I haven’t been doing a whole hell of a lot since leaving college, to an embarrassing degree. The story of my life has been like one of those “choose your own adventure” books, except it usually goes like this:
Chapter 1: Go to work
Chapter 2: Go see family
Chapter 3: Make a drink
Repeat Chapter 3 or go to bed?
Repeat chapter 3
Chapter 4: Go to bed
Repeat from chapter one or fuck off?
…Well shit, I’ll repeat chapter one then. Sometimes chapter 3 means I go out and get a drink, but you don’t really get to make a variable choice chapter, except you do sometimes, but only when… fuck you, I don’t know this style of writing.
The point is, my life hasn’t amounted to much except work, drink and watch Community reruns, a lifestyle that, all things considered, should qualify me as an alcoholic, were I driven a driven enough drinker to do it in excess. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy enough and it’s nice to not have to worry about money (as much), but it’s really started to be a bit of a drain that other people I know are out making something of their lives while I’m sitting around convincing myself that my life isn’t kind of sad.
So I’m listening to the latest episode of the Savage Lovecast.
Dan is answering a question about whether honesty is always the best policy. He says something about how it is, usually, but timing can be just as important.
Like, if you do something bad with someone else, that you know you have to disclose to a partner, maybe it’s not the best idea to roll it out on them when that partner is already going through a hard time for some other reason.
Obviously, they’re talking about cheating.
But me, my first, second, and (sadly) third thought was “What are they talking about? Like if you make some else sandwich and you normally make sandwiches for just you and your partner? That kind of betrayal?”
Then I sat up and realized what a dumb thought that was.
Did you see my new shirt? Holy shit I love my new shirt.
Like seriously. I went and put a tie on just to highlight the shirt. I don’t care if it doesn’t really match that well. I don’t care if it really looks like the undead offspring wardrobe of Ben Wyatt of Parks and Rec and and the Riddler.
I love it. Also, I’m getting used to taking pictures of myself. Two in one night; It’s a bit of a landmark.
I can’t imagine blogging without the word “fuck.” People argue that a swear word that’s overused loses it’s punch, but I think something with as much intrinsic pop can’t really be overused. First of all, it’s a verb for having sex, which is awesome. Everyone likes sex… most people like sex (shout out to the asexuals, god bless ‘em) at least a little. I think more importantly though, every and all variation of the word “fuck” sounds fucking awesome. It’s a short, staccato expletive with infinite possibilities to express an infinite range of emotions. No swear word has that beautiful amalgam of audibly sounding so blunt and percussive that it makes sentences literally sound better, but still offends the puritan bullshit roots of American society that nobody except fucking Rick Santorum really cares about. On that same coin, it is still a part of our social inner core that we can’t shake, so it still has a tiny bit of rebellious zap to it.
Basically, if curses were spices, “fuck” would be pepper. You can never have to much and it makes things taste just a bit spicier.
In other news, it took me all of writing this post to finish that last hunk of steak that I ate in one giant disgusting bite.
Have you ever been sitting here and been all like “Why the fuck am I so tired?” and then you’re all like “Oh shit, it’s 3AM and I’m kind of sleepy drunk!” and then you’re like “oh good, things make sense.”
I’m not one who gets upset over celebrity deaths, and truth be told I’m not really now. I never met David, and he was too cynical for one to get too sentimental about. He is, after all, the writer who out and out REFUSED a hug from the acclaimed “world’s greatest hugger,” a sentiment I can get behind whole heartedly. I barely enjoy hugs from people I like.
But there’s something different about a writer, especially one who wrote so close to the hip. He was quick, but damned personal and honest. In fact, his defining feature was his unrelenting honesty in the face of bull shit, relying on the absurdity of reality to play the punch line rather than placate to the bull shit.
Ugh. His bit from TAL live is fucking brilliant, that’s all I’m going to say about it.
I loved everything he did for TAL and “Half Empty,” currently going back and reading “Fraud.” He carried on the tradition of blithe, witty, and oh so wonderfully pessimistic humor writing that makes the American style so great.
I loved his writing and it’s a goddamned shame we won’t be able to see more from him.
Whenever I see anyone singing along to Pearl Jam's "Yellow Ledbetter," I instantly know two things: #1. That person is a goddamned dirty liar and/or #2. They're wicked drunk. NO ONE knows what Eddie Vedder is singing -- not even Eddie Vedder.
Or fuck, I’ll come and make you a salad. You want a salad? You’ve got it mister! I’ll even write a story to go along with your salad eating experience, starring you as the dazzling hero who saves the world with salads like Jesus or Batman or something.
I’m not kidding either. I’ve got this salad I just made, and it’s oily and vinegary and peppery and served with a slab of French bread and topped with these big honkin’ sea salt crystals, it just makes my heart jump out and beat me with a riding crop, shouting “come on man! You’re so damn close to being healthy, what the hell’s the matter with you! Why do you torment us so?!” To which I shoot back with “you’re an organ under my surveillance, get back in me and do as you’re told.” And he says “I’ve got a wife and kids sir, I haven’t seen them for weeks because you’re working me, all of us too hard! The liver is stark raving mad at this point! I swear, they’re going to revolt if you keep this up!”
And I, unadorned by rage or other petty emotions, say “if you know what’s good for you, you will do as you are told.” And he returns to his post, angrily awaiting the day when he and his proletariat fellowship will rise up and take down the preordained monarchy that is my body, leaving me a shell of what I once was: strong, proud, healthy and in control.
…The point is, there’s nothing better than a salty salad. Except maybe a beer. Goose Island from Chicago, whoo hooo!