I make it 7 straight days without drinking a Coke, so God infects me with the h1n1 virus

Here I am with nothing to do again.  Not even a beer in the fridge to keep me company, and by company, I mean hit me over the head with a bucket of blackout sex and debauchery.

I stay up past 8 am, but it isn't THAT kind of staying up late.  The kind of staying up late that involves drinking.

The kind of drinking that fuels cocaine binged nights spent cyber stalking the middle-aged crew-cut next-door-neighbor's-wife who leaves her door open for the reason I choose to believe must have something to do with wanting to be bitten during rough sex.

No, my late nights have something to do with publishing rough notes on some garbage ideas I have about modernity, theology, and philosophy.

Which just goes to prove that you can talk yourself into believing anything, if you can talk yourself into believing that a giant of philosophy like Soren Kierkegaard can be turned into a rationalization for the pathetic, inauthentic, life that you lead.

Ice cream flavored kittens.

I am not drinking soda.  Seven days in a row.  And it is the kind of thing that fatties in the supermarket get excited about.

I think I told some one of them that I lost 3 pounds, and then I told them how I was going off to a protest for universal health care on my next day off.

I guess if that is the kind of thing that gets you off then you can go ahead and feel proud of yourself.  You know like you are doing something other than following the latest news about how Miley Cyrus has deleted her Twitter account which is nothing like the terrible cycle of abuse that follows the girls that work in the deli department around here.



The Self Help Center Guide to being punched in the kidney.


If you get punched in the eye and leave to Texas, I suggest you don't listen to your boyfriend, don't listen to him tell you how much he loves you, and can't live without you, so much so that he attempts to run over the security guard on patrol in her electric scooter car, run her over on purpose, because when you get home... he's just going to punch you in the kidney, and we have all seen girls that we could punch in the kidney, and watch them die on the dirty bathroom floors, kicking their legs out from under them, screaming that their kidneys hurt, and "Oh, I think you hurt my kidney this time."

REALLY? And not just your dignity like when you got punched in the face. (And why I gotta ask you twice bitch?... ain't that joke still funny?)

All those black eyes that you don't bother to make excuses for anymore, you just keep your head down and stare straight at the time clock whenever I see you at work.

Thank god I am not the one asking you questions as you lie kicking in pain on the bathroom floor that is decorated with the pink ankle socks from some other woman, left from the night before you got there, (and somehow you still don't know better than to ask him questions  after all  you've been told...)

If I was there I would try to tell you get out, and to stick it with me, that there is something going on here between us, and that everything is okay, that all this random stuff is awkward, but not a friendship killer for us, if you know what I mean.

And I think she does.

"God hates me!" I know she would tell me, but "I just got infected with H1N1" I would tell her back.  

See?  We all got our problems.

Mine comes to me in the form of commercials that I hear all day at work.  The commercials go something like "what gives a kid butterflies in his tummy?" And of  course I go, "sitting on my lap."

So then my problem becomes the young lady friend of a boy from work who's thinks I make up songs about children sitting on my lap "getting butterflies," and now she thinks to call me creepy, but in front of her dad, so she say something like this guy (meaning me) is creepy, and dad asks if I am creepy like... "something unintelligible" is all I hear and I try and play it off like "ya that's funny who ain't?" and then she says no, "it's like he likes young girls" and then daddy is like "well at least you don't hide it."

Which all sounds so weird to me, but not really when I am surrounded by 18 year old girls at the chicken wing bar, wiping greasy stains in my lap, my face burning red all because I can't find a cream that reduces redness on the face, or anything to reduce the shame and embarrassment that stutters out of me, along with the coughing  acid-reflux from lungs filling up with swine flu that my brothers ex wife has given to me, "just to let you know all the kids in school have it so you have it!"

Oh, shit.  Somebody get me a wet wipe.