zenexistence

I hope all you bastards had one hell of a Christmas.

I had a great one.

Of couse, I didn't get an Official Red Rider BB gun, but I'm used to that ...

Happy Holidays, and sod off!
-Scotty

The gash on my forehead is nothing more then stitch-marks now.
Yay.
I no longer feel like a reject from a 'Rocky' movie, although I do enjoy bellowing, 'Yo, Adrian!', from time to time ...

I'm so goddamn poor.
Part of me thought that returning to a low-paying, but more satisfying job would be a romantic thing, ala the ole' rationale, "Well, I'm poor but...
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I have a big gash in my forehead.

"How did this happen, you stupid bastard", I'm sure you're compassionately wondering.

Allow poppa to tell another of his infamous stories.

Let's set the scene: it's Sunday, late afternoon, football on the TV and my brother over.
We decided that Sunday would not be Sunday if there wasn't a beer or two imbibed while shooting the shit...
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So, my job hunt has become MUCH more urgent.

Why so?' you must obviously [or not so obviously, fuckers] wonder?

I made a mistake and got a ticket around last January.
Lets just say my brother and I had been drinking.
Lets just say it was 3AM, had just started raining, and I lost control of my truck and it slid off the road into...
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Happy frickin' Turkee Day, you bastards.

Sincerely,
Your Momma

Rant on:

Okay, going from piercer to barrista [that's a coffee-server to all of you unenlightened] is somewhat frustrating.

One job has persons coming to you for the sole reason of your specific training and knowledge of the anatomy, with the intent of removing a milli-micron of skin at various points throughout the body via a sharpened surgical stainless steel device, allowing for the insertion...
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I now serve coffee.

I have a regular paycheck.

I wear a fuckin' apron.

Oh well, at least I have benefits and a Ruby Tuesdays 30-feet from the front door of the bookstore, and they give us discounts on our beer.

Life could be worse.

-Me

PS - Webcams rock.

I'm sick.

I have a raging head cold.

It took me three days to move into my all-too-small place.

All my muscles ache from the combined effort of moving and from being sick.

I'm too sick to drink beer.

I'm tired of working as a piercer. I think it might be time to return to a real job with a secure paycheck every two weeks...
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I wish I'd been lucky enough to go to SGNY last weekend.
Instead I had the similarly arousing experience of packing all my belongings, spending a grand on a new place to live, and falling out a window at a friends house.
Sweet.
Anyone have a dog I can kick and a kiddie I can steal candy from?
It would improve my mood.
I swear....
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I hate moving.

I hate packing. I hate unpacking. I hate cleaning. I hate paying deposits. I hate signing lengthy leases. I hate having landlords.

I hate my life right now.

I haven't started a fight in a long time.

Granted, I've been in my fair share, but that's not the same thing.

Last night I started a fight.

If you hit a girl, you ought to get your ass kicked. If you beat a girl, i.e., more than a slap, you ought to get curbed.
Real fucking simple.

I crashed at a friends house two...
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I've decided to become a monk.

It's easy:

* No clothing issues; you get that nifty hooded robe and a belt made out of twine.

* Free food and rent.

* You can live in some lonely monastary and chant funny Latin words.

* And last but not least, you can brew beer.
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Oh, no girls.

Damn.

I'd have looked damn cool in that...
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