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I watched a documentary on the discovery channel about building the better human. they had a bunch of doctors and physiologist talk about the physical weaknesses of human beings and how to make us better for the long haul. they designed a man whose hearing and eye sight would never go south and gave him an extra set of teeth in case of rot. the results were bat/Vulcan-like ears four times their normal size, flickering lizard eye shades and a jaw that would extend to mid chest. they can build a better you, but you'd be thirty times less fuckable.
houses prices where we live are unfathomable. to own in a decent neighborhood that's close to work, the mortgage is roughly double the rent of a one bedroom. quadruple if you have a roommate. bearing in mind that the chic neighborhoods of today were the urban assholes of five years ago, it's been suggested that we buy a dump on the cheap in a crappy area, fix it up and wait for the slime of gentrification to ooze our way. I've never been a gambler, so I have a better idea: we're going to start a crime wave in fishtown.
I love my ipod. I especially love the shuffle feature. it's like listening to radio if the station played both biggie smalls and tom waits. I forget what's on there, there's so much. sometimes I think I am listening to radio and think "ooh, who is that? I gotta get that." the I look down and realise, I do! of all my friend's who have one, mine's the best. it's a sixty gigger with a color screen. my friend pat has the same one and his is compatible with pc and mac, so technically, his is better. but fuck him.
"you're such an asshole."
"no I'm not."
"yes are you are. what you did back there was total asshole move."
"If I'm an asshole, name five asshole things I've done."
"well, that, back there for one."
"I'll give you that one. you got four more."
"why do I have to name five?"
"everyone pulls asshole moves. if you can name five asshole-ish things someone did without thinking too hard, that shows a pattern of behavior."
"therefore that person is an asshole."
"yep. c'mon. four more things."
"… give me minute. I'll think of something."
"told you I wasn't an asshole."
From a movie called "I Spent My 20s in a Smoky Bar":
we work jobs that are beneath us
drive cars that rattle and clunk
we don't have good Saturday
unless we're blind and stinking drunk
we don't know where we're going
and regret everywhere we've been
we're all fucked we're all fucked we're all fucked
we all hold jobs to pay the bills
but claim we're all artists
we smile so imperfectly
cause we can't pay the dentist
we're on our last five dollars
and the student loan's a bitch
we're all fucked we're all fucked we're all fucked
no, these shoes are not new. I've had them for a year or so. these shoes, in fact, have never been new. I bought these shoes at a thrift store for around ten to fifteen dollars. I'm not quite sure anymore. so yes, they were new to me at one time but never fresh out of the box new. see this scuff? I did not put it there. these frays were there when I bought this pair of shoes. I put my feet in someone else's soles before they became my own and I worn them down a bit more.
I dreamt I was in an elevator trying to get to the seventeenth floor. the car would not go where I wanted it to go. it kept missing my floor my four or more floors each time I hit the button for the seventeenth floor. each time it stoped at the wrong floor I would have to return to the lobby and couldn't go directly to the seventeenth floor. I tried to get to the seventeenth floor by hitting the buttons to the fourteenth and third floor. but the door would always open at twenty first or twenty second floor.
I slept in room that's home to three cats. their litter box was a few feet from where me head lay. I woke face down and four am hacking and wheezing. it was freezing and I wasn't wearing pants. I wondered if had I removed them or had another and had I just forgotten. but no. I was alone and pantless in room that's home to three cats. my black shirt was covered front and back with the hair of these three cats and I could not fall back to sleep for one (or all) took a real mean shit.
it smells. it always smells, but today it smells. like mold and piss, with the aura of forced steam. a woman runs past me to get the train whose doors are closing right … on the back of her skirt. the crowd is thin, but not thin enough. I won't get a seat. maybe the end of the platform is less … it's been awhile. it really has because I don't know a girl with dreads and a nose ring owned pumps and tight, khaki Capri's. I began to notice how nice your ass is last month, when you turned
the corner as I walked behind you. I missed it before that. I've missed it since. she shifts her weight to her left. I can't miss it now. and, again, I follow you on. what are you reading today? can't stand too close, but I could. right next to you. is that … "don't sweat the small stuff"? the girl in my fantasies does not read "don't sweat the small stuff." she wouldn't give a fuck about the small stuff. no, you're reading it to laugh at those who sweat the small stuff enough to buy a book about it.
no, she wouldn't sweat the small stuff because she wouldn't care what others think. she wouldn't care what i think. she is the most stunning girl i haven't met yet. she wouldn't see it as a compliment and she would roll her eyes if told because she already knows. knows my intestines turn to jelly each time we pass. knows that a faint "hi" is there, waiting to be said. knows i choke on it every time. knows i can't be clever if can't say hi and can't have her if i can't be clever. knows she'll never really know.
had an interview today. well, i scheduled one. i just didn't go. it was at a medical publishing firm in south jersey. i'd like to have a different job, as my current is boring the shit out of me. even though it's more suited to my degree, it's less money. can't have that. i need to get paid. it was far too. an hour away. $3 in tolls each day. oh, i did make an attempt to go. i couldn't find the fucking place. i didn't know how rural south jersey still is. nothing around. not even a fucking applebee's.
"who were you just talking to?"
"she's coming to the party?"
"yeah, she said she would. i don't know how late she plans on staying."
"hmmm, sounds like you might be trying to get some."
"well, yeah, trish. why else would i invite her?"
"well, i hope you get some."
"you'd better. if she don't give me some, i'm a have to cash in a chip, na'mean?"
"you're not cashing anything in at this window."
"c'mon. i've given you rides home at least a dozen times. that's gotta be worth, what? at least a handjob."
I lost out on an editing job because of lay and lie. I could not tell the guy the reasons for lay's behavior or why lie goes another way. why did I lay in bed the night before worrying about how I would tell the right lies? it all came down to lie and lay. why couldn't they lay down the fact that I would have to take test that I could not pass because I did not know that the past tense of something I found on the ground is the same as me putting something down right now?
I saw amanda at mcglynchey's the other day. actually, half a block away. she sways when she walks. it's especially noticeable from behind. I noticed the sway and she turned her head, looking for on-coming traffic as she crossed the street. I didn't think, "is that amanda," but rather, "that's amanda." funny how you can spot the familiar in such crowded anonymity. I lost track of her as I crossed the street to bar. as I was putting my stuff down, I saw that the swayer I saw was amanda and she was sitting at a both across from me.
I didn't want her to see me, but I made sure to keep looking over just to catch her not wanting to be seen by me. she was successful at that. I think. she had gained weight and wasn't hiding it well. her bangs were as short as ever, but her hair was longer everywhere else. it looked unwashed. I didn't say hi. I wanted to, but didn't. I don't hate her. I hate what she did and how she acted. I don't hate her because I don't know her. my roommate for a year and I don't know her.
i heard your voice for the first time today. in the elevator. i was talking to a friend when the car stopped on 17. what floor are you on? one day, you come on at 17. the next, you're already on at 18. you said hi, but not to me. you said so to someone already on before me. you talked about the weather or something. i tried to talk to my friend about something of interest, hoping to pique yours. you went on about comfortable shoes or something. though i heard everything, i cannot remember what you sound like.
I walked by the conference room, there you were. what department are you in? I asked if anyone knew who was holding the meeting. no one knew. I didn't recognize anyone else in there with you. then again, I don't know many outside my department. I saw you walk by where I sit too. I saw that you looking my way, as if you were looking for something. you turned away when I looked you way. then you looked back to see if I was still looking. I was. you looked at me. maybe I should try talking to you.
then there's the girl with the two Dobermans. she one of those people I see every day but I don't know. she weighs no more than 98 pounds and the holding the leashes of two 200-pound dogs make her walk rigid and quickly. I know her, but don't know her. she familiar enough for me to instantly spot her in a crowd of the unfamiliar, but never to talk to. this morning, she just had one. I wondered if the other died should I have offered my condolences? then I realized I don't know her and don't give a shit.
she held her cheek in her right hand, holding a cigarette within striking distance of her small, perfect mouth. she stirred her glass of chardonnay with her left, trying to ignore the creep to her right. he spoke loudly, cracking jokes to his friend, hoping she would hear how clever he could be, hoping she'd crack a smile, hoping he could leave this conversation and, maybe, leave with her. she sat quietly, waiting for her friend, hoping she knew how whorish she was being, hoping she'd get that tool's number, hoping she'd end her conversation and definitely go home soon.
rules of the house:
1) no fucking
1a) no champagne baths
2) no yelling
3) reen's female friends must make out with terence. unless they're ugly. if that‘s the case, just a hand job.
schedule of the house:
Mondays: act out song lyrics
Tuesdays: mute the tv; create our own dialogue
Wednesdays: watch lost and law & order, watched in absolute silence and zero movement.
Thursdays: DANCE OFF
Friday: taco night
Saturday: break rule 2 all day.
Sunday: Reen-- diner at parents; Terence-- UNDERWEAR
things we definitely need:
picture of Michael Dorn (as lieutenant worf) to hang over the toilet
i hate sundays. every sunday, i wake up, usually after one, and say, "i'm going to get some stuff done." and I mean it. then i fall back asleep, get up and hour later and ponder the merits of taking a shower. i could look for a new job. i could run the errands that preoccupy me monday thru friday. i could call that brunette i met friday, see if she wants to have a picnic. but no, i don't. i spend the day illegally downloading whole albums off of limewire. rather than do anything constructive and being rightfully tired
at a reasonable hour, i'm up until 2 am downloading elliot smith's first four albums and the last one he did with heatmiser. and it's not stealing. he dead, so his money would go to his next of kin, his girlfriend, who probably murdered him. even if he were alive, that money would go right into his veins. i know two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts make four right angles and get you back to where you started. ergo downloading is okay. fuck musicians. most of them are getting paid by the producers of the O.C. anyway.
i had dream i was being chased by a monster. i couldn't quite see all of it. it was more of blob than anything else. it was green and smelled bad. it didn't just chase me once. over and over again this fucker was on my tail. it got to me a few times but didn't kill or eat me. instead i ended up back to where i was at the beginning of the dream. when it didn't get me, i jumped on it repeatedly. i even flipped in mid air a few times. no more Mario brothers before bedtime.
things I believe or don't believe: there's no god, we're all in this together but we all die alone, having to depend on no one is great but I can depend on never meeting anyone who doesn‘t, I don't give a shit what anyone does so long as they don't do it in my living room, people like talking about what they're gonna do or be but never actually do or become them, if your politics hinge on your identity you're more than likely boring, I've never been a true fan of anything and people who are creep me out.
i'm not going to passero's for coffee anymore. the skinny hipster art student behind the counter is an asshole. whenever he waits on me, i ask for a little room at the top so I can put milk in it. he never does. and it's on purpose too, like he has an aversion to easing up on the coffee vat tap earlier than normal. it all started when I asked him for the room and he replied, "absolutely not" in a friendly, joking way. but the dickhead filled it to the top. i understand being an asshole. I'm one myself.
I think in the course of my writing, I've noted that I hate bright eyes. this is no longer the case. my friend sean evangelized to me of the world of beauty that was connor oberst's songwriting. I remember him not saying the words "beauty" and "voice" in the same sentence because oberst's grating whining were a turn off. not to mention the kid (I'm 26, he's 24) has more than an acceptable level of dear diary lyrics. sean made me mix with the instructions to give it some time and let it sink in. it sat in my car
but the degree this guy goes to is unconscionable to assholes everywhere. I take pleasure in watching the confusion of those who don't know how to operate doors rather than show them how to open it. what pleasure does this guy get out of coffee splattering all over the counter as I try fit a flat lid on an overfilled cup of joe? won't he have to clean it up? is the smiting worth it? if they had dome lids, it wouldn't matter. fuck that dude. he not the reason I won't be back. it's the lack of dome lids.
for four months. when I first gave it a chance, that faux-tortured falsetto made my finger do a beeline to the eject button. then some hot girl I know said she really liked bright eyes and rather than argue with her, I said "yeah, I really like them too. you wanna make out." and then we broke her futon. but she played "it'm wide awake it's morning" as we messed around. before I snuck out of her apartment well before she was wide awake or it was morning, I burnt a copy for myself. it's good. it'll get you laid.
there's something to drinking on a sunday. and not watching the game or barbeque drinking. drinking while the sun's out is out of the question, a built-in cop out. you can stop by dusk and sleep it off in time for work. that's too normal; expected weekend behavior as a trip to home depot or target. proper sinister deviants go to the bar 'round ten (the later you start, the later the bender lasts ). some'll protest, "just one." when two am hits, these same protestors aren't as vocal. it's hard to talk with a stranger's tongue in your mouth.
I shuffled in place and sighed wondering why the line was standing still despite the bustle behind the counter. a retiree seemed to be the only one taking orders and money. she might've been mildly retarded to boot. someone asked for chicken mcnuggets. she asked "what do you mean chicken mcnuggets?" but not in the "I don't quite understand you, but I think I know the food product you're referring to. they're called chicken mcnuggets, sir. is that what you want?" kind of way. it was more "I have no idea what you're talking about. you have offended me greatly."
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