Saturday, January 18, 2003
I'm going to start a new hobby of mailing companies angry consumer letters that follow this format:
Dear Worthless Sack of Shit,
My wife left me and your product sucks. Send me some coupons.
The only people who have e-mailed me today are pornographers.
"No, no, no. It's not you. It's me. It's not that you're a total bitch who doesn't put out. It's that I can't handle you being a total bitch who doesn't put out."
Whenever I see two men walking together, I assume they're faggots, and then I loudly announce as much to them and anyone else in the vicinity.
E-mail conversation with a coworker:
Subject: thought for the day
A: The U.S. pays childcare workers less than animal caretakers and parking lot attendants.
B: I really like my car properly attended, though.
A: is that a euphemism?
B: Yes. Which reminds me that I really need to get my car waxed.
A: do you have a flat?
B: No, the tires are fine and it runs like a dream, but it really needs a wash and a vacuum and other niceties to spruce it up a bit. It's got a couple of dents, which were not my fault.
Plus, it has syphilis.
Dear Worthless Sack of Shit,
My wife left me and your product sucks. Send me some coupons.
The only people who have e-mailed me today are pornographers.
"No, no, no. It's not you. It's me. It's not that you're a total bitch who doesn't put out. It's that I can't handle you being a total bitch who doesn't put out."
Whenever I see two men walking together, I assume they're faggots, and then I loudly announce as much to them and anyone else in the vicinity.
E-mail conversation with a coworker:
Subject: thought for the day
A: The U.S. pays childcare workers less than animal caretakers and parking lot attendants.
B: I really like my car properly attended, though.
A: is that a euphemism?
B: Yes. Which reminds me that I really need to get my car waxed.
A: do you have a flat?
B: No, the tires are fine and it runs like a dream, but it really needs a wash and a vacuum and other niceties to spruce it up a bit. It's got a couple of dents, which were not my fault.
Plus, it has syphilis.
Thursday, January 16, 2003
As I drove back to work from a lunch hour that involved me not so much eating as watching my dog relieve himself, I put on my sunglasses for the first time on this lush and grey Wednesday, the sun finally coming out just in time to set. Just like every other trip in my car for the last two weeks, I was listening to Juno's "This is the Way it Goes and Goes and Goes" on the CD player I jack into my cassette deck (I've promised that one of the comfort investments I will make to my car this year, somewhere far behind a wash and thorough vacuuming, is a real CD player). I started to sing along with his low, soft scream, and I thought of you. I don't remember if it was something funny you said, or your laughter, or the shape of your face, but I thought of you, and that memory made me happy, and I wanted you to know that.
No. You. I'm talking about you.
You may or may not dance at nighttime through the dreams of others like smoke or candy or a great and monstrous train, but I can guarantee that during every moment of every waking daytime somewhere someone is thinking of you. Maybe it's your mother or your boss, or maybe it’s the last heart you broke or that quiet special someone who can't ever seem to get you off their mind, or maybe it's your third grade teacher or some guy at American Express carefully monitoring your credit card expenditures, or maybe it's me, but somewhere someone is thinking of you.
Don't look so surprised. Have you seen you? Go ahead. Look in the mirror, close your eyes, and take a good, hard look at you.
You.
You are beautiful.
You are talented.
You are kind.
You are you and you are loved.
You.
You feel that? You're smiling. Because you know I'm right.
No. You. I'm talking about you.
You may or may not dance at nighttime through the dreams of others like smoke or candy or a great and monstrous train, but I can guarantee that during every moment of every waking daytime somewhere someone is thinking of you. Maybe it's your mother or your boss, or maybe it’s the last heart you broke or that quiet special someone who can't ever seem to get you off their mind, or maybe it's your third grade teacher or some guy at American Express carefully monitoring your credit card expenditures, or maybe it's me, but somewhere someone is thinking of you.
Don't look so surprised. Have you seen you? Go ahead. Look in the mirror, close your eyes, and take a good, hard look at you.
You.
You are beautiful.
You are talented.
You are kind.
You are you and you are loved.
You.
You feel that? You're smiling. Because you know I'm right.
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
And maybe someday you'll see that him being good looking isn't as important as him being good, but, by then, will you be too afraid of being alone?
Tuesday, January 14, 2003
My swear word renaissance begins now!
Some people will say, "Vulgarity is for people with bad diction." and I will say "Fuck you, you fucking fuck! I wish you were fucking dead!"
E-mail conversation I had with a coworker today:
Subject: I'm glad you have your headphones on
A: because I'm muttering up a swear word storm over here.
B: why? what's wrong?
A: It just helps me work better.
B: i'm listening to a self-help mama on the net.
A: I'm listening to the walls of my left ventricle flood with my bile.
B: is that a new band?
A: It's a little side project I've been working on since junior high school.
Some people will say, "Vulgarity is for people with bad diction." and I will say "Fuck you, you fucking fuck! I wish you were fucking dead!"
E-mail conversation I had with a coworker today:
Subject: I'm glad you have your headphones on
A: because I'm muttering up a swear word storm over here.
B: why? what's wrong?
A: It just helps me work better.
B: i'm listening to a self-help mama on the net.
A: I'm listening to the walls of my left ventricle flood with my bile.
B: is that a new band?
A: It's a little side project I've been working on since junior high school.
Monday, January 13, 2003
I do a lot of scowling throughout my day.
Instead of "Casual Fridays," I'd like to advocate for "Swear Word Mondays," where we would be encouraged to say things like "Shut your fucking mouth!"
Sometimes girls will talk to me about their worthless boyfriends and I think "ARGH!!! YOU ARE SO FUCKING STUPID!!!" but mostly I just say pithy, reassuring things.
Instead of "Casual Fridays," I'd like to advocate for "Swear Word Mondays," where we would be encouraged to say things like "Shut your fucking mouth!"
Sometimes girls will talk to me about their worthless boyfriends and I think "ARGH!!! YOU ARE SO FUCKING STUPID!!!" but mostly I just say pithy, reassuring things.
When I got home Saturday night I read a few issues of Brian Michael Bendis's Ultimate Spider-Man and, at times, I got a little choked up, because that's how good it is. Then I spent all Sunday trying to think of a word that is a good amalgation of "softie" and "dork." Unfortunately, the best I've come up with so far is "Mike."
Sunday, January 12, 2003
David Sedaris's "The Santaland Diaries"...
...starring Martin Burke, a face you just want to kick.
Tough guys don't use umbrellas.
Open Letter to All Indie Rock Transvestites:
No matter how many SAT words you use to lyrically smash the state or how blackety-black your tears bleed, as long as you wear eye-liner and black nail polish, as long as you dye your shag black, as long as your belt has more character than a Beckett novel, I can not take you seriously and I will not empathize.
...starring Martin Burke, a face you just want to kick.
Tough guys don't use umbrellas.
Open Letter to All Indie Rock Transvestites:
No matter how many SAT words you use to lyrically smash the state or how blackety-black your tears bleed, as long as you wear eye-liner and black nail polish, as long as you dye your shag black, as long as your belt has more character than a Beckett novel, I can not take you seriously and I will not empathize.
