So Ryan (that's me) swam over there and yanked on his arm to get his attention.
"What?"
"What the fuck is your problem dropping rocks on the turtles?"
"It scared me."
I was so shocked at this kid's response. No wonder the locals get pissed at the fucking tourists--we're evidently there to destroy everything. I wanted to drop a rock on him.
Yesterday evening, I flew on a helicoptor out over some volcanoes and some fucking lava. Awesome as fuck. They wouldn't let me handle the controls, though. Assholes.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Hawaii 5-0
When I first got to Hawaii on Sunday, I went to downtown Kona. Downtown Kona is smaller and less active than the least busy, smallest alley in Pasadena. But oh well. There I was walking around.
A cop car drove by me...at least I was pretty sure it was a cop car. It was a Roush Mustang 380R. It had a cop light on the roof, and it was white and blue. One question: What the fuck?
I saw it again later puttering around and asked my family friend, Collector, "So...What's the deal with the cop cars here?"
"Oh, the cops get a car allowance and drive their own cars."
And hence, with car allowance, someone decides to drive around in a Roush Mustang. On roads with speed limits of no more than 55. And good God, there's really no way to even go any faster than that if you try. So...a Roush Mustang? Okay. Whatever. A Supercharged Mustang cop car.
Apparently they don't make their own uniforms, though.
A cop car drove by me...at least I was pretty sure it was a cop car. It was a Roush Mustang 380R. It had a cop light on the roof, and it was white and blue. One question: What the fuck?
I saw it again later puttering around and asked my family friend, Collector, "So...What's the deal with the cop cars here?"
"Oh, the cops get a car allowance and drive their own cars."
And hence, with car allowance, someone decides to drive around in a Roush Mustang. On roads with speed limits of no more than 55. And good God, there's really no way to even go any faster than that if you try. So...a Roush Mustang? Okay. Whatever. A Supercharged Mustang cop car.
Apparently they don't make their own uniforms, though.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Choco-LIT
Guess what? You CAN get high if you eat enough chocolate.
I'm here in Hawaii from within the candy factory. It's owned by a close friend of my dad's.
I just made my OWN candy. Chocolate fucking coated candy. And it's so good.
What I've eaten today:
BREAKFAST: 15 chocolate covered macadamia nuts, 10 chocolate covered coffee beans, omelette, toast.
LUNCH: 25 chocolate covered macadamia nuts, 8 choco-coconut covered macadamia nuts, 10 chocolate covered coffee beans, two tacos, tamale
SNACK TIME: Half a pound of the candy I made, half a pound of raw macadamia nuts
Oh, and it is pretty beautiful here. A bit humid. Lots of water--as if we're surrounded on all sides by it.
I must go. Je t'aime, candy.
PHYSIOLOGICAL EFFECTS:
I had a major crash after eating my breakfast candy. I could do little more than sit in a chair drooling. Then, I ate more and that seemed to temporarily take me out of my crash. Now, I'm sweating somewhat and feel the weight gain...
I'm here in Hawaii from within the candy factory. It's owned by a close friend of my dad's.
I just made my OWN candy. Chocolate fucking coated candy. And it's so good.
What I've eaten today:
BREAKFAST: 15 chocolate covered macadamia nuts, 10 chocolate covered coffee beans, omelette, toast.
LUNCH: 25 chocolate covered macadamia nuts, 8 choco-coconut covered macadamia nuts, 10 chocolate covered coffee beans, two tacos, tamale
SNACK TIME: Half a pound of the candy I made, half a pound of raw macadamia nuts
Oh, and it is pretty beautiful here. A bit humid. Lots of water--as if we're surrounded on all sides by it.
I must go. Je t'aime, candy.
PHYSIOLOGICAL EFFECTS:
I had a major crash after eating my breakfast candy. I could do little more than sit in a chair drooling. Then, I ate more and that seemed to temporarily take me out of my crash. Now, I'm sweating somewhat and feel the weight gain...
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Psych!!! One more post...
Ah, the night before I leave, and I'm suddenly a hot commodity. People want me to hang out with them and shit since they won't see me for a whole week. Which is nice--especially since I see some of these people only once every week or two. Me saying I'm going to Hawaii for a week should be at the same level as me saying I'm going over to Ralph's to buy a loaf of bread and some corn nuts (though I eat neither, and I don't shop at Ralph's; if you're a Big Lebowski fan, though, you understand that it's more than just a grocery store).
However, I spent my last evening in Hollywood where my friend showed his film. It was shown in a gallery next to Paramount Studios with other short films. They served free beer! FREE! As in, you could just walk over to a tub, pull out a Tecate, and drink it. No charge. Free beer--a Hollywood Miracle. I could not understand this.
I could not understand some of these short films. The most incomprehensible to me went something like this: opening credits, and then me thinking, "Wow, these opening credits are long, but nothing stays on the screen long enough for me to read it," and then it was over. Lots of strange drawings that morphed, lots of colors, some text, but that was it. The guy that made that film explained that it was an anti-war film. What? What war is he protesting? Some sort of digital war that involves warring multi-colored blob figures and bizarre, shapeless lines?
Another was a documentary that followed a woman and her family as they and her family came to terms with her father's death. 10 years ago. When he fell while hiking. This is sad, of course. It was a sad situation of course, and she interviewed her mother, brothers, and grandparents. She relied on a lot of old videotape footage from her childhood. And she was sort of raising the question of, "Was his death an accident? Or did something more sinister happen?" Of course she never answered that, and seemed to forget she'd even asked it. But the whole thing taken together was like splicing family videos with a scene from the middle of an old, dusty episode of Columbo, and topped off with a shot of Oprah (well, a white attractive Oprah, at least).
We did miss SOME of the films. We were at Astroburger while the event started. We didn't get to the gallery until about halfway through. I had to explain to my friend that it might be a good idea to be at an event you've been invited to or that might lead a bad impression. He didn't understand. Hm. All well.
All right. I wake up in about 4 hours. Goddamnit.
Know this, though, before I go: I will never say the word "Procrastinate" again. I'll never see myself in the mirror with my eyes closed. I didn't apologize for when I was eight and I made my younger brother have to be my personal slave.
Now it's over I'm dead and I haven't done anything that I want, or I'm still alive
and theres nothing I want to do.
In case you didn't realize it, that was your Plagiarism of the Day. Which album? Who sang it? Why?
BONUS QUESTION:
Why can't you tell someone you miss them without sounding like an idiot?
However, I spent my last evening in Hollywood where my friend showed his film. It was shown in a gallery next to Paramount Studios with other short films. They served free beer! FREE! As in, you could just walk over to a tub, pull out a Tecate, and drink it. No charge. Free beer--a Hollywood Miracle. I could not understand this.
I could not understand some of these short films. The most incomprehensible to me went something like this: opening credits, and then me thinking, "Wow, these opening credits are long, but nothing stays on the screen long enough for me to read it," and then it was over. Lots of strange drawings that morphed, lots of colors, some text, but that was it. The guy that made that film explained that it was an anti-war film. What? What war is he protesting? Some sort of digital war that involves warring multi-colored blob figures and bizarre, shapeless lines?
Another was a documentary that followed a woman and her family as they and her family came to terms with her father's death. 10 years ago. When he fell while hiking. This is sad, of course. It was a sad situation of course, and she interviewed her mother, brothers, and grandparents. She relied on a lot of old videotape footage from her childhood. And she was sort of raising the question of, "Was his death an accident? Or did something more sinister happen?" Of course she never answered that, and seemed to forget she'd even asked it. But the whole thing taken together was like splicing family videos with a scene from the middle of an old, dusty episode of Columbo, and topped off with a shot of Oprah (well, a white attractive Oprah, at least).
We did miss SOME of the films. We were at Astroburger while the event started. We didn't get to the gallery until about halfway through. I had to explain to my friend that it might be a good idea to be at an event you've been invited to or that might lead a bad impression. He didn't understand. Hm. All well.
All right. I wake up in about 4 hours. Goddamnit.
Know this, though, before I go: I will never say the word "Procrastinate" again. I'll never see myself in the mirror with my eyes closed. I didn't apologize for when I was eight and I made my younger brother have to be my personal slave.
Now it's over I'm dead and I haven't done anything that I want, or I'm still alive
and theres nothing I want to do.
In case you didn't realize it, that was your Plagiarism of the Day. Which album? Who sang it? Why?
BONUS QUESTION:
Why can't you tell someone you miss them without sounding like an idiot?
Saturday, July 23, 2005
No More Work Left
I somehow did it. I somehow made it to the weekend. Tomorrow, I leave for Hawaii.
But don't think it was an easy road. My mind has hardly there, and pretty much every day I was getting in trouble for something. There's so much to get in trouble for there.
I try to remember that no matter how poorly I do and how shitty my work is, it's really difficult for them to fire me unless I break a few laws and do some really stupid stuff (this is a list of Section 1203 violations that would get me fired). But I still worry about my work. Why? I wish I didn't. I know that the sun will still rise tomorrow if I fail to do a few administrative things; I don't know if my manager knows this, though.
I keep thinking about how I'll have to come back anyway and still report back into work. Damn. How the hell am I going to do that? I hate it, and I assume that the longer I'm gone the less I'll want to go back. You see, I know that the work will build up. On top of that, my manager, I'm sure, has already started compiling a list of shit I fucked up on.
And then there's the Red Light. How I hate that little red light. You know which one I'm talking about--the voicemail indicator light. Oh, how I hate that light. It sits there on my phone. And I hate answering the phone, so that light is lit up a lot. But even MORE, I hate that Red Light. So I check my messages a lot, and answer the phone (despite my hatred of the people at the other end) a whole lot to keep that fucking Red Light from glowing.
But I'll get back and despite my message that says, "I won't be here from the 25th to the 30th. If there is an emergency, you may reach so-and-so at extension blah-blah-blah. I will be UNREACHABLE during this time," there'll be at LEAST 12--NO, FIFTEEN!!--messages. Most messages will say something along the lines of their issue being really important and could I call them back immediately. Cunts.
I asked my manager if I could say, "I won't be here from the 25th to the 30th. If there is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1." She said no. I think that'd be pretty funny. "9-1-1?! I need to file a tax return, and the guy that is supposed to be there ISN'T!!"
I just know that something's going to happen while I'm gone so that on Monday, August 1st, when I come sauntering through the door, I'll wish I hadn't. I'll wish I'd missed my flight, overslept, found a different job, ANYTHING.
Meanwhile, I was talking to coworkers about area condos. In my previous post, I said the cheapest condo in Pasadena would be about $400,000. Nah, it'd probably be closer to $500,000. What the fuck is this?
In almost any other city, I could afford a somewhat nice, relatively large house in a nice neighborhood. Here? Forget it. Think of renting and living off Kraft macaroni and cheese for the rest of my life.
Try to cope without me, okay? I'll be gone a week, and during that time I assume I won't be able to update my blog. Be strong, bitches!
But don't think it was an easy road. My mind has hardly there, and pretty much every day I was getting in trouble for something. There's so much to get in trouble for there.
I try to remember that no matter how poorly I do and how shitty my work is, it's really difficult for them to fire me unless I break a few laws and do some really stupid stuff (this is a list of Section 1203 violations that would get me fired). But I still worry about my work. Why? I wish I didn't. I know that the sun will still rise tomorrow if I fail to do a few administrative things; I don't know if my manager knows this, though.
I keep thinking about how I'll have to come back anyway and still report back into work. Damn. How the hell am I going to do that? I hate it, and I assume that the longer I'm gone the less I'll want to go back. You see, I know that the work will build up. On top of that, my manager, I'm sure, has already started compiling a list of shit I fucked up on.
And then there's the Red Light. How I hate that little red light. You know which one I'm talking about--the voicemail indicator light. Oh, how I hate that light. It sits there on my phone. And I hate answering the phone, so that light is lit up a lot. But even MORE, I hate that Red Light. So I check my messages a lot, and answer the phone (despite my hatred of the people at the other end) a whole lot to keep that fucking Red Light from glowing.
But I'll get back and despite my message that says, "I won't be here from the 25th to the 30th. If there is an emergency, you may reach so-and-so at extension blah-blah-blah. I will be UNREACHABLE during this time," there'll be at LEAST 12--NO, FIFTEEN!!--messages. Most messages will say something along the lines of their issue being really important and could I call them back immediately. Cunts.
I asked my manager if I could say, "I won't be here from the 25th to the 30th. If there is an emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1." She said no. I think that'd be pretty funny. "9-1-1?! I need to file a tax return, and the guy that is supposed to be there ISN'T!!"
I just know that something's going to happen while I'm gone so that on Monday, August 1st, when I come sauntering through the door, I'll wish I hadn't. I'll wish I'd missed my flight, overslept, found a different job, ANYTHING.
Meanwhile, I was talking to coworkers about area condos. In my previous post, I said the cheapest condo in Pasadena would be about $400,000. Nah, it'd probably be closer to $500,000. What the fuck is this?
In almost any other city, I could afford a somewhat nice, relatively large house in a nice neighborhood. Here? Forget it. Think of renting and living off Kraft macaroni and cheese for the rest of my life.
Try to cope without me, okay? I'll be gone a week, and during that time I assume I won't be able to update my blog. Be strong, bitches!
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Blood From a Fucking Turnip
I gave blood today. I always try to give more than one pint, but they refuse me. "Listen, I'm already hooked up, guys. Just keep it going." They never do. They say they can only take one, even though I'm giving them permission to take two or three. Bastards. I've got plenty. I can handle it.
Giving blood is important. I do it for several reasons: desire to help those in need, desire to give back to my community, I act as a role model to those who may not otherwise think about giving blood. Of course since you can probably read through my bullshit, you probably know the MAIN reasons are the free cookies and time off from work. I got to leave at 2 PM today.
I ate dinner with my friend today at a place in Alhambra. It was right next door to the In 'n Out. I originally meant to get a large salad or something along those lines, but then I decided I wanted a burger. And I had wanted to go to this restaurant rather than the In 'n Out because
I'd wanted a "large salad or something," then the overcooked hamburger turned out to be the most mediocre burger ever made. As if to taunt me, I spent the meal facing a window that looked out on the In 'n Out, and all those happy people eating those delicious burgers. Damn it. And all because I wanted a salad, and then changed my mind.
If we woke up tomorrow and In 'n Out was all out of burgers FOREVER, and there was just one protein-style (no bun, lettuce wrapped) animal-style (special sause, tasty onions on top) triple-triple (three quarter pounds of meat with three pieces of cheese), and I had to kill someone to get to it, my only concern would be what I'd have to get the fries to go with it. That's how good In 'n Out is.
California Real Estate
It just doesn't make sense to those that don't live here (ie. the Australians). Want a 1500 square foot house in a nice neighborhood? Outside of Southern California, it varies. For instance, in Albuquerque, NM, that would probably cost somewhere between $130,000 to $170,000 depending on what part of town you're in (maybe more, maybe less). In Katy, Texas, that same house would be closer to $85,000. In my neighborhood, it's about $650,000. A mile south is San Marino; it would be closer to $900,000 there.
The cheapest condominium in Albuquerque could be had for about $45,000. Here in Pasadena, the cheapest condo (1 bed, 1 bath, street parking) is closer to $400,000.
Giving blood is important. I do it for several reasons: desire to help those in need, desire to give back to my community, I act as a role model to those who may not otherwise think about giving blood. Of course since you can probably read through my bullshit, you probably know the MAIN reasons are the free cookies and time off from work. I got to leave at 2 PM today.
I ate dinner with my friend today at a place in Alhambra. It was right next door to the In 'n Out. I originally meant to get a large salad or something along those lines, but then I decided I wanted a burger. And I had wanted to go to this restaurant rather than the In 'n Out because
I'd wanted a "large salad or something," then the overcooked hamburger turned out to be the most mediocre burger ever made. As if to taunt me, I spent the meal facing a window that looked out on the In 'n Out, and all those happy people eating those delicious burgers. Damn it. And all because I wanted a salad, and then changed my mind.
If we woke up tomorrow and In 'n Out was all out of burgers FOREVER, and there was just one protein-style (no bun, lettuce wrapped) animal-style (special sause, tasty onions on top) triple-triple (three quarter pounds of meat with three pieces of cheese), and I had to kill someone to get to it, my only concern would be what I'd have to get the fries to go with it. That's how good In 'n Out is.
California Real Estate
It just doesn't make sense to those that don't live here (ie. the Australians). Want a 1500 square foot house in a nice neighborhood? Outside of Southern California, it varies. For instance, in Albuquerque, NM, that would probably cost somewhere between $130,000 to $170,000 depending on what part of town you're in (maybe more, maybe less). In Katy, Texas, that same house would be closer to $85,000. In my neighborhood, it's about $650,000. A mile south is San Marino; it would be closer to $900,000 there.
The cheapest condominium in Albuquerque could be had for about $45,000. Here in Pasadena, the cheapest condo (1 bed, 1 bath, street parking) is closer to $400,000.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
A Real Estate Purchase
I've got to tell you...
I'm dying for some action. I'm sick of sitting around here trying to write this book. I need a love reaction. Come on baby, just give me one look. You can't start a fire sitting around crying over a broken heart. This gun's for hire.
Sigh.
Who did I plagiarize from?
BONUS: Why did I plagiarize this?
I'm considering purchasing some real estate here in Los Angeles County--specifically here in Pasadena.
California Micro Lot (CML)
Based on my needs and what I can afford, I found an excellent lot just a few blocks away here in Pasadena just north of Paloma and Sierra Madre (check out the map). It's an excellent area, and it's supposed to be a really good school system. The lot I'm considering buying is only $150,000. I'll still have to build a structure, but it shouldn't cost much.
The lot may be somewhat small, but they say the location is THE most important aspect. It's a California Micro Lot, so it's only a one square foot lot. I choose to think of it not as JUST one square foot, but as 144 square inches. That's a lot of square inches. I could probably divide up my parcel into smaller subsections, and sell those off. The tax benefits were just too great to pass this up.
I won't be moving out of the apartment, yet. I've got to figure out what I'm going to build on the lot that I'll be able to live in. The problem is that my land is smaller than the linen closet in my apartment, but architects are doing some pretty amazing things these days. Perhaps through the smart use of lighting, that square foot lot can be made to look like three square feet.
My friend appears to be going through caffeine withdrawals. You should give her a word of support to help her through.
My Friend and Online Dating
I was hanging out with my friend at Starbucks when another friend drove up. He said he was meeting someone--a girl--from online. He parked, and we waited with him for this girl to arrive.
I interrupted their date by sitting down between them and asking what she does for a living (nothing special), where she went to school (yawn), and her phone number (strange look and nervous laugh).
I was also going to ask my friend for a cigarette. He doesn't smoke. Hell, neither do I, but I thought it'd be funny, because he'd say, "Dude, I don't smoke." And I'd say, "Dude, you were smoking right before she got here. Give me a smoke. I'll roll you a J the next time we're at a gang-bang. I'll even let you go before me."
I didn't get to have my fun, though. It's like he knew I was going to do something like this, so they left before I could.
I'm dying for some action. I'm sick of sitting around here trying to write this book. I need a love reaction. Come on baby, just give me one look. You can't start a fire sitting around crying over a broken heart. This gun's for hire.
Sigh.
Who did I plagiarize from?
BONUS: Why did I plagiarize this?
I'm considering purchasing some real estate here in Los Angeles County--specifically here in Pasadena.
California Micro Lot (CML)
Based on my needs and what I can afford, I found an excellent lot just a few blocks away here in Pasadena just north of Paloma and Sierra Madre (check out the map). It's an excellent area, and it's supposed to be a really good school system. The lot I'm considering buying is only $150,000. I'll still have to build a structure, but it shouldn't cost much.
The lot may be somewhat small, but they say the location is THE most important aspect. It's a California Micro Lot, so it's only a one square foot lot. I choose to think of it not as JUST one square foot, but as 144 square inches. That's a lot of square inches. I could probably divide up my parcel into smaller subsections, and sell those off. The tax benefits were just too great to pass this up.
I won't be moving out of the apartment, yet. I've got to figure out what I'm going to build on the lot that I'll be able to live in. The problem is that my land is smaller than the linen closet in my apartment, but architects are doing some pretty amazing things these days. Perhaps through the smart use of lighting, that square foot lot can be made to look like three square feet.
My friend appears to be going through caffeine withdrawals. You should give her a word of support to help her through.
My Friend and Online Dating
I was hanging out with my friend at Starbucks when another friend drove up. He said he was meeting someone--a girl--from online. He parked, and we waited with him for this girl to arrive.
I interrupted their date by sitting down between them and asking what she does for a living (nothing special), where she went to school (yawn), and her phone number (strange look and nervous laugh).
I was also going to ask my friend for a cigarette. He doesn't smoke. Hell, neither do I, but I thought it'd be funny, because he'd say, "Dude, I don't smoke." And I'd say, "Dude, you were smoking right before she got here. Give me a smoke. I'll roll you a J the next time we're at a gang-bang. I'll even let you go before me."
I didn't get to have my fun, though. It's like he knew I was going to do something like this, so they left before I could.
Monday, July 18, 2005
What is Shake 'n Bake?
To start, let me explain to our Australian friends what Shake 'n Bake is: you buy some chicken, you buy a box of Shake 'n Bake, you put the chicken in a bag with the Shake 'n Bake mix, you shake the bag around, and then you bake it in the oven (sans bag). It's nothing more than breaded chicken. I do not have a strong love for Shake 'n Bake. Sometimes, you just have a ken for something, right? Like Corn Flakes. Once, I almost couldn't go to sleep because I really wanted a bowl of Corn Flakes. The desire was so strong, it made me hungry and I almost couldn't sleep. I don't even like Corn Flakes when I'm fully awake. They get soggy when they sit in milk for more than 4 seconds, and then it just looks like a bowl of mushy puke.
No Fucking Future
I took my lousy government job because I wanted to get a federal law enforcement job (think FBI or Secret Service, but the IRS's version). I figured I'd be able to work for a year or two and pretty much just walk into my desired position. Get a G-car (government car), a gun, badge, government cell phone, higher pay, excellent training.
I went to my doctor today, though. My back feels much much better than it did just a month ago (I can walk normally again), but he said I have two herniated discs (not just the one, which I thought). One is really bad, and the other isn't as bad, but is still a problem. He said that from now on, I should avoid most activities that put a lot of stress on my spine. I can only run short distances now; my desire to train for and run in next year's LA marathon are dashed. Kickboxing is okay, as long as I take it really easy. And I asked about the law enforcement thing because of the physical requirements, and he recommended I don't do it.
"And if I do?" I asked.
"Then you'll make me a very rich man."
So there goes that. I sort of feel like the last year has been a waste. This has happened nary three weeks before the end of my first full year of employment. After the one year, I'd be eligible to apply. All that misery, pain, and suffering to find out that I can't do it? Fucking A.
Maybe I'll do it anyway, back be damned. God damnit.
Four work days left before I go to Hawaii.
How the fuck am I going to make it?
No Fucking Future
I took my lousy government job because I wanted to get a federal law enforcement job (think FBI or Secret Service, but the IRS's version). I figured I'd be able to work for a year or two and pretty much just walk into my desired position. Get a G-car (government car), a gun, badge, government cell phone, higher pay, excellent training.
I went to my doctor today, though. My back feels much much better than it did just a month ago (I can walk normally again), but he said I have two herniated discs (not just the one, which I thought). One is really bad, and the other isn't as bad, but is still a problem. He said that from now on, I should avoid most activities that put a lot of stress on my spine. I can only run short distances now; my desire to train for and run in next year's LA marathon are dashed. Kickboxing is okay, as long as I take it really easy. And I asked about the law enforcement thing because of the physical requirements, and he recommended I don't do it.
"And if I do?" I asked.
"Then you'll make me a very rich man."
So there goes that. I sort of feel like the last year has been a waste. This has happened nary three weeks before the end of my first full year of employment. After the one year, I'd be eligible to apply. All that misery, pain, and suffering to find out that I can't do it? Fucking A.
Maybe I'll do it anyway, back be damned. God damnit.
Four work days left before I go to Hawaii.
How the fuck am I going to make it?
Sunday, July 17, 2005
I feel like a quote out of context...
...withholding the rest, so I can be for you what you want to see. I got the gesture and sound--got the timing down. It's uncanny--yeah, you think it was me. Do you think I should take a class to lose my Southern accent?
That was your Plagiarism of the Day. Any ideas? Who sang it and which albums?
BONUS: Who opened for Ben Folds on the Rockin' the Suburbs tour (think around August 2001)? Can't Google that now, can you?
I went to the beach today. That was okay, I guess.
Man, I can't take some people. Isn't it odd how just one person (who hopefully doesn't read this blog) can dig under your fuckin' skin? Perhaps I hate being treated like an idiot.
I WROTE A LONG SECTION HERE ABOUT THE PERSON THAT WAS ANNOYING ME, BUT REMOVED IT. I did this so people don't keep asking me, "So who was it? Who's bothering you? Who who who?!"
Meanwhile, five workdays left until I shove off to Hawaii for vacation. One week on an island--COMPLETELY SURROUNDED BY WATER (this is, after all, the definition of an island, que no?). A friend of mine, the sweetest, most wonderful person in the whole entire world (I guess there's no need to butter her up anymore since she already agreed to do this), has said she will drive me to the airport. It's not just LAX or Burbank; we're talkin' fuckin John Wayne Airport in Orange County. I feel bad for her driving me. It's a long drive. I will definitely make it up to her, though.
I may have to find a new apartment really really soon. Fucking A. I got a letter in my mailbox that said that the owner of my building switched to a different property management company. One of the residents in "the know" basically said we better expect to see higher rent and shittier service. I don't know how the service could possibly get any shittier unless they actually make an active effort to kill us, but I'd hate to have to pay more than what I'm paying now. My rent is higher than most people's (outside of California, at least) mortgage payment.
Did somebody say, "SHAKE AND BAKE?!" The first person that comes over to my apartment and makes me some Shake and Bake chicken wins a prize! Yay!!
Man, I just got a major jonesin' for some Shake and Bake Chicken. What does this mean? Am I turning into a junkie before ever using any junk?
That was your Plagiarism of the Day. Any ideas? Who sang it and which albums?
BONUS: Who opened for Ben Folds on the Rockin' the Suburbs tour (think around August 2001)? Can't Google that now, can you?
I went to the beach today. That was okay, I guess.
Man, I can't take some people. Isn't it odd how just one person (who hopefully doesn't read this blog) can dig under your fuckin' skin? Perhaps I hate being treated like an idiot.
I WROTE A LONG SECTION HERE ABOUT THE PERSON THAT WAS ANNOYING ME, BUT REMOVED IT. I did this so people don't keep asking me, "So who was it? Who's bothering you? Who who who?!"
Meanwhile, five workdays left until I shove off to Hawaii for vacation. One week on an island--COMPLETELY SURROUNDED BY WATER (this is, after all, the definition of an island, que no?). A friend of mine, the sweetest, most wonderful person in the whole entire world (I guess there's no need to butter her up anymore since she already agreed to do this), has said she will drive me to the airport. It's not just LAX or Burbank; we're talkin' fuckin John Wayne Airport in Orange County. I feel bad for her driving me. It's a long drive. I will definitely make it up to her, though.
I may have to find a new apartment really really soon. Fucking A. I got a letter in my mailbox that said that the owner of my building switched to a different property management company. One of the residents in "the know" basically said we better expect to see higher rent and shittier service. I don't know how the service could possibly get any shittier unless they actually make an active effort to kill us, but I'd hate to have to pay more than what I'm paying now. My rent is higher than most people's (outside of California, at least) mortgage payment.
Did somebody say, "SHAKE AND BAKE?!" The first person that comes over to my apartment and makes me some Shake and Bake chicken wins a prize! Yay!!
Man, I just got a major jonesin' for some Shake and Bake Chicken. What does this mean? Am I turning into a junkie before ever using any junk?
Friday, July 15, 2005
Long Blog: Trucks, Lies, and Plagiarism
Are we getting old?
Plagiarism of the Day:
And we still haven’t walked in the glow of each other’s majestic presence. Listen...hear my words. They’re the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you. All alone at the ’64 world’s fair, eighty dolls yelling, "Small girl after all." Who was at the Dupont pavilion?
Which band, which song, and which album is that off of?
BONUS: Describe the music video.
Why I Love California
California offers many cultural benefits. I'm experiencing one right now.
This is the televised high-speed vehicle pursuit. This is where news helicoptors follow along and film the cops following a stolen car or truck. This time it is a semi with a fully-loaded tractor trailer. The chase started at 10:07--it's been going over two hours. At least one tire is blown, and they're still going.
I've not watched it long--only about 45 minutes. The truck is crawling along the shoulder at about "8 to 10 miles per hour and he's getting up there to the 91." They could just shoot the guy driving it, right? Why not?
It's not the chase itself that offers the entertainment. It's the announcers with their expert guests trying to make conversation for the duration of the chase. They make idiotic comment after retarded comments in response to pure stupidity, and so on. "Wow, this is a tough machine to stop." A 100,000 pound truck? What, are you kidding me?
"What's frightening about this is where the suspects could be hiding. Is there some place they could perhaps hide?" Perhaps in the glove compartment, or in the tape player.
"This driver is obviously is obviously an experienced driver--he's driving in the emergency lane, rather than in the middle of the highway." If I were about to bail from a truck, I'd want to make sure I was going to jump out onto the soft shoulder than hard asphalt.
Apparently, it all started near downtown, and then they headed out west. They even passed Pasadena on the 210. Damn it! That's a half mile away! I could have run out and watched it drive by.
And there's this expert guest I mentioned. A retired truck driver named Steve. What'd they do? Did they pull out the white pages and start making random phone calls? The expert retired truck driver mentioned he can't even watch the chase he's commenting on, because "the TV is in the other room." So somehow, he's commenting on a high-speed semi-truck pursuit that he can't even see.
"At this point, could the average joe figure out how to stop this thing?" At what point? What the hell does this mean? Oh, the commentators are calling the play-by-play, and they keep asking more strange-ass questions. "What speed does this truck idle at, Steve?" Let's discuss all the technical specifications of that big rig, since they're so important for this chase.
"Who would have reported this vehicle stolen if the owner of the truck...uh...is still in it? CHP has a lot of factors working against them right now..." Apparently late in the game, they realized the truck wasn't stolen, but there were three armed people inside who refused to stop.
The male commentator excitedly says, "Let's show tape of the tires falling off, again." The female commentator asks, "Aren't these tires--tractor truck tires--meant to fall off easier? Is that why it just falls off? And isn't that dangerous?" Steve, our expert retired trucker, says no. Apparently the spike strip had something to do with that tire falling off. You see, truck tires are pretty durable, according to Steve.
"Big rigs have become a multi-million dollar business." Yeah. Truck's account for almost .00001% of the Gross Domestic Product of this country. Oh, wait, perhaps that was more like 35%. A huge portion of goods are shipped via over-the-road trucks (pipeline is used to ship the majority of goods in the United States, following by trucks, then barges, air freight, and lastly little people carrying shit around in their backpacks). Let's try multi-trillion dollar business. What a tard-monger.
Why I've Always Been a Liar
Some lies are necessary, que no? If you tell the truth sometimes, then you fuck shit up. And isn't that shitty? But sometimes, you must lie. If your manager asks, "Did you tell your client to take their head out of their ass?"
Obviously, you say, "No." You see, the strategy is that every once in awhile--not TOO often--it's okay to tell somebody something totally random. If you tell EVERYONE to take their heads out of their asses, the manager will start getting a lot of calls from people complaining that an officer told them to take their head out of their ass.
But if, perhaps, you tell someone ONE TIME that if they don't get you the money to full pay their debt, you'll eat their baby, then the manager will be far more sketpical if they try to complain. "He said what? Sir, I'm sure you're mistaken." And then you tell someone ELSE that if they don't pay you, you'll cut their legs and arms off. And another, you'll staple their head to the carpet. They all sound so odd; who would believe them?
Lying is important, though. I used to date a girl back in my college days. We were an 'item' for perhaps two, maybe three days when she said, "My father is coming into town this afternoon and wants to meet you. My mother is sending him because they're curious about you. Is this okay?" Hmm. This doesn't sound good.
"Of course." Yes, of course this is normal. Of course you meet your new girlfriend's father just two days after deciding to be an 'item.' And of course it wasn't an awkward, painful lunch at all. Besides, I had to act like a respectful, ambitious young man, and not a lecherous perv constantly undressing his daughter with (but usually without) my eyes
My boss also asked if the dress she was wearing looked fat. I lied, and said, "No. You look like an especially thin stuffed sausage." Well, everything but the stuffed sausage part.
I just saw He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. That's an amazing film. That movie is FUCKED UP. I was totally blown away. It's like Amelie and The Shining put together.
Plagiarism of the Day:
And we still haven’t walked in the glow of each other’s majestic presence. Listen...hear my words. They’re the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you. All alone at the ’64 world’s fair, eighty dolls yelling, "Small girl after all." Who was at the Dupont pavilion?
Which band, which song, and which album is that off of?
BONUS: Describe the music video.
Why I Love California
California offers many cultural benefits. I'm experiencing one right now.
This is the televised high-speed vehicle pursuit. This is where news helicoptors follow along and film the cops following a stolen car or truck. This time it is a semi with a fully-loaded tractor trailer. The chase started at 10:07--it's been going over two hours. At least one tire is blown, and they're still going.
I've not watched it long--only about 45 minutes. The truck is crawling along the shoulder at about "8 to 10 miles per hour and he's getting up there to the 91." They could just shoot the guy driving it, right? Why not?
It's not the chase itself that offers the entertainment. It's the announcers with their expert guests trying to make conversation for the duration of the chase. They make idiotic comment after retarded comments in response to pure stupidity, and so on. "Wow, this is a tough machine to stop." A 100,000 pound truck? What, are you kidding me?
"What's frightening about this is where the suspects could be hiding. Is there some place they could perhaps hide?" Perhaps in the glove compartment, or in the tape player.
"This driver is obviously is obviously an experienced driver--he's driving in the emergency lane, rather than in the middle of the highway." If I were about to bail from a truck, I'd want to make sure I was going to jump out onto the soft shoulder than hard asphalt.
Apparently, it all started near downtown, and then they headed out west. They even passed Pasadena on the 210. Damn it! That's a half mile away! I could have run out and watched it drive by.
And there's this expert guest I mentioned. A retired truck driver named Steve. What'd they do? Did they pull out the white pages and start making random phone calls? The expert retired truck driver mentioned he can't even watch the chase he's commenting on, because "the TV is in the other room." So somehow, he's commenting on a high-speed semi-truck pursuit that he can't even see.
"At this point, could the average joe figure out how to stop this thing?" At what point? What the hell does this mean? Oh, the commentators are calling the play-by-play, and they keep asking more strange-ass questions. "What speed does this truck idle at, Steve?" Let's discuss all the technical specifications of that big rig, since they're so important for this chase.
"Who would have reported this vehicle stolen if the owner of the truck...uh...is still in it? CHP has a lot of factors working against them right now..." Apparently late in the game, they realized the truck wasn't stolen, but there were three armed people inside who refused to stop.
The male commentator excitedly says, "Let's show tape of the tires falling off, again." The female commentator asks, "Aren't these tires--tractor truck tires--meant to fall off easier? Is that why it just falls off? And isn't that dangerous?" Steve, our expert retired trucker, says no. Apparently the spike strip had something to do with that tire falling off. You see, truck tires are pretty durable, according to Steve.
"Big rigs have become a multi-million dollar business." Yeah. Truck's account for almost .00001% of the Gross Domestic Product of this country. Oh, wait, perhaps that was more like 35%. A huge portion of goods are shipped via over-the-road trucks (pipeline is used to ship the majority of goods in the United States, following by trucks, then barges, air freight, and lastly little people carrying shit around in their backpacks). Let's try multi-trillion dollar business. What a tard-monger.
Why I've Always Been a Liar
Some lies are necessary, que no? If you tell the truth sometimes, then you fuck shit up. And isn't that shitty? But sometimes, you must lie. If your manager asks, "Did you tell your client to take their head out of their ass?"
Obviously, you say, "No." You see, the strategy is that every once in awhile--not TOO often--it's okay to tell somebody something totally random. If you tell EVERYONE to take their heads out of their asses, the manager will start getting a lot of calls from people complaining that an officer told them to take their head out of their ass.
But if, perhaps, you tell someone ONE TIME that if they don't get you the money to full pay their debt, you'll eat their baby, then the manager will be far more sketpical if they try to complain. "He said what? Sir, I'm sure you're mistaken." And then you tell someone ELSE that if they don't pay you, you'll cut their legs and arms off. And another, you'll staple their head to the carpet. They all sound so odd; who would believe them?
Lying is important, though. I used to date a girl back in my college days. We were an 'item' for perhaps two, maybe three days when she said, "My father is coming into town this afternoon and wants to meet you. My mother is sending him because they're curious about you. Is this okay?" Hmm. This doesn't sound good.
"Of course." Yes, of course this is normal. Of course you meet your new girlfriend's father just two days after deciding to be an 'item.' And of course it wasn't an awkward, painful lunch at all. Besides, I had to act like a respectful, ambitious young man, and not a lecherous perv constantly undressing his daughter with (but usually without) my eyes
My boss also asked if the dress she was wearing looked fat. I lied, and said, "No. You look like an especially thin stuffed sausage." Well, everything but the stuffed sausage part.
I just saw He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. That's an amazing film. That movie is FUCKED UP. I was totally blown away. It's like Amelie and The Shining put together.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
There's flooding down in Texas...
All of the telephone wires are down. And I've been trying to call my baby, Lord and I can't get a single sound.
Plagiarism of the Day
Who sang that? Think about it, and think about those lines. Mm. That's some good shit, right? Excellent song by a most excellent man.
I just got back from physical therapy. My back feels so much better these days.
In celebration of employee appreciation, my great employer, the United States Government, gave me gifts FAR GREATER than any bonus, or increase in pay could ever bring. After all, a bonus only lasts for as long as you spend it. And an increase in pay only makes you learn to expect a higher standard of living. I mean, these are useless. What about the gifts that keep on giving?
A penlight with an almost-dead battery, a fun-size pack of Lifesavers, and a pencil--these say that I'm a VALUED EMPLOYEE. They even came in a special envelope; they used the CONFIDENTIAL - INTEROFFICE MAIL envelopes, rather than using the regular envelopes. Christ on a crutch! And that almost-dead battery--somehow more pathetic than a fully-dead battery. The dead battery has already given up, while the fresh battery is still too new to know any better. The almost-dead battery...well, that's me.
My God. I'd feel far better if they didn't try insulting me with these cheap gifts. I'd prefer to be told, "Ryan, you're a piece of shit. Here's 50 bucks (or 35 bucks, even). Go fuck yourself."
Big News
After months of slacking off and talking about how I spend most of my time at work fucking around, I was finally hauled into my manager's office today. My manager walked to my desk as I was sending some friends some email and said, "Ryan, I need to see you in my office."
I tried negotiating with her, of course. "What. Now?"
"Yes, NOW." Very emphatic.
"Kind of busy here, Lilly."
"NOW."
So, I went in there and took my penlight with the almost-dead battery with me. "I brought this penlight with me for moral support," I told her. She had no problems with that.
"Ryan, you didn't remind me to give you your performance review."
"No, ma'am," I said. "I'd prefer not to hear it. Can I go now?"
"No. Here." And she handed it to me. My Annual Union-Approved Bargaining Unit Employee Performance Evaluation.
I looked at it. "Uh...Is that bad?"
"No. You actually scored as high as was possible in every single category."
"Oh..." I was somewhat confused. For the duration of my time at my job, I watched everyone else working 45, 50, 60 hour weeks. Me? No more than 40 hours, and sometimes less (due to sick leave). 4:45 PM? In the middle of work? Shutdown that computer and get the fuck out of here. But I forgot to save my work! Doesn't matter. I'll do it all over again tomorrow, and STILL GET PAID THE SAME, because that's the beauty of government salary employment. I took my NTEU sanctioned breaks while my colleagues worked through theirs. I took my 45 minute lunches while my colleagues worked through theirs. When they didn't, they'd discuss work at lunch. Me? "Listen, guys. I'm trying to eat. I can't digest my food if you talk about work." I take more sick leave than probably anybody else in the office, and I already have a lengthy Hawaiin vacation planned. I have a stack of work I intentionally am ignoring until the manager yells at me for not doing it. "Gee, thanks," I told her.
And then we discussed the coming reorganization. I'm a popular man in these here parts. All the managers want Ryan in their workgroups. Ryan, he's a go-getter. Ryan, he's full of laughs. Ryan, he sings '70s blaxploitation songs on Friday afternoons ("He's a bad mother- Shut yo' mouth! I was just talking about Shaft! Then we can dig it! Who is the man, that will risk his life for his brotherman? SHAFT! Right ooooon..."). I'm a hot commodity, and managers are fighting over me. My manager wants to keep me, while the manager of group 1B wants me. And 1C wants me, too. The manager of 1D doesn't even know me, but has heard about me and my screwing around and has expressed interest.
I am your tax money at work. Or really, your tax money fucking around and still getting paid. How does this make you feel?
IT'S HOT AS BALLS OUTSIDE, by the way. It's hotter than a desert whorehouse in summer. And it's supposed to get worse. SHIT!
Plagiarism of the Day
Who sang that? Think about it, and think about those lines. Mm. That's some good shit, right? Excellent song by a most excellent man.
I just got back from physical therapy. My back feels so much better these days.
In celebration of employee appreciation, my great employer, the United States Government, gave me gifts FAR GREATER than any bonus, or increase in pay could ever bring. After all, a bonus only lasts for as long as you spend it. And an increase in pay only makes you learn to expect a higher standard of living. I mean, these are useless. What about the gifts that keep on giving?
A penlight with an almost-dead battery, a fun-size pack of Lifesavers, and a pencil--these say that I'm a VALUED EMPLOYEE. They even came in a special envelope; they used the CONFIDENTIAL - INTEROFFICE MAIL envelopes, rather than using the regular envelopes. Christ on a crutch! And that almost-dead battery--somehow more pathetic than a fully-dead battery. The dead battery has already given up, while the fresh battery is still too new to know any better. The almost-dead battery...well, that's me.
My God. I'd feel far better if they didn't try insulting me with these cheap gifts. I'd prefer to be told, "Ryan, you're a piece of shit. Here's 50 bucks (or 35 bucks, even). Go fuck yourself."
Big News
After months of slacking off and talking about how I spend most of my time at work fucking around, I was finally hauled into my manager's office today. My manager walked to my desk as I was sending some friends some email and said, "Ryan, I need to see you in my office."
I tried negotiating with her, of course. "What. Now?"
"Yes, NOW." Very emphatic.
"Kind of busy here, Lilly."
"NOW."
So, I went in there and took my penlight with the almost-dead battery with me. "I brought this penlight with me for moral support," I told her. She had no problems with that.
"Ryan, you didn't remind me to give you your performance review."
"No, ma'am," I said. "I'd prefer not to hear it. Can I go now?"
"No. Here." And she handed it to me. My Annual Union-Approved Bargaining Unit Employee Performance Evaluation.
I looked at it. "Uh...Is that bad?"
"No. You actually scored as high as was possible in every single category."
"Oh..." I was somewhat confused. For the duration of my time at my job, I watched everyone else working 45, 50, 60 hour weeks. Me? No more than 40 hours, and sometimes less (due to sick leave). 4:45 PM? In the middle of work? Shutdown that computer and get the fuck out of here. But I forgot to save my work! Doesn't matter. I'll do it all over again tomorrow, and STILL GET PAID THE SAME, because that's the beauty of government salary employment. I took my NTEU sanctioned breaks while my colleagues worked through theirs. I took my 45 minute lunches while my colleagues worked through theirs. When they didn't, they'd discuss work at lunch. Me? "Listen, guys. I'm trying to eat. I can't digest my food if you talk about work." I take more sick leave than probably anybody else in the office, and I already have a lengthy Hawaiin vacation planned. I have a stack of work I intentionally am ignoring until the manager yells at me for not doing it. "Gee, thanks," I told her.
And then we discussed the coming reorganization. I'm a popular man in these here parts. All the managers want Ryan in their workgroups. Ryan, he's a go-getter. Ryan, he's full of laughs. Ryan, he sings '70s blaxploitation songs on Friday afternoons ("He's a bad mother- Shut yo' mouth! I was just talking about Shaft! Then we can dig it! Who is the man, that will risk his life for his brotherman? SHAFT! Right ooooon..."). I'm a hot commodity, and managers are fighting over me. My manager wants to keep me, while the manager of group 1B wants me. And 1C wants me, too. The manager of 1D doesn't even know me, but has heard about me and my screwing around and has expressed interest.
I am your tax money at work. Or really, your tax money fucking around and still getting paid. How does this make you feel?
IT'S HOT AS BALLS OUTSIDE, by the way. It's hotter than a desert whorehouse in summer. And it's supposed to get worse. SHIT!
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Lost in San Gabriel
I met with a friend of a friend today. Well, perhaps of an acquantance of a friend. Which would make him...a strange guy.
I met him at a pool party, ya' see. We got to talking while I worked off a buzz, and he detected a bit of job dissatisfaction. Perhaps it was something I said. Could it have been, "When I'm at work, I think of ways to kill myself so I don't have to work anymore," or perhaps, "I hate work so much, I think of cutting off my fingers so I can't type or dial on the telephone," that made him think this? Mayhaps.
So he wanted to help me, he said. I couldn't figure out how. Successful guy. Said he did interesting work that he enjoyed, and he'd be happy to help me find the job I wanted that would fulfill me as a person. So I went out to his office.
It turns out he knows EVERYONE. All the big business people in Los Angeles. He asked what I wanted to do. He expected an answer better than, "Anything but what I'm doing now?"
"What do you have a passion for?" he asked.
Hmmmm. "Writing. I love writing." Okay, well, he knows a bunch of people in newspaper publishing and someone could definitely help me out, but perhaps he saw this look on my face. A sort of disinterested, dazed look.
And he showed me these lists of people he can contact--CEOs of large and small organizations, city managers of local towns, mayors, owners of businesses, etc. He basically told me that all I had to do was say what industry I was interested in going into. And I couldn't answer.
I was just stuck on how many business cards he had. He had a book of thousands of business cards (now including mine) with handwritten notes, like, "Friend of Jeff Garneflecky," and "Rotary club, member of my church," and more. Little notes that jogged his memory in this large network. A human network. Hmm.
"That's a lot of business cards," I remarked. There had to be about a thousand, all neatly organized and cross-referenced. "You're very organized."
"And yet I'm not an organized person," he said. And he gave me a long, intense look. I really wanted to leave, but found this too bizarre. "When you have a passion for something, you do what you have to. I have a passion for networking."
"How long have you...been doing this?"
"Since I was 22. It is what I do best, and it's what I have a passion for. I'm not organized, but since it's my passion, I have to do what makes it work. And for it to work, I have to organize it. And I can connect people," he said. Another intense stare.
"What did you do to learn all this?" I asked, somewhat amazed at this strange passion. It was strange. Here someone told me his passion was CONNECTING people.
"I love networking, Ryan. I read all the magazines, and all the books. Networking Monthly, Bloomberg, Fast Company, Social Networking, Business Week (for the office), and...blah blah blah." He reeled off about 15 other social networking magazines, and titles of books on social networking. We continued talking. I heard more about his obsession with social networking--something he eats, drinks, and concentrates on.
I did not seek his help. I don't think I wanted his help. Instead, I displayed great ambivalence regarding my future and desired career path, and then left. He had a look on his face like I'd completely wasted his time--which is fine, because I don't want to be another line in someone's vast, bizarre social network.
I think he wasted my time. Of course, I figure that my time is worth less than most other people's. So I wasted more of his time-value than he did mine; this, of course, suits me well.
At least I got something out of it, right?
I met him at a pool party, ya' see. We got to talking while I worked off a buzz, and he detected a bit of job dissatisfaction. Perhaps it was something I said. Could it have been, "When I'm at work, I think of ways to kill myself so I don't have to work anymore," or perhaps, "I hate work so much, I think of cutting off my fingers so I can't type or dial on the telephone," that made him think this? Mayhaps.
So he wanted to help me, he said. I couldn't figure out how. Successful guy. Said he did interesting work that he enjoyed, and he'd be happy to help me find the job I wanted that would fulfill me as a person. So I went out to his office.
It turns out he knows EVERYONE. All the big business people in Los Angeles. He asked what I wanted to do. He expected an answer better than, "Anything but what I'm doing now?"
"What do you have a passion for?" he asked.
Hmmmm. "Writing. I love writing." Okay, well, he knows a bunch of people in newspaper publishing and someone could definitely help me out, but perhaps he saw this look on my face. A sort of disinterested, dazed look.
And he showed me these lists of people he can contact--CEOs of large and small organizations, city managers of local towns, mayors, owners of businesses, etc. He basically told me that all I had to do was say what industry I was interested in going into. And I couldn't answer.
I was just stuck on how many business cards he had. He had a book of thousands of business cards (now including mine) with handwritten notes, like, "Friend of Jeff Garneflecky," and "Rotary club, member of my church," and more. Little notes that jogged his memory in this large network. A human network. Hmm.
"That's a lot of business cards," I remarked. There had to be about a thousand, all neatly organized and cross-referenced. "You're very organized."
"And yet I'm not an organized person," he said. And he gave me a long, intense look. I really wanted to leave, but found this too bizarre. "When you have a passion for something, you do what you have to. I have a passion for networking."
"How long have you...been doing this?"
"Since I was 22. It is what I do best, and it's what I have a passion for. I'm not organized, but since it's my passion, I have to do what makes it work. And for it to work, I have to organize it. And I can connect people," he said. Another intense stare.
"What did you do to learn all this?" I asked, somewhat amazed at this strange passion. It was strange. Here someone told me his passion was CONNECTING people.
"I love networking, Ryan. I read all the magazines, and all the books. Networking Monthly, Bloomberg, Fast Company, Social Networking, Business Week (for the office), and...blah blah blah." He reeled off about 15 other social networking magazines, and titles of books on social networking. We continued talking. I heard more about his obsession with social networking--something he eats, drinks, and concentrates on.
I did not seek his help. I don't think I wanted his help. Instead, I displayed great ambivalence regarding my future and desired career path, and then left. He had a look on his face like I'd completely wasted his time--which is fine, because I don't want to be another line in someone's vast, bizarre social network.
I think he wasted my time. Of course, I figure that my time is worth less than most other people's. So I wasted more of his time-value than he did mine; this, of course, suits me well.
At least I got something out of it, right?
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Who could I be plagiarizing from?
You're older than you've ever been and now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
You're older than you've ever been and now you're even older, and now you're older still.
TIME. Is marching on. And time...is still marching on.
Blue canary in the alley by the light switch (who watches over you)?
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.
And now you're even older.
And now you're even older.
You're older than you've ever been and now you're even older, and now you're older still.
TIME. Is marching on. And time...is still marching on.
Blue canary in the alley by the light switch (who watches over you)?
Make a little birdhouse in your soul.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
The Power of Hypnosis. To KILL.
Today was uneventful. I hate Sundays. Especially Sunday afternoons.
Sunday afternoons are the calm before the storm--the oncoming week that I know will crush me beneath its ever-grinding wheels. On this day, I concentrate on not concentrating on how in 24 hours, I will be wishing it's Friday evening. Friday evenings--the exact opposite of Sunday evenings.
I always wonder what this is. We go to work--our lives revolve around WORK. If you don't go to work, you starve. So we work. And when we're not at work, we're happy that we're not there, and many of us concentrate on being happy when not working. So going back is akin to going to prison. It's a life sentence.
On a more positive note, I decided to become a hit man. To drum up business, I'm going to put up a few fliers on the bulletin boards at work, and perhaps hand out some coupons. Perhaps I'll start with a two-for-one special. I could also do some assisted suicides. Why not? I figure there's very little risk. I could kill someone who wanted to die. "Home of the $34.95 Assisted Suicide! No return customers!"
Why do people have problems with assisted suicide? Especially those Christian conservatives. I think they're just jealous. THEY want to kill people, but they're told, "Thou shalt not kill." So they don't want to go against the bible, and they're jealous of heroes like Dr. Jack Kevorkian. "Damn. He gets to kill people all the time," they say. "Lucky bastard."
This hit man thing--why not? I don't like guns, and am anti-NRA, so I'll make a statement by being the first hitman to use the power of hypnosis to kill. It's worth a try. "You are getting verrrrrry sleepy. Verrrrrry sleeeeeepy. Your eyes are getting veeerry heavy. Your eyes are closed. You're in a deeeeeep sleep. When I snap my fingers, you'll eat this bag of glass and follow it with a bottle of Windex." Yes, my victims will somehow let me set them down in a chair and hypnotize them.
Sunday afternoons are the calm before the storm--the oncoming week that I know will crush me beneath its ever-grinding wheels. On this day, I concentrate on not concentrating on how in 24 hours, I will be wishing it's Friday evening. Friday evenings--the exact opposite of Sunday evenings.
I always wonder what this is. We go to work--our lives revolve around WORK. If you don't go to work, you starve. So we work. And when we're not at work, we're happy that we're not there, and many of us concentrate on being happy when not working. So going back is akin to going to prison. It's a life sentence.
On a more positive note, I decided to become a hit man. To drum up business, I'm going to put up a few fliers on the bulletin boards at work, and perhaps hand out some coupons. Perhaps I'll start with a two-for-one special. I could also do some assisted suicides. Why not? I figure there's very little risk. I could kill someone who wanted to die. "Home of the $34.95 Assisted Suicide! No return customers!"
Why do people have problems with assisted suicide? Especially those Christian conservatives. I think they're just jealous. THEY want to kill people, but they're told, "Thou shalt not kill." So they don't want to go against the bible, and they're jealous of heroes like Dr. Jack Kevorkian. "Damn. He gets to kill people all the time," they say. "Lucky bastard."
This hit man thing--why not? I don't like guns, and am anti-NRA, so I'll make a statement by being the first hitman to use the power of hypnosis to kill. It's worth a try. "You are getting verrrrrry sleepy. Verrrrrry sleeeeeepy. Your eyes are getting veeerry heavy. Your eyes are closed. You're in a deeeeeep sleep. When I snap my fingers, you'll eat this bag of glass and follow it with a bottle of Windex." Yes, my victims will somehow let me set them down in a chair and hypnotize them.
What the fuck am I supposed to laugh at, motherfucker?
I went to the Ice House in Pasadena. It's a comedy club. I had to point out to my friends (as I'll do right here as well) that the Ice House is a 'titty bar' in Albuquerque. How odd, right?
It was such a terrible show. 20 bucks. 3 comedians. The headliner--the fucking headliner, Jeff Garcia--got drunk, and there were these hecklers he kept telling to shut the fuck up, and then he walked off about twenty or so minutes into his show. His show, up to that point, consisted of making fun of certain audience members, and telling these rude assholes from Oxnard to shut the fuck up. "Shut the fuck up. I'm on the stage, and everyone here paid $20 to hear me tell jokes, not to hear you yell out stupid shit. Shut the fuck up." Finally, he got really fed up and said, "In the 500 shows I've done at the Ice House, I've never had to stop a show." Then he put the mic down and walked out the door.
What a fucking waste.
All three of the comedians relied on bashing cultural stereotypes. They pretty much had the same jokes--all about Phillipinos, Chinese, Blacks, Asians in general, Whites, Mexicans, gays. Great. How can their material be thought of as original when they each come to the stage separately and tell the same jokes? Okay, one comedian focusing on stereotypes might be funny. Koreans are funny. Why not? But three?
Rough stuff. Rough.
I'll take the 'titty bar' over the comedy club any day.
It was such a terrible show. 20 bucks. 3 comedians. The headliner--the fucking headliner, Jeff Garcia--got drunk, and there were these hecklers he kept telling to shut the fuck up, and then he walked off about twenty or so minutes into his show. His show, up to that point, consisted of making fun of certain audience members, and telling these rude assholes from Oxnard to shut the fuck up. "Shut the fuck up. I'm on the stage, and everyone here paid $20 to hear me tell jokes, not to hear you yell out stupid shit. Shut the fuck up." Finally, he got really fed up and said, "In the 500 shows I've done at the Ice House, I've never had to stop a show." Then he put the mic down and walked out the door.
What a fucking waste.
All three of the comedians relied on bashing cultural stereotypes. They pretty much had the same jokes--all about Phillipinos, Chinese, Blacks, Asians in general, Whites, Mexicans, gays. Great. How can their material be thought of as original when they each come to the stage separately and tell the same jokes? Okay, one comedian focusing on stereotypes might be funny. Koreans are funny. Why not? But three?
Rough stuff. Rough.
I'll take the 'titty bar' over the comedy club any day.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
HIATUS STATUS: Over
Why the Hiatus?
I had a labor conflict with my staff. The blog had to shut down for a few days due to the budget shortfall. My staff walked out and I could not operate the blog for a few days. Minnesota was facing the same type of problem, but on a much smaller scale. That's just a shutdown of the State of Minnesota; this is my blog we're talking about here.
I went out with my friend looking at cars today. Our tastes differ. He wants an Audi, BMW, or Mercedes. I kept suggesting he check out Subaru. Hmm. He seems to prefer Nazi-mobiles. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. Audi, BMW, Mercedes, Porsche, VW--all have fascist roots. BMW made airplanes and airplane engines; this is why the BMW logo looks like a propellor. Mercedes used to make the limousines for Hitler's SS. Audi is a part of the VW group. VW was the brainchild of Ferdinand Piech and Adolf Hitler (a car for the masses). Ferdinand Piech was a professor of engineering, and the first Porsche (the 356) had all the mechanicals of the VW Beetle.
No, most Germans are not Nazis or Nazi-sympathizers. There's the legacy, though.
Of course Mitsubishi made the Zero (the same Zeros that attacked Pearl Harbor). Henry Ford was supposedly anti-semitic. And now Dodge is a mere subsidiary of Mercedes.
Also, I've spent time on other interests...
I've gotten into Texas Hold 'Em. I play it on Yahoo games now. I don't have a problem, yet (YET). I don't plan on playing with real money, either. Though I'm ahead $3,000 in fake money, that would turn into a negative if I were to use real money.
Yeah. So. That's that.
I had a labor conflict with my staff. The blog had to shut down for a few days due to the budget shortfall. My staff walked out and I could not operate the blog for a few days. Minnesota was facing the same type of problem, but on a much smaller scale. That's just a shutdown of the State of Minnesota; this is my blog we're talking about here.
I went out with my friend looking at cars today. Our tastes differ. He wants an Audi, BMW, or Mercedes. I kept suggesting he check out Subaru. Hmm. He seems to prefer Nazi-mobiles. Yeah, that's right. You heard me. Audi, BMW, Mercedes, Porsche, VW--all have fascist roots. BMW made airplanes and airplane engines; this is why the BMW logo looks like a propellor. Mercedes used to make the limousines for Hitler's SS. Audi is a part of the VW group. VW was the brainchild of Ferdinand Piech and Adolf Hitler (a car for the masses). Ferdinand Piech was a professor of engineering, and the first Porsche (the 356) had all the mechanicals of the VW Beetle.
No, most Germans are not Nazis or Nazi-sympathizers. There's the legacy, though.
Of course Mitsubishi made the Zero (the same Zeros that attacked Pearl Harbor). Henry Ford was supposedly anti-semitic. And now Dodge is a mere subsidiary of Mercedes.
Also, I've spent time on other interests...
I've gotten into Texas Hold 'Em. I play it on Yahoo games now. I don't have a problem, yet (YET). I don't plan on playing with real money, either. Though I'm ahead $3,000 in fake money, that would turn into a negative if I were to use real money.
Yeah. So. That's that.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
If a seagull flies over the sea, what flies over the bay?
Bagels. Get it?
Let me explain something: I didn't go to jail for real.
I'm a big goddamn liar, apparently.
Work wasn't too horrible today. Today was hump day Wednesday. How is Wednesday supposed to be a hump day? I didn't get to hump anybody at all. How depressing. So for me, Wednesday was devoid of any type of action that relates to or could be construed as humping. Like Tuesday. And Thursday. And Friday and Sunday. And Saturday. Oh, and Monday was a no-hump day, too.
Perhaps I need to go hang out where the girls are. Where are they? Libraries? I heard in college that the best place to meet women is the library. Hmm...Really? I disagreed at the time, but I used to hang out in the science and engineering libary a lot. Even in the GENERAL library, how can you hit on girls? "I see you're picking up a book on 18th century politics in Scandinavia. You have nice eyes."
Where else are women? Too many women are starting to go to those 'Females Only' gyms (like that Curves For Women gym).
I tried the methadone clinics, but those women are prety hardcore. I try talking to them and they froth at the mouth and start crawling up the wall. Eery.
Let me explain something: I didn't go to jail for real.
I'm a big goddamn liar, apparently.
Work wasn't too horrible today. Today was hump day Wednesday. How is Wednesday supposed to be a hump day? I didn't get to hump anybody at all. How depressing. So for me, Wednesday was devoid of any type of action that relates to or could be construed as humping. Like Tuesday. And Thursday. And Friday and Sunday. And Saturday. Oh, and Monday was a no-hump day, too.
Perhaps I need to go hang out where the girls are. Where are they? Libraries? I heard in college that the best place to meet women is the library. Hmm...Really? I disagreed at the time, but I used to hang out in the science and engineering libary a lot. Even in the GENERAL library, how can you hit on girls? "I see you're picking up a book on 18th century politics in Scandinavia. You have nice eyes."
Where else are women? Too many women are starting to go to those 'Females Only' gyms (like that Curves For Women gym).
I tried the methadone clinics, but those women are prety hardcore. I try talking to them and they froth at the mouth and start crawling up the wall. Eery.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Falling Apart
After a night in jail, I notice I've lost some of my readership again.
Jesus. Jail. Not my fault. It was, but it's not my fault I couldn't update the blog. Don't ask. I'd rather not talk about it. But I will.
I went to a pool party on Sunday where I hatched a brilliant idea. Maybe not a brilliant idea, so much as the seed of a plan that I didn't give time to germinate. I was playing with squirt guns--running around, shooting friends, filling it up with pool water, spraying them; then after a few drinks, I filled them up with urine, and shot them some more. Overall, pretty fun.
So I thought it'd be funny to hold up my manager in the middle of the day with a water gun. A lot of us had to catch up on work yesterday in the office, though it was a national holiday.
In the early afternoon, I entered my group manager's office with a full water pistol in the waistband on the back of my pants. I asked her an innocent question relating to the work at hand. Something like, "I noticed that I haven't received any levy proceeds from this bank." And then, the manager started to comment.
"Well, after the 21 day holding period--what the hell is that?"
At this, I'd pulled out my water pistol and pointed it right in her face. I yelled, "Your money! Put it on the table! Your jewelry, your wallet! Get it out, and put it on the fucking desk."
She sort of leaned back in her chair, somewhat amused, but mostly not. "You're robbing me with a water pistol?"
"Do it!" I screamed.
I didn't know she had one of those security buttons under her desk. And seconds later I was in handcuffs.
Did you know that holding up a government officer in a United States Government facility is a felony? I didn't. Now I do.
All well. I don't lose my job, though.
Meanwhile, I wrote a new short story called, "Career Day: Joe Average Describes the Average Job." I'm pretty happy, because I haven't written a short story in a long, long time.
All right. I'll end here with two important words--my advice for the day.
Ryan's Advice for the Day
Fuck Whitey!
Jesus. Jail. Not my fault. It was, but it's not my fault I couldn't update the blog. Don't ask. I'd rather not talk about it. But I will.
I went to a pool party on Sunday where I hatched a brilliant idea. Maybe not a brilliant idea, so much as the seed of a plan that I didn't give time to germinate. I was playing with squirt guns--running around, shooting friends, filling it up with pool water, spraying them; then after a few drinks, I filled them up with urine, and shot them some more. Overall, pretty fun.
So I thought it'd be funny to hold up my manager in the middle of the day with a water gun. A lot of us had to catch up on work yesterday in the office, though it was a national holiday.
In the early afternoon, I entered my group manager's office with a full water pistol in the waistband on the back of my pants. I asked her an innocent question relating to the work at hand. Something like, "I noticed that I haven't received any levy proceeds from this bank." And then, the manager started to comment.
"Well, after the 21 day holding period--what the hell is that?"
At this, I'd pulled out my water pistol and pointed it right in her face. I yelled, "Your money! Put it on the table! Your jewelry, your wallet! Get it out, and put it on the fucking desk."
She sort of leaned back in her chair, somewhat amused, but mostly not. "You're robbing me with a water pistol?"
"Do it!" I screamed.
I didn't know she had one of those security buttons under her desk. And seconds later I was in handcuffs.
Did you know that holding up a government officer in a United States Government facility is a felony? I didn't. Now I do.
All well. I don't lose my job, though.
Meanwhile, I wrote a new short story called, "Career Day: Joe Average Describes the Average Job." I'm pretty happy, because I haven't written a short story in a long, long time.
All right. I'll end here with two important words--my advice for the day.
Ryan's Advice for the Day
Fuck Whitey!
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Doctors a' Plenty
Diagnosis for Back
My doctor called Friday afternoon about my back. He got the results of my MRI, and decided to give me a call.
"Ryan?"
"Yo."
"Wassup. It's Dr. Morgenson."
"Whatchu doin'?"
"Chillin'. You?"
"I'm linin' the pockets of the Man."
"Fo' real, fo' real..."
Then he said he got the results of my MRI. Evidentally, it's a herniated disc between the L4 and L5, and it's pretty bad. But he said as long as I don't feel numbness around my buttocks or groin area, and I haven't lost control of my bowels and bladder, I should be jim-dandy. If I do, then I must somehow get over to the emergency room. So as long as I don't shit my pants or unknowingly wet myself, I'm good. Great. This sounds reassuring.
No more kickboxing for the foreseeable future. No lifting of heavy objects. Other stuff he said not to do and I forget what they are, but I'll probably remember when I can't feel my dick.
Diagnosis for Cough
I went to my aunt and uncle's yesterday in Agoura Hills. I was talking to my aunt and uncle on the couch when I coughed. My uncle gave a strange, knowing look to my aunt. "How long have you had this cough?"
"Oh...Since June 12th. Two or three days before I threw my back out."
Out comes his stethoscope and then he said, "It's walking pneumonia. Possibly bronchitis."
Then he gave me drugs. I asked what their street value was, but he didn't tell me. So if you know somebody who wants Biaxin XL 500 mg tablets (this is the good shit, too--it'll FUCK you up), let me know.
My doctor called Friday afternoon about my back. He got the results of my MRI, and decided to give me a call.
"Ryan?"
"Yo."
"Wassup. It's Dr. Morgenson."
"Whatchu doin'?"
"Chillin'. You?"
"I'm linin' the pockets of the Man."
"Fo' real, fo' real..."
Then he said he got the results of my MRI. Evidentally, it's a herniated disc between the L4 and L5, and it's pretty bad. But he said as long as I don't feel numbness around my buttocks or groin area, and I haven't lost control of my bowels and bladder, I should be jim-dandy. If I do, then I must somehow get over to the emergency room. So as long as I don't shit my pants or unknowingly wet myself, I'm good. Great. This sounds reassuring.
No more kickboxing for the foreseeable future. No lifting of heavy objects. Other stuff he said not to do and I forget what they are, but I'll probably remember when I can't feel my dick.
Diagnosis for Cough
I went to my aunt and uncle's yesterday in Agoura Hills. I was talking to my aunt and uncle on the couch when I coughed. My uncle gave a strange, knowing look to my aunt. "How long have you had this cough?"
"Oh...Since June 12th. Two or three days before I threw my back out."
Out comes his stethoscope and then he said, "It's walking pneumonia. Possibly bronchitis."
Then he gave me drugs. I asked what their street value was, but he didn't tell me. So if you know somebody who wants Biaxin XL 500 mg tablets (this is the good shit, too--it'll FUCK you up), let me know.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Say 'what' again. I dare you. I double dare you, motherfucker.
Say 'what' one more Goddamn time.
Today, at the office, we played a cool trick on another employee. We replaced the elevator cable in the elevator with dental floss. When the target of our trick got on, the floss broke and seconds later we heard a loud, "CRASH!" It was too funny. He was soooo mad. When he crawled back up the elevator shaft, he was like, "The ol' Dental Floss in the Elevator Shaft Trick. I didn't even see it coming."
My blog has fallen out of favor. Few people read it anymore. Do you want more flash? More tits? More ass?
PARKING TICKET UPDATE: That parking ticket received in Santa Monica? After appealing, I've been found GUILTY. I have to pay the $47. Fuckin' Santa Monica PD. Goddamnit.
Enough for tonight.
Today, at the office, we played a cool trick on another employee. We replaced the elevator cable in the elevator with dental floss. When the target of our trick got on, the floss broke and seconds later we heard a loud, "CRASH!" It was too funny. He was soooo mad. When he crawled back up the elevator shaft, he was like, "The ol' Dental Floss in the Elevator Shaft Trick. I didn't even see it coming."
My blog has fallen out of favor. Few people read it anymore. Do you want more flash? More tits? More ass?
PARKING TICKET UPDATE: That parking ticket received in Santa Monica? After appealing, I've been found GUILTY. I have to pay the $47. Fuckin' Santa Monica PD. Goddamnit.
Enough for tonight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)