Last night I came home to an empty house, which is rare because my roommate is usually home evenings. Hours went by and I felt what guess could be considered "concern" around the stroke of 1 in the morning. His cellphone is a long distance number, and I'm too elite to have long distance service, so I couldn't call. Too elite or too poor, I can't remember. That doesn't matter. Anyway, I called someone else and had them text him telling him to call me. He called drunk from some bar, which is roughly what I expected, but given his history with getting hit by cars I thought checking in on him was fair. He said he would be home soon.
I've been sleeping in the living room because the couch is more comfortable than my bed and the air carries noticeably fewer mold spores. I had been sprawled on the sofa for a while before my eyelids were finally getting heavy at 3 in the morning, when the door opened. Through the darkness I heard whispered over and over "it's okay...it's okay..." I said "I know it's okay, I recognize your voice." He turned on the light and said that he wasn't talking to me, then he said he got us a cat. So here's Tom, impressively drunk and holding a large, poofy, orange cat that looked appropriately spooked. I mother fucking love cats. I asked it's name and Tom paused thoughtfully. "I was thinking...Orange-Banorange." We petted the Orange-Banorange briefly before Tom released him or her back into the outside world and told me about buying pot off of a homeless person behind a bar. He used a very circular method of story telling that managed to loop the tale three times continuously, which apparently seemed linear to him at the time.
About a week ago, I applied for a job at a porn store. The job description said that it included "sales and maintenance." I was afraid I knew what that meant, and as I waded through the application in the store, and employee walked toward the viewing booths with rubber gloves, a pole with a lever-operated grabbing claw, and a bucket, confirming my fears. They never called me back, so now I'm basking in the sense of pride that one experiences when it's made official that he is unfit for cleaning up the semen of strange men. Dear world, fuck you.
I've been contemplating revenge for the upper decker a week ago. So you're probably thinking "why not just upper decker C$ back, or better yet, bring your friends and make it an upper decker gang bang?" Not that simple. C$ happens to be my hot ex-girlfriend's roommate, and even though we're through, I still can't bring myself to expose her to my feces, which makes me a gentleman.
I am goal oriented, and this year I would like to achieve a lot of the goals that I've had for a while. So far this year I have accomplished only one: as of my last haircut, my beard is officially longer than my hair, which is AWESOME. I can't relish in it too long though, for fear of being unemployable, but it will be back. Oh yeah. FUCK yeah.
I had some company in from out of town and did my best to show them a good time. A friend from the high school era and his girlfriend who I had not met. We held down the apartment instead of going out, so I called up some locals to come have some beers with us. Carlin, affectionately known as C$ ("see-money," because he sees money everywhere, according to him), showed up and told his usual stories about drinking and confrontations, which are enjoyable yarns to be certain. He went to the bathroom at one point and as soon as he came out the entire apartment smelled like the decaying refuse of a carnivorous scavenger. I closed the bathroom door. I heard what I thought was the fan but later realized was the heater, thus creating a sauna for the rancid waste. Some time went by and my friend's girlfriend who I barely knew came out of the bathroom talking about how our toilet was fucked up. I asked if she meant because it was haphazardly bolted down and rocked forward when you sat on it, and she said no, it was because that when you flush, the toilet bowl fills back up with brown water.
So, I had been upper-deckered. C$ took a shit in my toilet tank to settle a five dollar bet. Fortunately for the residents of my apartment, C$ has a very poor diet which leads to soft stool, so his BM was a consistency that only lasted a couple of flushes. I called him a mother fucker a lot of times and laughed so hard that I sharted really big-like. Between the toilet tank and my pants, there was a lot of fecal matter for an apartment this small. Especially since we had company.
As I was writing this, someone called wanting me to pledge money for Public Safety. I declined and he asked why, so I explained that I don't like the public, so supporting their safety was counter productive for someone in my position. He asked if I was one of those people that wore all black and I told him I had some gray shirts. Speaking of the telemarketing industry...
You're probably tired of reading about how I'm unemployed, but fuck you, that's life right now. Maybe I'll put up some new pictures of JW on the can so you can look at those if you're sick of my job hunt complaints. Anyway, today I had some interviews and shit. The first one was at a company with a very ambiguous ad. Their phone call to me proposing an interview woke me up at 10 that morning and I was too groggy to ask what the job was, I just wrote down an address and time and left it at that.
So, I show up and fill out an application in this room. I have a couple of questions for the receptionist, who I assume is a bitch because she's listening to country music. I hate always being right sometimes. Moving along to the actual interview; I'm escorted down a series of hallways by some guy. He takes me to his office and it's impossible to take him seriously because he's a grown man with two framed Star Wars posters, one of them is just a large print of that teenage guy who played Darth Vader and did really bad and I hate him and he can have a broken glass enema for all I care. My interviewer is doing his best to make a telemarketing position sound exciting, and his best is not good enough. He introduces me to the statistic that most telemarketers abandon a potential sale after hearing "no" twice, but that most sales are made after the eighth "no." He goes on to explain that "no can mean a hundred different things," which maybe he thinks is deep, but at this point I'm struggling not to laugh because I can only imagine how that philosophy serves him in the dating arena. I'm picturing him pestering a woman for sex and being relentless just because he thinks that the only reason that she's repeatedly declining is that she's unfamiliar with all that sleeping with someone who takes a sales position to a spiritual level has to offer. Anyway, I was offered the position, but...no. No thanks.
I don't believe in omens really, but that morning after I brushed my teeth, my toothbrush fell from the shelf in the medicine cabinet. I struggled to catch it but only fumbled it before it fell out of my hands, bounced off the counter, and landed on the inside out pair of underwear on the floor that I'd been wearing for days before taking them off just minutes prior. The bristle part was right where my most unsavory oriface had nested for the preceeding half of the week, so the toothbrush was cashed. After that happened I should have gone back to bed.
really old months: