Don’t bother with this one unless you’re shit bored. I’m just venting, and in no way will I entertain or amuse you with this entry. Skip below, or go to Dirty Margarita, or find another site altogether. This is going to be an ugly waste of your time if you actually read it.

The work week is almost over, which usually means the sweet relief of weekend laziness has arrived to cure what ails me.

Not this time. Let’s back up. I need to throw a pity party for myself and get this bile out of my system.

Everybody gets constipated. Everybody who sits down one night and eats 40 extremely spicy hot wings, that is. I couldn’t shit right for three days. Every time I sat down, one tiny orange tiddlywink birthed out and plinked into the bowl. Over and over, every thirty minutes. For days. What a waste of flushing water. I desperately wished I could masturbate my intestines out, just reach in right through my bellybutton and squeeze that fucker empty like a toothpaste tube. It took twenty-three beers in a six hour period to return my ass to Niagara Falls. The deluge was a great mercy. I was hungover on Thursday, but my ass was happy.

The Internal Revenue Service has a rightful claim to my earnings. (All my problems are completely my fault, unfortunately, so I can really only get mad at myself.) I went to H&R Block to sort the mess out. A very prim and proper woman of sixty years or so scolded me for my foolish financial behavior, and then set to figuring out just how much I owe for fiscal year 2003. It was bad. I think I have it covered, but my brain is still aching. At the end of a tax preparation, the Block folks have to ask if the customer is satisfied with the provided service. I said “I’m satisfied your knowledge far eclipses my own, and I couldn’t have done this without you.” She was far more kindly towards me after my poetic turn. The lesson: a person bedraggled and financially idiotic does not mean he’s an unlearned rube. Or maybe it does.

I’m getting bitched at for chores. Chores I completed. Fuck it, I’m not even going into this one. Not worth the ugliness when my roommates read this. All I’ll say is come and get me. Try me. Here’s my new idea: post-it notes. If a mess is made and the messmaker fails to clean it up, after one day, it gets a note that says “One Day.” After two, it gets a note that says “Two Days” AND it gets moved onto your fucking bed. Sound fair? Let me know.

Tomorrow I finish the moving cycle. All the big stuff, everything final, hooray. That’s the morning. But then, after I move in, I have to go help move speakers, amps, and shit like that for a rave. Then work the door all night. Then move it out. And I’m not getting paid for it. I’ve been fed food and gotten free beer for past parties, but that’s hardly payment for ten hours work. I may just bow out of this one, and damn the consequences. I’m just too goddamn cranky to be the happy greeter. I’ll probably succumb to violence for a silly reason if I go. That would be bad. I need peace and quiet very badly. I’ve had none recently.
Kill kill kill DIE DIE DIE!

I feel better now. Maybe I’ll even write something for this site next week. Sorry about all the tumbleweed. 5:04 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm