Sunday, October 23, 2005

Why's the Rum Gone?

...because I drank it.

In a rare instance of me having a social life, I went to a wedding this weekend. And it wasn't in South Carolina.

No, friends, I went to Atlanta, Jawjeeya for Melinda's uncle's wedding. All told, this trip cost me about twenty bucks. Not bad.

I may not have even felt like going, but the lure of an open-bar reception proved too much for me to resist. It was a Jewish wedding, which was pleasant (meaning brief. And full of broken glass lodged in the feet of the groom, which could be the best wedding ritual ever.) and remarkably similar to other weddings I've been to. At any rate, I spent the entire evening drinking. Even better, nobody else out of the hundred or so folks there wanted rum. I like rum. So around my sixth trip to the bar, the tender informed me that since nobody else was drinking My Rum, he would pour a lot of it into every rum and coke I ordered. I probably had somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen shots. For free. I developed drinker's mouth, which is when you've had enough to stumble and be loud, but not so much that the floor introduces itself to your face. It was a grand conspiracy between the barman and I, hoarding all of the Jews' rum in my stomach. I felt bad because all I had in my wallet for a tip was a handful of pennies. So I decided not to insult him with a shitty tip.

At any rate, I drank myself to health and then sobered up into being sick again. So I called out of work.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

I'm worried about me.

I think I'm a viking.

Honestly.

Anyone who's reading this and knows me personally knows that I'm an easy-going sort.

However.

Before I went to bed last night, I was furious. Then I took a furious shower, then sat outside and played furious bass while I smoked a cigarette (also furiously). Then I raged myself to bed.

I slept like a sloth. Screaming alien deathbringers couldn't have made me open my eyes.

When I got up, roughly ten hours later, I was immediately consumed with calm. And by calm, I mean fury. This rage has lasted all day, and I'm even pissed at the keyboard I'm typing on right now.

I have no idea what's happening to me. The state of mind is strong enough to have a physical feeling to it - a bit like tiny patches of sunburn that well up and then fade away. Sunspots, sort of. My mind races around and nothing bothers me, but the slightest thing sends my train of (frighteningly fast) thought hurtling off course. I smile when I think of how many passengers on the thought-train suffered greivous harm in the ensuing wreck.

I don't even have a good reason to be angry. Sure, I work too much. Maybe I even have too much invested emotionally in my shitty job. Maybe I'm angry because I'm lonely. Maybe I'm ticked at the state of my relationship with Melinda. Hell, maybe it's because I ate German food last weekend. Maybe because I watched a whole movie about kickboxing.

But none of those things seem like they should make me so angry, even all added up. Nothing makes it better, either. Caffeine, nicotine, sleep, work, reading, mellow music, angry music. All about as effective as punching a trout to save the children.

These kinds of rages inspire heroes and villains, and I don't know which I am. It's scary and exhiliarating. It brings out my talents and represses my creativity. It'sjust confusing, mostly.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Americ-ugh. Fuck Yeah!





Above: An example of the kind of real American dish I make when I'm not fucking around. It's a barbecue chicken and sausage sandwich with almost raw steak for bread, smothered in hot sauce and mayonnaise, with a hot dog garnish. For extra non-fagginess, I made sure the chicken was not free range, and was in fact beaten to death by cruel farmers in underground chicken-killing tournaments.

( taken from www.seanbaby.com )

Monday, October 10, 2005

An adventurer is you!


Well, not really. I don't know if you is an adventurer or not. I just couldn't think of much else to name this post.

Daddy Longlegs are my favorite animals as of today. The design is spartan enough to be perfect. See?

Kind of like a spider, but not exactly. Less creepy, somehow. Like six legs is okay, but eight is just weird.

This is the kind of animal that makes a kid with palsy and some Play-Doh smile and think he could be god when he grows up.

In other news, I am desperately worried about a friend of mine. In fact, really my only friend down here. I work with her, and her name's Sara. She's been having panic attacks all weekend, and some sort of depression thing going on too. I can only imagine what both of those happening at the same time could feel like. IcyHot inside your brain?

I don't even know why I'm so worried about her. I just am. I want to do something nice to try and make her feel better, but I don't know what I could do. I'm thinking about making her a CD... like a hug, but in musical form. I think it should be mellow stuff, though... so I'm having a hard time picking out songs. I think a Mountain Goats song or two would work out nicely, and maybe even Be Quiet and Drive (Far Away) by the Deftones... the acoustic version.

I feel a little guilty about the whole idea, just because I've never put this much effort into a present for Melinda. And also, I'm afraid it could be viewed as a mixtape, and we all know what those mean. Ah well.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

I know how the little toe feels.

Well, thanks a lot, you jackasses. Everybody except a few people managed to be in my presence (or, in Lindsay's case, not) and not wish me a happy birthday. Oh well. I had fun anyway. I went to Asheville late Friday, and proceeded to smash everyone's dreams with the underwhelming Ali G movie.

And Jef decided we should start a band. I'm still set on "Dracula's Weiner" as a name, but nobody else seems to like it that much.

I don't really care, honestly.

I mean... I bet none of Robert Plant's buddies thought "Led Zeppelin" was a good name for a rock band.

Since the meaning of the name of this post may not be immediately obvious, I'll explain. Every time I go to Asheville, I always end up feeling like a vestigal limb trying to reattach itself to wherever it fell off of. Not really like a third wheel, because those are never useful in the first place. Yes, it does sound harsh.

See, everybody gets along just fine without me, just like whales and snakes get along fine without their tiny devolved thumbs and legs and so on. And when I do show back up after any prolonged absence, I'm so painfully unaware of what's been going on with everybody that I just end up sitting around and listening trying to catch up. Rarely do I have anything too interesting to talk about, so I tend not to. I dunno. Maybe I'm just sad that I can't spend enough time up there to really get back in touch with folks. Or maybe people really have outgrown me. It can be hard to tell.