Job interview this morning. Stayed up drinking until 4 and got up at 7, so I was in pretty good form. I actually did pull it together pretty well and I think impressed my potential employer.
I hate when people give me advice on getting jobs. I can GET jobs all day long, I just can't keep jobs for the life of me. Before the interview my girlfriend opened her mouth and began speaking in an advisory tone. I was about to filter it out, but the only tip she had was "make sure you don't smell like beer," which is probably the only valid advice I've been given in such a circumstance.
A somewhat spontaneous trip to Portland occurred today. My brother has a new pad there and Finger Bang City, a sweet hip-hop group he's acquainted with, had a show that night, so we thought we'd keep busy. The show was pretty rockin' because before any bands took the stage they held a burlesque show with prizes and everything. Bec won some orgasm kit with a vibrator and some other toys, and JW got something, I don't remember what. JW was the star of the night, for sure. He managed to piss off virtually everyone he crossed paths with via either spilling fluids on them, talking shit, providing bad touch, etc. Um, I guess you had to be there. You're probably not laughing right now, so yeah, you had to be there. Whatever. You're racist, so your opinion doesn't matter.
Oh, and I slipped on some stairs and actually BROKE two of the stairs. That hurt kind of bad.
Whenever I have a job that requires I wear a shirt advertising the company I bitterly whore myself out to, I passively display my lack of patriotism by refusing to wash said shirt. I explained this to a coworker after my three months of neglect began warranting observations concerning my appearance and odor. The thinking is this: if I have to wear something I don't already own, I am not happy and should not be in this line of work. If I am choking on my own stench the entire time I am at work, it will encourage me to find a new line of work at which I may be happier. Apparently my boss caught wind of this, because he beckoned me into his office and threw a new shirt at me. "It's not funny. It's rude." Stated the man responsible for my wages in an attempt to be authoritative. At this point, my shirt had transformed from what was originally canary yellow to a color that was previously reserved for curtains in a budget motel room that allows smoking. It had streaks of black in areas that endured more friction when I had to lift things like dirty furniture. It had a hole about the size of a quarter that was plainly visible and even some of a coworkers blood from an incident the week before. I was stoked that the blood was finally starting to turn brown and it wasn't so obvious what it was, but I would not get to enjoy the ambiguity of the stain for any longer.
"Sorry." I said to my boss.
Not one to be simply deceived, he fired back with "No, you're not. You've been doing that on purpose."
I laughed and left the office.