Monday, May 12, 2003
Hey, that’s good. Joe might have set me up a new interview with his job. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Kevynn the waiter/bartender is fun and all, but this job was only supposed to last a couple of months. Not two and something years. But, I don’t regret it. I was a desperate, laid-off, dot com guy. Funny, huh? Isn’t everybody a laid-off dot comer? All of them have jobs or are dead, though. I smile and talk, and look smart in my big, fat tie and wrinkled, white shirt. I ask you how to make your drinks and sit down at the tables with the old men. People ask me how my weekend was. I tell them stories, they laugh. They tip. I follow them to their car, and say, “ Hulk Smash!” and then tip their car over. I wake up in an alley with nothing on but a pair of shredded, purple pants. Nuff’ said.
I don’t know what the hell’s been going on with me recently, but ever since I came back from my two month hiatus, my sense of discombobulation has increased. My fingers don’t respond to me as well as before. There’s a bad connection. My sleeping habits have gotten worse, I think about things to write, projects to tackle, things to start, and my arms fill with concrete. The fire from my brain starts to slow down. Eventually it congeals and solidifies. Making me walk around like an ape. Apes can’t talk; so then people can’t understand me. People can’t understand me, so then I get frustrated. When I get frustrated, I get mad. When I get mad, I get violent. When I get violent, I throw things. When I throw things, my bad aim comes into effect. Old ladies walking their poodles get hit in the ears. They can’t hear me apologize. Nobody is happy.
No, really. I need that old, mad, flavor. The premium gas. The bomp dee bomp. The ramma lamma ding dong. I need to lop off my arm and replace it with a chainsaw. Rip up this keyboard. I need to stop typing like an old woman.
Or, at least, to get an old woman to do my typing.