Waking Up
Alarm's metal song
Red eyes stare down the mirror
Sweet lord, take me now.
Arriving at Work
Ratty hair down back
Hair pin swings from a split end
Others turn away
Office Talk
"Thank god it's Friday"
I hear from all around me
Monkeys chatter too
Sitting at Desk
Playing with pierced nose
"That's why it gets infected"
But I cannot stop.
Back to Work from Lunch
A frantic car ride
Salt water taffy binging
Cat hair covers me
Mind Wanders
Naming all the states
Phone must be covered in germs
I'd kill men for gum
Mid-Afternoon
Downing fifth diet coke
Caffeine courses through my blood
Does not quell the rage
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Think Before You Speak
Something that many people don't know about me is that I know a LOT of information about a choice few subjects, such as: eating disorders, current hairstyles incorporating bangs, the heights of male celebrities, the X-men, and PRISON. What qualifies me as a prison expert? A few things. When I had cable, I watched The Shawshank Redemption everytime it was on TNT, which is a LOT. I got Oz on Netflix until I decided to start watching My So Called Life instead. And my grandpa was in Sing Sing back in the day and during frequent bouts of psychosis would regale his eager grandchildren with lurid tales of what it was like to be a Depression-era jailbird. And then there's my own experience. Flash back to age 13. My parents force me to attend an inaugaral Girls of Promise program for 8th and 9th graders, citing the brochure's promises of increased self esteem and achievement. Despite my fervent protests, I am dropped off at the meeting point and spirited away to Orcas Island, where my own personal version of the Stanford Prison Experiment began. One of my 14 year old cabinmates had a baby; another had come because her only other option was Juvie. Another asked me, "what's the worst thing you've ever done?" and I lied and said I had smoked a cigarette and she said, "once I smoked heroin." Which, in retrospect may have been a lie, but I observed someone take one of her Starburst without asking and bitch FLIPPED THE FUCK OUT, so I'm going on record as saying I believe it. My second week there two girls ganged up on and beat the shit out of another because she cut them in line to get pancakes. I sent my parents panicked notes begging for release and spent nights lying awake staring a picture of my beloved cat, wondering if I would make it home alive to see her.Clearly, I made it through the experience, and I managed to avoid confrontation, because I essentially became the 13 year old version of a prison bitch. In that, I surrendered seats when I was told to, I shared my candy freely, and I never, ever made eye contact. This is how I know that if I were to go to federal prison, I would immediately regress to that state of mind, which is basically, "I will do whatever you want if you don't hit me in the face." And if that meant eating box, then I guess I would eat box. And on that you can quote me.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Why I should just bite the bullet and marry Slats...
I love a character.
No, that's not quite right, I love individuals that are so utterly ridiculous, they defy being limited to the definition of characters.
Maybe it comes from my years slogging away toffee nut lattes, but I grew to love customers that became literal service industry archetypes. AKA, horrendously smelly meth-addicted trucker who always commented on the fact that I have a mole on my chest and talked about doing meth and how coffee kept him off meth for a couple more hours. OR, Enormously obese women who always talked about being hideously obese, but always ordered Venti Breves. OR, the paint-huffer (literally you could see the ring of color around most of his face) who aways tried to steal sugar and at one point defecated in front of me in an alley. OR, my building's security guard who I suspect to be an ex-con and who one day I found using the ladies restroom and when I ask him why responded, "for a change."
Yes, I am sort of obsessed with these people.
And that's why I've decided the only way I can be happy is to commit myself to the only man that encompasses all the above archetypes:
Thankfully, there's now a website to help me. And, apparently, his real name is Chris!!
No, that's not quite right, I love individuals that are so utterly ridiculous, they defy being limited to the definition of characters.
Maybe it comes from my years slogging away toffee nut lattes, but I grew to love customers that became literal service industry archetypes. AKA, horrendously smelly meth-addicted trucker who always commented on the fact that I have a mole on my chest and talked about doing meth and how coffee kept him off meth for a couple more hours. OR, Enormously obese women who always talked about being hideously obese, but always ordered Venti Breves. OR, the paint-huffer (literally you could see the ring of color around most of his face) who aways tried to steal sugar and at one point defecated in front of me in an alley. OR, my building's security guard who I suspect to be an ex-con and who one day I found using the ladies restroom and when I ask him why responded, "for a change."
Yes, I am sort of obsessed with these people.
And that's why I've decided the only way I can be happy is to commit myself to the only man that encompasses all the above archetypes:
Thankfully, there's now a website to help me. And, apparently, his real name is Chris!!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Why I Don't Deserve To Be Loved
Scene: a public bathroom. Someone else, hidden in blissful anonymity behind a stall door, is clearly biding their time until everyone leaves so they can perform a #2. Time after time I find myself taking an extra long time washing my hands/fixing my hair/throwing on a few extra coats of mascara just to make them squirm. And on the way out I long to kick their stall door and hiss, "I know what you're planning to do. And it's DISGUSTING."
May (awkward or what you will) day
I work downtown, which comes with its own unique collection of delights and defeats: The ways to spend my money unreasonably are endless, overprice sandwiches and bums abound, hoodrats from Bellevue prance throughout the streets with merry abandon, traffic is always unbearable and there's generally a lot white people around.
Not so today, my friends. Today is May Day and the suits are scared.
How scared? Well, I've only gotten about 20 different emails from 20 different organizations proclaiming gloom and doom due to the fact that the Seattle longshoremen skipped work and there are a bunch of Mexicans downtown. These emails have ranged from the incredibly racist to the just plain apocalyptic. Here's a sampling:
From: *Name and Company Redacted*
To: Me
WARNING: May Day Rally Downtown Today.
As many as 7,000 people will converge in downtown. Leave your offices before 3:30 p.m. if you are worried about your commute. Traffic looks to be terrible this afternoon.
____
From: *Name and Company Redacted*
To: Me
ATTENTION: Due to the May Day protests, a large portion of our building's janitorial staff will not be working tonight. Please do not be alarmed if you find your offices unvacuumed tomorrow morning. We are working to find support janitorial services in this time of need. We appreciate your cooperation and apologize for the inconvenience.
____
From: My Boss
To: Me
In the past, this march has created traffic nightmares for folks.
Feel free to leave early to avoid the traffic (or to join the march, if that's your thing.)
I'll probably cut out a bit early myself to catch the Ms game.
____
Yes, my friends, we live in truly troubled times.
Not so today, my friends. Today is May Day and the suits are scared.
How scared? Well, I've only gotten about 20 different emails from 20 different organizations proclaiming gloom and doom due to the fact that the Seattle longshoremen skipped work and there are a bunch of Mexicans downtown. These emails have ranged from the incredibly racist to the just plain apocalyptic. Here's a sampling:
From: *Name and Company Redacted*
To: Me
WARNING: May Day Rally Downtown Today.
As many as 7,000 people will converge in downtown. Leave your offices before 3:30 p.m. if you are worried about your commute. Traffic looks to be terrible this afternoon.
____
From: *Name and Company Redacted*
To: Me
ATTENTION: Due to the May Day protests, a large portion of our building's janitorial staff will not be working tonight. Please do not be alarmed if you find your offices unvacuumed tomorrow morning. We are working to find support janitorial services in this time of need. We appreciate your cooperation and apologize for the inconvenience.
____
From: My Boss
To: Me
In the past, this march has created traffic nightmares for folks.
Feel free to leave early to avoid the traffic (or to join the march, if that's your thing.)
I'll probably cut out a bit early myself to catch the Ms game.
____
Yes, my friends, we live in truly troubled times.
Sick Day!
Friends, is there anything better than a Sick Day? While I believe Pete & Pete was amongst the first to pay the Sick Day a fitting tribute (the enlightened will recall the episode where Little Pete feigns illness after doctoring a can of tapioca... plaque candy, President Eisenhower, and an always appreciated cameo by LL Cool J follow), I'll join the ranks and offer my own. For your reading pleasure, here is a manifest of how I chose to spend my very own Sick Day yesterday:
6:00 AM: Wake up. Get the joe brewing, scratch myself while listening to Morning Edition.
6:20 AM: Decide I'm feeling a little under the weather. Consult WebMD while drinking said joe to see if it might be terminal.
7:30 AM: Narrow down potential ailments to gout, ALS or syphillis. Call in to work.
7:35 AM: Eat some waffles, smoke some Pall Malls.
9:00 AM: Phone mother. Mother wonders why I'm calling her at such an odd hour, and I inform her about Sick Day. "Didn't you just quit your job?" mother asks. I immediately start crying and hang up the phone.
9:03 AM: Call mother back. "I'm sorry," I say. "It's just... I..." I start sobbing again. My mom calms me down by singing "Cracklin' Rosie" and letting me talk to our cat Snowy over the phone. I feel a little sleepy.
10 AM: Take nap. Have what would've been a sex dream about teevee's Rider Strong, except we didn't do it, just made out hella. Totally gave him my digits.
3PM: Wake up in a groggy haze. Consider showering, putting on a bra, brushing my hair. Decide against all three, and instead leave my apartment in full greasy forehead and pit-stained glory to get a sandwich.
4 PM: Return home. Create nice trail between bathroom and couch in trash and clothes-strewn bachelor jungle. Feel a little sleepy.
4:23 PM: Watch Disc 3, Season 4 of the motherfucking wire. Feel me?
9:35 PM: Eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. Pass out with remote still in my hand.
6:00 AM: Wake up. Get the joe brewing, scratch myself while listening to Morning Edition.
6:20 AM: Decide I'm feeling a little under the weather. Consult WebMD while drinking said joe to see if it might be terminal.
7:30 AM: Narrow down potential ailments to gout, ALS or syphillis. Call in to work.
7:35 AM: Eat some waffles, smoke some Pall Malls.
9:00 AM: Phone mother. Mother wonders why I'm calling her at such an odd hour, and I inform her about Sick Day. "Didn't you just quit your job?" mother asks. I immediately start crying and hang up the phone.
9:03 AM: Call mother back. "I'm sorry," I say. "It's just... I..." I start sobbing again. My mom calms me down by singing "Cracklin' Rosie" and letting me talk to our cat Snowy over the phone. I feel a little sleepy.
10 AM: Take nap. Have what would've been a sex dream about teevee's Rider Strong, except we didn't do it, just made out hella. Totally gave him my digits.
3PM: Wake up in a groggy haze. Consider showering, putting on a bra, brushing my hair. Decide against all three, and instead leave my apartment in full greasy forehead and pit-stained glory to get a sandwich.
4 PM: Return home. Create nice trail between bathroom and couch in trash and clothes-strewn bachelor jungle. Feel a little sleepy.
4:23 PM: Watch Disc 3, Season 4 of the motherfucking wire. Feel me?
9:35 PM: Eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. Pass out with remote still in my hand.
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