You know it’s bad when you struggle to cook.
It’s too damn windy out to be productive. Especially when it’s
89 degrees and humid inside the house. I rush to make four burgers, two for
tonight, two for tomorrow and some broccoli. I know I’m rushing. I have to get
up at 6:45 in the morning to go to work by 8:30. What the fuck is that? Then, I’ll
be there until 11. Why do I do this to myself? Is meeting this guy worth it?
But, I want to eat. And eat well tonight, so I’m cooking on
the grill. That adds at least an hour to prepare time. But, I soldier on. The
bugs are flying inside since I opened up the door. It’s a compromise.
I sometimes wish I had a dog. But, then I’d have to keep the
air conditioning on all the time so the dog didn’t burn up. Tradeoffs.
My car needs to be inspected. It needs new brake pads.
Probably needs a new timing belt. But, I’m hoping that last one is just me
being paranoid. But, I am usually right about such things.
A former colleague finished his book, I hear. I’m jealous. I
can’t seem to get started on one. I have ideas, but no focus. I feel like I’m
always on acid. Amazed by what’s going on inside and outside of my mind, but
completely unable to focus. I have no idea if that’s what being on acid is
like.
My nipples are raw. I wore a new shirt to work today it the
damn thing rubbed on them all day and night. I kept looking at my erect nipples
and wondering what the rest of the office was thinking. I do that.
The janitor was working today. Funny to see that.
Eating tacos is fun.
Eating tacos is great.
I don’t eat enough tacos.
There’s a giant pile of gravel in the alley between my house
and the hotel now. The caretaker was shoveling that shit into the alley all
morning. When I was trying to sleep. I almost was going to just hook my
speakers up to my computer, find the worst bit of tranny on tranny porn that I could
find and blast it out the window. I’d say that’s fair. Now I’m going to have
all these dug up bugs scampering about my house due to this new pile of rubble
and shit. And the giant hotel sign is gone. I wonder what he did with it? I do
now know that a giant pile of bricks was behind it. I wonder if that’s where
the feral cats were always fucking?
I still want a taco. But instead I’m cooking hamburgers.
Three the normal way – Montreal seasoning and worstershire sauce – the fourth
with those and some Crawfish seasoning. It’ll be interesting.
My foot itches. It actually feels like something is crawling
on top of it and biting it. I’m wondering if I have ants. I don’t want to look
because ants piss me off. And it would be the fault of the fucker dumping shit
in the alley. It’s right near where I am right now. So, yes, I would blame that
fucker with the ugly ponytail. I wonder to myself how many people called me the
fucker with the ugly ponytail when I lived in Tempe?
I spilled a beer on my couch and carpet three nights ago. I
didn’t clean it up. It still smells like beer in here. Maybe that’s where the
ants are coming from? Spilt beer on the couch. That would not make a good band
name.
I officially put out the invite for the Crawfish get together.
I wonder if more than the 11 or so what showed up last year will show up this
year. I know some will not, some will. All I can do is drink my Lone Star beer,
cook the crawfish and see what happens. Sounds like a God damn good plan.
It amazes me the lengths some people will go just to snark.
I used to be like that. And sometimes still am. It bothers me now. Is that a
sign of growing old or just getting tired? Hell, I ain’t Don Rickles.
Somewhere right now, Adam Sandler is thinking about Bog
Saget. Or maybe, John Lyndon is having sex. Still another possibility is Jose Canseco
staring at himself in the mirror while trying to figure out why the Iron Sheik
doesn’t like him.
Well, at least I wrote more than 750 words.
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