My life is pretty plain
It's Saturday morning, at 4:33pm. I've only been up for an hour. You'd think that I had a good Friday. It wasn't too bad, actually, but it wasn't that good. I probably shouldn't complain too much, as it could have been a lot worse, but when you stay up until 7am and subsequently sacrifice much of your Saturday to dreaming, there are certain expectations. In any case, I lounge around, listening to Blind Melon while wearing my limey green hoodie and a pair of shorts, which should eventually be burned.
I worked last night. My boss was trashed, as usual, so I went ahead and bartended. My boss, a genuine ex-crack whore, has a thing against deaf bartenders. Apparently we're worthless, stupid, and incompetent. Ironically, those are traits I ascribe to her. I suppose she's doing a bit of psychological projection, and I seethe at having to train the new bartenders while no one has faith in my abilities. But, yeah, I bartended yesterday, and I fucking kicked ass if I do say so myself. I love showing up the other bartenders, both in skill, speed, and looks.
Work garnered me ten bucks (most of the phat cash went to the real bartender, who I think gypped me of my due. I hate it when the bartenders think they can cop out a few dollars because they feel they need it more. Hey. I'm poor too.), which meant I could drink on my own dollar for the first time in a week. M., stopped by, so we went to the Loft for drinks.
The Loft is a martini bar. Hell, even Hicktown has to have a bit of sophistication. It's the only way the State Farm yuppies can prance around and pretend that they're living the big-city singles life. The drinks, martinis, are expensive, but from what I've sampled, they're quite good. I had a dirty martini, which is basically vodka and olive joice, and an apple martini, which is vodka, and apple vodka. It's kind of a girly vodka, but I enjoy it anyway. Mostly because I can drink it like water.
On a side note, my boss serves Apple pucker in shots. One afternoon, I suggested we sell apple martinis. She couldn’t fathom putting pucker in vodka and calling a martini (Whuddya know?). So, of course, that idea didn't fly.
The Loft had a live band, and they were downright funky. I couldn't help but groove in my seat while M. looked over lustily. After a few songs, she couldn't take it anymore and dragged me over to the floor. Now, I love dancing, and I love dancing with girls even more, but M. had no rhythm. If you don't have any rhythm, I don't care if you dance, but don't try to force me into your lack-of-rhythm. I ended up pushing her away and dancing by my lonesome, while at the same time trying to entice her into my fold. See, that way I can dance alone, to the proper rhythm, and the girl still things I'm dancing with her. It's a bit of tact manipulation, I'll admit, but it works.
We did this for an hour. I then tired of the old-folk/yuppie scene and suggested we bolt to 110. So, we did, but first old ladies, who claimed that they wanted to look at my tattoos, felt me up. Of course, "looking" entailed a bit of stroking. I don't mind. It's one hell of a compliment when old skeezers wet themselves over you.
110 was fucked. M. was quite tipsy and ended up becoming ill. We went back to my place, where she proceeded to pass out, leaving me bouncing around the living room. My roommate, M.M. had returned from the A.D.Pi semi-formal with one very rotund, very bored girl. She looked at my gymnastic moves and old ballet forms with a slack-jaw, two very dopey-eyes, and a bit of vermeer and sweet vermouth.
So, Friday.
--------------
It's hard to believe that next week, this time, I'll be in Phoenix. There's home for me now. It'll be warm. It'll be toasty. It'll be beautiful. It'll smack of reality.
Yeah, I'm going to have to look for a job. Not just any job. A fucking career. I graduate in May, from my worthless school, with my worthless degree and my worthless resume. Welcome to the real world, Jon. Enjoy your stay. Try not to mind the constant ass-raping by this here splintery broom-handle. Eventually you'll be able to afford a bit of K-Y. Things'll go smoother after that.
A fucking job. I can't believe it. Hell, I'll be 22 in a week and a half. That's like, ancient or something. I peek over my shoulder constantly, wondering if there's a walker waiting for me with my name engraved on it. I expect any moment now my balls will drop to the floor and I'll spend the rest of my live in squalor, alone, unlaid, and dragging my nuts from corner to corner. Oh, yes, and crapping my pants on command.
Ah! The holy moment. This moment is holy. Holy holy holy.
After a talk with M.B., who was a professor of mine from a different lifetime, I've come to the conclusion that I'll most likely end up becoming a substitue teacher, while I try to earn enough money to get into grad school. Substitute teachers don't need real teaching degrees. All they need is a B.A. in some subject, and a piece of paper that says they are literate enough to read the lesson plans left by the teacher. Come to think of it, that explains many substitute teachers. Any douche with a degree in fluffing (heheheheh, Beavis, he said fluffing) can get a substitute teacher paper and wander merrily into the school district.
Scary, isn't it? I'm going to be teaching.
Pinky, phase one is complete.
Gee, Brain. What's phase two?
....
Pinky, phase three is profit!
I worked last night. My boss was trashed, as usual, so I went ahead and bartended. My boss, a genuine ex-crack whore, has a thing against deaf bartenders. Apparently we're worthless, stupid, and incompetent. Ironically, those are traits I ascribe to her. I suppose she's doing a bit of psychological projection, and I seethe at having to train the new bartenders while no one has faith in my abilities. But, yeah, I bartended yesterday, and I fucking kicked ass if I do say so myself. I love showing up the other bartenders, both in skill, speed, and looks.
Work garnered me ten bucks (most of the phat cash went to the real bartender, who I think gypped me of my due. I hate it when the bartenders think they can cop out a few dollars because they feel they need it more. Hey. I'm poor too.), which meant I could drink on my own dollar for the first time in a week. M., stopped by, so we went to the Loft for drinks.
The Loft is a martini bar. Hell, even Hicktown has to have a bit of sophistication. It's the only way the State Farm yuppies can prance around and pretend that they're living the big-city singles life. The drinks, martinis, are expensive, but from what I've sampled, they're quite good. I had a dirty martini, which is basically vodka and olive joice, and an apple martini, which is vodka, and apple vodka. It's kind of a girly vodka, but I enjoy it anyway. Mostly because I can drink it like water.
On a side note, my boss serves Apple pucker in shots. One afternoon, I suggested we sell apple martinis. She couldn’t fathom putting pucker in vodka and calling a martini (Whuddya know?). So, of course, that idea didn't fly.
The Loft had a live band, and they were downright funky. I couldn't help but groove in my seat while M. looked over lustily. After a few songs, she couldn't take it anymore and dragged me over to the floor. Now, I love dancing, and I love dancing with girls even more, but M. had no rhythm. If you don't have any rhythm, I don't care if you dance, but don't try to force me into your lack-of-rhythm. I ended up pushing her away and dancing by my lonesome, while at the same time trying to entice her into my fold. See, that way I can dance alone, to the proper rhythm, and the girl still things I'm dancing with her. It's a bit of tact manipulation, I'll admit, but it works.
We did this for an hour. I then tired of the old-folk/yuppie scene and suggested we bolt to 110. So, we did, but first old ladies, who claimed that they wanted to look at my tattoos, felt me up. Of course, "looking" entailed a bit of stroking. I don't mind. It's one hell of a compliment when old skeezers wet themselves over you.
110 was fucked. M. was quite tipsy and ended up becoming ill. We went back to my place, where she proceeded to pass out, leaving me bouncing around the living room. My roommate, M.M. had returned from the A.D.Pi semi-formal with one very rotund, very bored girl. She looked at my gymnastic moves and old ballet forms with a slack-jaw, two very dopey-eyes, and a bit of vermeer and sweet vermouth.
So, Friday.
--------------
It's hard to believe that next week, this time, I'll be in Phoenix. There's home for me now. It'll be warm. It'll be toasty. It'll be beautiful. It'll smack of reality.
Yeah, I'm going to have to look for a job. Not just any job. A fucking career. I graduate in May, from my worthless school, with my worthless degree and my worthless resume. Welcome to the real world, Jon. Enjoy your stay. Try not to mind the constant ass-raping by this here splintery broom-handle. Eventually you'll be able to afford a bit of K-Y. Things'll go smoother after that.
A fucking job. I can't believe it. Hell, I'll be 22 in a week and a half. That's like, ancient or something. I peek over my shoulder constantly, wondering if there's a walker waiting for me with my name engraved on it. I expect any moment now my balls will drop to the floor and I'll spend the rest of my live in squalor, alone, unlaid, and dragging my nuts from corner to corner. Oh, yes, and crapping my pants on command.
Ah! The holy moment. This moment is holy. Holy holy holy.
After a talk with M.B., who was a professor of mine from a different lifetime, I've come to the conclusion that I'll most likely end up becoming a substitue teacher, while I try to earn enough money to get into grad school. Substitute teachers don't need real teaching degrees. All they need is a B.A. in some subject, and a piece of paper that says they are literate enough to read the lesson plans left by the teacher. Come to think of it, that explains many substitute teachers. Any douche with a degree in fluffing (heheheheh, Beavis, he said fluffing) can get a substitute teacher paper and wander merrily into the school district.
Scary, isn't it? I'm going to be teaching.
Pinky, phase one is complete.
Gee, Brain. What's phase two?
....
Pinky, phase three is profit!
posted by Jon at 2:35 PM
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