What a Week I'm Having

The past week, including today, has just been shit. Shit, shit, shit. Let me count the ways....

1) I did not get the job I thought I had. That's right, after waiting around whilst a certain NJ lawfirm played grab-ass for five fucking weeks, I finally learned this past Tuesday the truth. I am not going to be hired on.

Look, I understand that not every resume I send out will be received favorably. I understand not every prospective employer will hire me. Honestly, I get that. What I don't understand is why would they tell me they (a) have work; (b) need someone to do the work; (c) pay that person handsomely; and (d) inform me that I fit the bill? Is it malicious? Is it entertaining? Do they enjoy causing me to quit my bartending gig in anticipation of actually beginning my chosen career with some sense of panache?

After consulting my handy-dandy Magic 8-Ball (patented), "all answers point to YES."

So, as the faithful reader now knows, your Saintly friend has no job, and no woman. (If I had a dog, I'm sure it would've died at some point this week.)

I swear, sometimes I think my life is a Kenny Chesney song...

The intervening days passed, barely. With no job, and nothing to do, I pretty much sat around the house (where there is STILL no food) and smoked grass to pass the time away. Not a bad gig, really, but I'd much rather be working than sitting on my ass.

2) Saturday night, I ventured into NYC to see my friend's girlfriend's friend's (say THAT three times, fast, motherfucker!) dance troupe perform.

I know precisely jack shit about modern dance.

Ok, ok; I know precisely shit about the dance in general.

Still, the performance was quite good, if a bit...I don't know...angry? Apparently, our choreographer friend stamps her work with furtive, angry movements. And sensual ones. It's hard to tell what sort of emotion she's seeking to illicit. But the dance was not the problem Saturday night. Oh no, indeed! The problem was my friend, let's call him Johnny Two-Shoes.

My friend's girlfriend has another friend, who we'll call Fatima. (Why Fatima? Because I like the name.) Fatima is an attorney in NYC, and she's a hottie. Oh mai oui! Fatima and I met last August, and I was infatuated; it seemed she enjoyed my company as well.

So there we are, after the performance, enjoying some champagne and conversation (this is Fatima and me, now) and I suggest we go grab some dinner. It's eleven o'clock on a Saturday night, I'm on Seventh, suggesting a meal to a woman I hardly know. (I was very proud of me...) She's cool, so we grab the coterie; my friend, his girlfriend, J. (a cool chica from S. Africa), and Johnny Two-Shoes.

Did I mention Johnny Two-Shoes was recently appointed Cock-Blocker General by the Presidential Go-Home-Alone-You-Miserable-Loser Commission?

The six of us end up on 7th and 22nd, at some Thai place. I like Thai food; I practically lived on it in college for about a month there... Johnny Two-Shoes, meanwhile, sits down across from Fatima, who I'm hoping is gonna invite me over for breakfast, and starts acting like a complete ass. And, of course, he's not content to ruin his own image, oh no; Johnny-Boy wants to take me down with him.

All it took was one sentence: "Hey, man, you're turning 26 in August, right?"

DUMBASS MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!

See, Fatima's 31, and apparently she thought I was like 28 or 29. Apparently, she has a problem dating younger men. And, apparently, this includes inviting them for breakfast just the once, too.

So, no horizontal bunny-hop for your intrepid blogger. Again.

(I swear, I'm just going to open up a Home for the Chronically Unlayable one of these days.)

3) Today, which really puts everything else into perspective.

See, there I am, my beautiful Bonneville all packed and ready to drive back to Kentucky. I get in, start her up, and hit the road.

I made it 20.4 miles.

Apparently, I have a broken water pump, which in turn caused my engine coolant to leak all over the outside of the engine, instead of being fed into it. (For those of you who know nothing about cars, engines need coolant on the inside.) This of course, leads to my overheat (at 20.4 miles from home). How did I learn about this problem, you may ask?

Well, after waiting the obligatory two hours for AAA to arrive, I caught a tow from some guy named Joe. Joe was a good egg. Joe was not, however, from AAA; so I gave Joe $109.50 and he dropped me off six miles away. Scott, manager/owner of a friendly auto shop, informed me of the above situation, and continued to point out that, not only did I need a new water pump, but I needed a new serpentine belt and a thermostat as well. All told, I'm paying this guy $522.73.

For those of you playing along at home, driving 20.4 miles today cost me $632.23. Actually, it's $661.10; I got gas, too.

My car will hopefully be ready tomorrow morning at nine. Then, of course, I gotta figure out a way to get to it, considering it's 30 or so miles away, and I'm back in Mom and Dad's place, sitting on my ass.

Again.

Motherfucker.

Let's Talk About Conspiracies

For as long as I can remember, which is to say, since I was about 4 or so, I've always loved to read. I read voraciously. I read like a starving man gulps water. I read with fanaticism in my heart and head.

As a law student, I'm required to read roughly 200 pages of cases and explanatory text each night. Every night, when I finish reading a funny, if antiquated, opinion by the ultra-hip Judge Learned Hand (Who names their son "Learned Hand?") I'll pick up a book and read until I fall asleep.

And I tell you true, I remember almost everything I read.

I could tell you the plots to any number of Hardy Boys Mysteries I read at age nine. I could chart Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth from memory. I can tell you exactly what happens in a comic book I read at age thirteen, if only you show me the cover art. I don't say this to brag; after all, what kind of person boasts about remembering meaningless plot developments? I merely point out you REALLY don't want to play Trivial Pursuit with me.

I won't even bring up my encyclopedic knowledge of Classic Rock.

Tagging alongside my appetite for the written word is my equally ever-present need to write. Scenes, plays, fiction, satire, high fantasy, introductions without material to be introduced, you name it. Most often, I find myself writing feverishly for about 5 pages, depicting characters I've never thought about beforehand, in situations with no backstory. I consider these to be "middle" bits, of stories I have not written.

I often wonder if I could take all those little "middle" pieces, put them together, and get an entire book out of them. If I ever try it, and it works, I have no idea what kind of book it will be.

I find myself thinking along these lines because, I really haven't tried to write anything in months. Then, on a whim, I've begun this little 'blog. I don't know where I'm going with it yet, or even if I want it to go anywhere at all.

I think I was hoping to be funnier?

The Love Letter that Wasn't

Now, you should know, when I start out with a title like that, you're in for a bumpy ride. Then again, since I haven't actually put anything down yet, maybe it won't be that bad. Time, as usual, will tell.

Tonight, I hung out with some of my closest friends; one in particular is the subject of tonight's diatribe. We'll call her Jenny, just to keep things suitably anonymous. Perhaps I'll slip up later, but for now, it's Jenny.

Jenny and I have dated several times, beginning when I was sixteen, and most recently ending this past February. Or maybe January? I suppose it depends on which one of us you ask...but, for the sake of integrity, posterity, and consistency, we'll just say February, since that's when I found out it was over.

The thing about Jenny is, all these past ten years we've known each other, is that I cannot stay away from her. Even when I wasn't emotionally attached, something about Jenny always kept me coming back for more. Maybe it was because she always kept my ego in check. Maybe it's because she's a hottie. Maybe it's because she's one of the perhaps 5 people on this planet I can be completely honest in front of. Maybe it's all of those put together...

Jenny's ruined a lot of things for me, most notably the smell of vanilla. She's been wearing vanilla oil for as long as I've known her, and I tell you true, I cannot deal with that smell anymore. Unless it's her smell. Then, it's like being home again after months away. (An apt analogy, since the majority of our quasi-relationship has occurred whilst I was hundreds of miles away.) But I'm digressing, aren't I?

Jenny (still not her real name, mind you) loved me for a long time, and most of it, I had no idea. I never knew if I loved her, which is a strong sign I didn't. Then, somewhere around New Year's, I realized I DID love her. And it was everything I remembered, and a whole lot more. It was the great thing my life has been missing.

Problem was, Jenny wasn't in love with me anymore. Oh no, she'd given up waiting for me to come around. Over ten years, bad timing has been our hallmark. I wouldn't be suprised if the day I realized I loved her was the same day she decided to move on. If it wasn't so damned ironic, it'd probably be depressing.

Jenny is still one of my closest friends, and I'll admit, I'm having a lot of trouble divorcing my romantic and carnal urges from the platonic ones. Tonight I had a big problem. Something about that woman just makes me forget the rules..

It's not like I haven't tried to get her back, because I have. She wasn't intertested. And I don't blame her; in fact I understand her feelings as completely as a man can understand a woman's feelings. That's a big part of the irony.

But tonight, I had to say something, had to try again. Ultimately, I failed again to get her back.

Sometimes I think this limbo is killing me. Sometimes I couldn't care less. Ambivalence in love is no fun, believe me.

I've recently realized there have only been three women I've ever truly cared about in my life. Jenny, and two others. The first was another girl in highschool; we lost touch years ago, though occasionally I hear from her. She never writes back. The other was about as brief as brief can be. Only a few days, years ago. I don't really know if I regret caring for her, despite the pain that came later. All I can say is that for a short while, I thought I'd found someone special. She never believed I cared for her, to this day I still don't know what she thinks about those days. I often wonder, though.

The point of tonight's (or should I say "this morning's"?) diatribe has escaped me. Of course, eloquence went the way of the dodo a while back, too, so what am I worrying about?

Either way, I'm starving, and there's still no damn food in this house.

Zen Happens

...and then, there's Urgent Care

Today began with a rude awakening. There I am, blissfully asleep, enjoying some fairly interesting random neuron-firings, when my mother walks in and wakes me up. Gee, thanks.

You ever get woken up from a dream? Of course you have. This morning, it was right at the point where all the confusing shit in my head was about to be explained to me, courtesy of one of my friendly neighborhood dream-people. (Sometimes, I call them dreople, but that just confuses the issue...)

I fucking hate it when that happens.

I mean, it really pisses me off when that happens. Here I am, all set to learn why there's a talking monkey wearing a unitard, trying to sell me life insurance, and then POOF! Welcome back to the waking, daylight, no-fun-at-all world.

Then, it's a quick shower and dress, and I'm off to the "assisted living facility" to pick up Grandma. Yet another doctor's appointment. Well, the doc went fine, but he wants me to take her to the Urgent Care Center across the street for tests.

What, really, is the difference between Urgent Care and Emergency Care? Personally, I'm waiting for a drive-through service.

So, I've been sitting here, with my wireless connection, for the past three hours, whilst Grandma is poked, prodded, sampled, juilliened, and frappeed. And, of course, this place smells like death and feces.

I often wonder, do doctors and nurses voluntarily have their olfactory senses cauterized before embarking on their careers?

And now, back to your regularly scheduled day...

Zen Happens

I'm hungry...

I'm hungry. It's two o'clock in the morning, and I am completely famished. I'm living in my parents house for the past month or so (a visit which is, at turns, enjoyable and interminable), and these people have NO FOOD IN THE DAMN HOUSE.

Allow me to be completely clear on this point:

I am fucking tired of low carbohydrate dieting.

Sue me. Hate me. Revile me. Tar-and-feather me. But please, PLEASE get some fucking bread and pasta here, pronto. I think I might waste away...

Would it be so fucking hard to have a bag of pretzels? Or some crackers? Maybe, and I don't want to start a revolution here, but maybe some cookies? I am not on this stupid, and ultimately-it's-got-to-be-unhealthy, diet. Thank you.

You know what my dining choices are around here? If you said Canadian bacon, steak, and a whole fucking mountain of salted cashews, you win a prize.

Prizes will be awarded at the sole discretion of the author, who has no prizes to give, nor any conceivable method of actually getting such a prize to the intended recipient.

Now, at two o'clock in the morning, a lot of people are probably thinking, "Fuck it, man, it's late. Go to bed." Yeah? You ever tried falling asleep when you're hungry? It's easier to pass a fucking kidney stone through that little hole in the end of your prick. Well, perhaps that's an exaggeration...

You might be wondering why I don't just by some groceries for myself? I'll tell you; I tried that. Didn't work. Neither of these diet-mongers could handle the Temptation of food that actually might have carbohydrates in it. They ate everything. Let me get this straight: Jesus can walk the desert without food and water for an extended period of time, and then, on his last breath, tell the Devil to take a flying leap instead of accepting some bread and water from him? And my parents can't handle a bag of Rolled Gold? Thank the old G-D we're Jewish.

Zen Happens