...and I need for it to leave me alone.
It's not like I can take a pill or drink some cherry flavored syrup or have a needle jammed into a vein and my body filled with some type of healing serum.
The only thing that can cure it, unfortunately, is time. And sadly, I feel I may be running out of that.
The worst feeling I thought that I ever felt kicked my ass 10 years ago. Easily, I'd swap that pain for the sorry fucking pain I've got now.
I should have...I could have...I would have...none of that means dick now. It's over. An ice cube in hell has got a better shot than what I got. And at the same time I realize this, that same ice cube has got the same shot in hell as I do with getting over this.
Just to hear her say, "I love you Bear" one more time...to hold her tight against my body protecting her from the dragons that dance through my room...to see those long lashes colored black...those mahogany eyes staring at me...her perfect, well, her perfect everything...how did I let myself fuck it all up?
You can say to let her go and to get over her all you want, but you'll never know a thing about how I really feel. There is no way, no matter how good of a writer I pretend to be, that I could ever portray my love for her on this screen or a sheet of paper or lying on a couch talking to a shrink.
She's the only person in the world who knows how I feel. But what she doesn't know, or refuses to understand, is that I would wait as long as she wanted me to for her to come back home.
And I know she wont ever come back home. But I keep crossing my fingers, and praying, and making wishes at certain times of the day that she would.
Why, at 32-years old, do I have this fucking love like I'm 18 again? Why do I think that she is the only person on the planet that I will ever want to be with? Why is she the only one that I want to be with? Why can I let her have my heart, if she doesn't want the fucking thing?
I hated when she told me she was just a kid the last time we spoke on the phone. I hope she really doesn't think that about herself. She was one of, if not the strongest woman I've ever known. And I don't mean physically.
I've moved on, Waterbed. But it wasn't a fucking easy thing to do. Sorry I wasn't as strong as you were. Even though you're gone, and I know you don't want to be here with me, I had to stop lying to myself and pretending that I was over you. It took some time, but I got there.
The last time this kinda thing happened, I was 22. About 6 months after it happened that time, I had my wreck. To this day, I still swear that the wreck was what got me over that one. Glad I didn't have to die again to get over you.
But maybe that's what you wanted.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
You Crazy, Fucking Mess
Last evening, while killing time before I played guitar at a bar, a sexy little blond (+1 point), with green eyes (+1 point), above 5'8" (+1 point), a smoking hot body (+1 point) and a very unique name (+1 point [don't ask]) interrupted me as I drug the Marlboro smoke into my lungs.
"Excuse me" the lass said, "You're Freddy, right?"
I lifted my head a bit, looked at her, let it slowly drop back down and told the newest bar-chick-who-wanted-to-get-with-the-guy-who-plays-on-Wednesday-nights, yes.
"I've heard that you're a pretty good guitar player and an excellent singer," said she.
With such flattery, of course my interest in her began to rise.
"But you smoke. You're crazy if you think I'd ever fuck you," spoke her.
Did I start the conversation with her? Was my attraction so obvious to her to build the assumption of me wanting to skip my next set so I could take her back to my joint and bang out?
Nope.
She walked away from me. I blew the next drag of smoke toward the back of her head.
20-minutes later, she was back. And much to my confusion, she asked if I was Freddy again. Again, after nodding, she told me that I was crazy if I thought she was going to fuck me.
What? Did she suffer from some sort of disorder which made her forget she has already spoken to people?
I took the stage, played a set and re-took my stool at the bar for a short break. Withing minutes, the confused girl was back and before she even opened her mouth I told her I was Freddy and I didn't want to fuck her.
She made a silly face at me and walked away.
Another set I played, another break I took, yet again, another visit from the loco lady.
"Excuse me, are you Freddy?" says she.
I just looked at her with disbelief and tired of having the same conversation with her. Ignoring her and ordering another drink, I felt her hand on my back. As I turned to remind the crazy mess she had already told me I had no chance with her, and all the other fun shit she had said, she opened her mouth and told me that she wanted me to come home with her.
"What's your fucking deal," I say?
"I only said those things because I wanted you to want me. For you to think I'd be a challenge for you", says the goofy broad.
I'm crazy?
"Excuse me" the lass said, "You're Freddy, right?"
I lifted my head a bit, looked at her, let it slowly drop back down and told the newest bar-chick-who-wanted-to-get-with-the-guy-who-plays-on-Wednesday-nights, yes.
"I've heard that you're a pretty good guitar player and an excellent singer," said she.
With such flattery, of course my interest in her began to rise.
"But you smoke. You're crazy if you think I'd ever fuck you," spoke her.
Did I start the conversation with her? Was my attraction so obvious to her to build the assumption of me wanting to skip my next set so I could take her back to my joint and bang out?
Nope.
She walked away from me. I blew the next drag of smoke toward the back of her head.
20-minutes later, she was back. And much to my confusion, she asked if I was Freddy again. Again, after nodding, she told me that I was crazy if I thought she was going to fuck me.
What? Did she suffer from some sort of disorder which made her forget she has already spoken to people?
I took the stage, played a set and re-took my stool at the bar for a short break. Withing minutes, the confused girl was back and before she even opened her mouth I told her I was Freddy and I didn't want to fuck her.
She made a silly face at me and walked away.
Another set I played, another break I took, yet again, another visit from the loco lady.
"Excuse me, are you Freddy?" says she.
I just looked at her with disbelief and tired of having the same conversation with her. Ignoring her and ordering another drink, I felt her hand on my back. As I turned to remind the crazy mess she had already told me I had no chance with her, and all the other fun shit she had said, she opened her mouth and told me that she wanted me to come home with her.
"What's your fucking deal," I say?
"I only said those things because I wanted you to want me. For you to think I'd be a challenge for you", says the goofy broad.
I'm crazy?
Because of You...
Because of you,
I'd lie motionless
on the floor
in the dark room,
waiting for your return,
just so you'd put me back in your mouth.
Because of you,
I'd sit patiently,
without words to anyone,
sipping drink,
burning a smoke,
just to hear you ask me to come home and
fuck you after you got off.
Because of you,
I let the one true love,
well,
what I have determined as my one true love,
stop loving me,
move on and marry,
just so I could hear you tell me
that I was the best you'd ever had.
Because of you,
I'd let myself drive after drinking
so that I could remind myself
we were nothing but fuck buddies
and never could be or would be
anything more.
But...........
Because of me,
you got angry and stormed off into the dark,
to climb behind the wheel
and speed off into the night.
Because of me,
your daughter can't talk to you
about the things I'll have no idea about,
and your parents
can't hold you in their arms.
Because of me,
there are flowers every Friday,
a song every Wednesday,
and the family that should have been
is not.
Because of me,
I never let myself see
that all the times you told me
that you loved me,
you actually meant it.
I'd lie motionless
on the floor
in the dark room,
waiting for your return,
just so you'd put me back in your mouth.
Because of you,
I'd sit patiently,
without words to anyone,
sipping drink,
burning a smoke,
just to hear you ask me to come home and
fuck you after you got off.
Because of you,
I let the one true love,
well,
what I have determined as my one true love,
stop loving me,
move on and marry,
just so I could hear you tell me
that I was the best you'd ever had.
Because of you,
I'd let myself drive after drinking
so that I could remind myself
we were nothing but fuck buddies
and never could be or would be
anything more.
But...........
Because of me,
you got angry and stormed off into the dark,
to climb behind the wheel
and speed off into the night.
Because of me,
your daughter can't talk to you
about the things I'll have no idea about,
and your parents
can't hold you in their arms.
Because of me,
there are flowers every Friday,
a song every Wednesday,
and the family that should have been
is not.
Because of me,
I never let myself see
that all the times you told me
that you loved me,
you actually meant it.
The Things I Must Do Before I Die
For some reason, on my 31st Thanksgiving feast with my family, I want to write a list of things that I would like to accomplish before I check out of here and head for the great giant gig in the sky. In no particular order, I list them below:
_:Field a ground ball at Wrigley Field.
_:Sleep with at least one woman from all seven continents.
_:Wear a pair of big yellow rubber boots to Church on a Sunday.
_:Grab a woman while she's talking to a man, preferably her husband, and kiss her in front of him.
_:In the privacy of my own home, become an adult film star.
_:Failing that, just make a porn video.
_:Failing that, just have a porn video on my shelf.
_:Turn my basement into a bar, with working mechanical bull and disco balls.
_:Write a book about all of the failed relationships that I’ve been in so younger fellas won’t make the same mistakes as I.
_:Walk my daughter down the aisle.
X:Tell my dad that he's my hero.
_:Drink non-stop from sunrise one day, to sunset the next.
X:Failing that, drink from dawn to dusk, non-stop.
_:Go to Vegas and bet $1,000 on red 23, $1,000 on black 2 and lose to 00 (double zero).
_:Order a pizza, with everything, for delivery. Upon arrival, tell the delivery driver that I didn’t order it.
_:Have sex with the woman that I love on the top of the Ferris Wheel at Navy Pier.
_:Failing that, have sex with her in the middle of the day in Grant Park.
_:Start “the wave” at Soldier Field while the Bears are beating the Packers 45-3.
_:Streak through a graduation ceremony at some high school where I know nobody.
X:Fight a guy that is twice my size.
_:Meet the guy that caused the auto accident that almost killed me and forgive him.
_:Failing that, meet him and give him the ass whoopin’ he’s got coming.
_:Find out if Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.
_:Decide if there really is a curse that plagues the Chicago Cubs year after year or if it is just really poor management, both on the field and off.
_:Sing to my children.
_:Hold my wife as we watch them marry.
_:Visit Greece, Alaska and Iceland.
_:Ride a Harley-Davidson from Los Angeles to New York City.
_:Float a boat down the Mississippi until I get to the Gulf.
_:Play guitar for the woman I love on our wedding day.
_:Get the woman I love back and keep her so we can make it to our wedding day.
_:Eat at a Taco Bell in Mexico to see if the food tastes different than a Taco Bell in Chicago.
X:Fall into love one last time.
X::Teach somebody something.
_:To have people remember me before I die.
_:Triplet sisters. Same night. Same bed.
_:Failing that, twin sisters. Same night. Same bed.
X:Failing that, just date a smoking how woman with a hot sister.
_:Pay off my student loans.
_:Failing that, keep going to school for the rest of my life.
_:Failing that, marry money so they can pay off my student loans for me.
_:Win something.
_:Visit Boston and throw 1,000+ tea bags into the water.
_:Visit the "Bunnies" at their beach house.
_:Find the way to get over somebody who I really don't want to get over.
_:Find the way to get under somebody who I really want to get under.
_:Field a ground ball at Wrigley Field.
_:Sleep with at least one woman from all seven continents.
_:Wear a pair of big yellow rubber boots to Church on a Sunday.
_:Grab a woman while she's talking to a man, preferably her husband, and kiss her in front of him.
_:In the privacy of my own home, become an adult film star.
_:Failing that, just make a porn video.
_:Failing that, just have a porn video on my shelf.
_:Turn my basement into a bar, with working mechanical bull and disco balls.
_:Write a book about all of the failed relationships that I’ve been in so younger fellas won’t make the same mistakes as I.
_:Walk my daughter down the aisle.
X:Tell my dad that he's my hero.
_:Drink non-stop from sunrise one day, to sunset the next.
X:Failing that, drink from dawn to dusk, non-stop.
_:Go to Vegas and bet $1,000 on red 23, $1,000 on black 2 and lose to 00 (double zero).
_:Order a pizza, with everything, for delivery. Upon arrival, tell the delivery driver that I didn’t order it.
_:Have sex with the woman that I love on the top of the Ferris Wheel at Navy Pier.
_:Failing that, have sex with her in the middle of the day in Grant Park.
_:Start “the wave” at Soldier Field while the Bears are beating the Packers 45-3.
_:Streak through a graduation ceremony at some high school where I know nobody.
X:Fight a guy that is twice my size.
_:Meet the guy that caused the auto accident that almost killed me and forgive him.
_:Failing that, meet him and give him the ass whoopin’ he’s got coming.
_:Find out if Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.
_:Decide if there really is a curse that plagues the Chicago Cubs year after year or if it is just really poor management, both on the field and off.
_:Sing to my children.
_:Hold my wife as we watch them marry.
_:Visit Greece, Alaska and Iceland.
_:Ride a Harley-Davidson from Los Angeles to New York City.
_:Float a boat down the Mississippi until I get to the Gulf.
_:Play guitar for the woman I love on our wedding day.
_:Get the woman I love back and keep her so we can make it to our wedding day.
_:Eat at a Taco Bell in Mexico to see if the food tastes different than a Taco Bell in Chicago.
X:Fall into love one last time.
X::Teach somebody something.
_:To have people remember me before I die.
_:Triplet sisters. Same night. Same bed.
_:Failing that, twin sisters. Same night. Same bed.
X:Failing that, just date a smoking how woman with a hot sister.
_:Pay off my student loans.
_:Failing that, keep going to school for the rest of my life.
_:Failing that, marry money so they can pay off my student loans for me.
_:Win something.
_:Visit Boston and throw 1,000+ tea bags into the water.
_:Visit the "Bunnies" at their beach house.
_:Find the way to get over somebody who I really don't want to get over.
_:Find the way to get under somebody who I really want to get under.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Things That Make Me Mad: Part II
Once upon a time, in a land far away, I wanted to be the leader of the free world. The only problem with my thoughts at the time was I was only 6-years old and still wore my Winnie the Pooh slippers around the house, and to the market with my parents and to school. The only time that I actually took the things off was when I played with my G.I. Joe figurines in the tub and when I was dragged to church.
I used to tell my mom that God wouldn’t be mad if I wore my slippers into his house because he knew they made me comfortable. That if I needed a little help with gaining comfort to go on Sunday morning to pray with the masses, I could wear them. She didn’t buy it and made me wear my old brown Penny Loafers. I hated those fucking shoes.
Me and my Pooh’s, as I called them, were going to be something big together someday. Perhaps the president of a multi-million dollar company or the owner of a elegantly swanky Italian restaurant in the Little Italy neighborhood of Chicago, or maybe, just maybe, the President of those United States.
I use the words: those United States, because I wanted and dreamed of being The Big Guy in charge back then. I remember the first time that I was introduced to JFK through a video at school. He impressed the fuck out of me and I wanted to be just like him. I figured because I was Catholic and Irish, I could be just like the guy.
But now, the past three or four dick bags that had the helm of this country have changed my mind. I really don’t want to be The Big Guy any longer. Back when JFK was calling the shots, there wasn’t as much in house bull shit as there is today.
Like this war that's going on, complete and total crap. Super man himself, Georgie Porgie Bush, didn’t even consider Osama bin Laden to be his, or our troops fighting in the fucking wasteland that they’re fighting in, a top priority while he was our president.
Say what?
May I ask what the fuck was a top priority when you were The Prez George? Seriously, why did you keep spending OUR FUCKING MONEY to keep searching for the cock sucker if he wasn’t our top priority?
Everybody and their mother who was protesting at a church in Chicago a few years back to have the illegal immigrant woman that was holed up in the Southside church sent back to Mexico without her child because, unlike her, he was a legal American because was born here. Our maybe one day inmate / ex governor Rod Blagovich, payed her no attention, but to the Mayor of Chicago, Richard Dailey, the same guy that decided people could happily live off of a $6.00 wage, was shitting pine cones and pissing vinegar about it. Why Tricky Dick Daley, did you give such a fuck about ONE illegal immigrant in your city? Instead of spending the time and money to rid that woman from MY city, why didn’t you spend it on stopping the high school kids at Chicago Public Schools from getting killed? Or to speed up the “long awaited” CTA improvement project that is still nowhere close to being fucking finished? But no, don't do that kind of thing, blow the city's money trying to drive ONE illegal lady out. That and blowing it all on trying to improve the entire fucking city so that the Olympic’s that you so badly wanted to host here, could actually happen?
Celebrities that raise money to feed people in far of countries. Why not raise the fucking money for the starving families in this country? Are our own people not good enough for you Angelina and Brad? You want to keep adopting their kids, go ahead, be my guest, but instead of spending mega-millions to feed and nourish and care for the people of Bu-Fu Fucking Wherever, take care of your own first.
The old asshole’s who were in charge of the Cubs. If I would have heard you fucker’s say “It’s a re-building year” or “He has very good potential of becoming an outstanding player in the future” or “Prices will not be changed” one more time, I was going to lose my mind. You got rid of Kerry Wood, Felix Pie....good job, but if you fucked this city one more time, the entire city North of Roosevelt Rd. was gonna bash your asses with 2X4's.
When I was six, I wore Winnie the Pooh slippers and wanted to be President of the United States of America, or the president of something. Though I’ve still got the slippers, I really don’t think that I’d be able to handle anything like that dream I had as a kid. Too much pressure to please everybody would be the death of me for sure. And with that, I can remember what it was the JFK said that day in class on the video:
“Do not pray for easy lives. Pray to be stronger men."
I used to tell my mom that God wouldn’t be mad if I wore my slippers into his house because he knew they made me comfortable. That if I needed a little help with gaining comfort to go on Sunday morning to pray with the masses, I could wear them. She didn’t buy it and made me wear my old brown Penny Loafers. I hated those fucking shoes.
Me and my Pooh’s, as I called them, were going to be something big together someday. Perhaps the president of a multi-million dollar company or the owner of a elegantly swanky Italian restaurant in the Little Italy neighborhood of Chicago, or maybe, just maybe, the President of those United States.
I use the words: those United States, because I wanted and dreamed of being The Big Guy in charge back then. I remember the first time that I was introduced to JFK through a video at school. He impressed the fuck out of me and I wanted to be just like him. I figured because I was Catholic and Irish, I could be just like the guy.
But now, the past three or four dick bags that had the helm of this country have changed my mind. I really don’t want to be The Big Guy any longer. Back when JFK was calling the shots, there wasn’t as much in house bull shit as there is today.
Like this war that's going on, complete and total crap. Super man himself, Georgie Porgie Bush, didn’t even consider Osama bin Laden to be his, or our troops fighting in the fucking wasteland that they’re fighting in, a top priority while he was our president.
Say what?
May I ask what the fuck was a top priority when you were The Prez George? Seriously, why did you keep spending OUR FUCKING MONEY to keep searching for the cock sucker if he wasn’t our top priority?
Everybody and their mother who was protesting at a church in Chicago a few years back to have the illegal immigrant woman that was holed up in the Southside church sent back to Mexico without her child because, unlike her, he was a legal American because was born here. Our maybe one day inmate / ex governor Rod Blagovich, payed her no attention, but to the Mayor of Chicago, Richard Dailey, the same guy that decided people could happily live off of a $6.00 wage, was shitting pine cones and pissing vinegar about it. Why Tricky Dick Daley, did you give such a fuck about ONE illegal immigrant in your city? Instead of spending the time and money to rid that woman from MY city, why didn’t you spend it on stopping the high school kids at Chicago Public Schools from getting killed? Or to speed up the “long awaited” CTA improvement project that is still nowhere close to being fucking finished? But no, don't do that kind of thing, blow the city's money trying to drive ONE illegal lady out. That and blowing it all on trying to improve the entire fucking city so that the Olympic’s that you so badly wanted to host here, could actually happen?
Celebrities that raise money to feed people in far of countries. Why not raise the fucking money for the starving families in this country? Are our own people not good enough for you Angelina and Brad? You want to keep adopting their kids, go ahead, be my guest, but instead of spending mega-millions to feed and nourish and care for the people of Bu-Fu Fucking Wherever, take care of your own first.
The old asshole’s who were in charge of the Cubs. If I would have heard you fucker’s say “It’s a re-building year” or “He has very good potential of becoming an outstanding player in the future” or “Prices will not be changed” one more time, I was going to lose my mind. You got rid of Kerry Wood, Felix Pie....good job, but if you fucked this city one more time, the entire city North of Roosevelt Rd. was gonna bash your asses with 2X4's.
When I was six, I wore Winnie the Pooh slippers and wanted to be President of the United States of America, or the president of something. Though I’ve still got the slippers, I really don’t think that I’d be able to handle anything like that dream I had as a kid. Too much pressure to please everybody would be the death of me for sure. And with that, I can remember what it was the JFK said that day in class on the video:
“Do not pray for easy lives. Pray to be stronger men."
Thoughts about staying single
I wrote this over a year ago, before me and the ex met and all the other shit I've been writing about the past 3 months (in an Owen Wilson voice from Wedding Crashers, "Whatever")
..........................................................................................................................................................................
Over the past six or seven years, most of my high school chums have been engaged, married, divorced, re-married, had children or come out of the closet that everybody knew they were hiding in.Last week, one of the three guys from our group that hasn’t yet married, I being one of the three, asked his lady to be his wife and she said yes. Later that evening, he asked myself and the other "Not-yet-married-guy" when we were going to settle down and find the happiness that the rest of our "crew" had found.
The other guy told us that he has been thinking about asking his girl to marry him. Newly engaged guy and soon to be engaged guy slapped hands in mid-air and smiled to one another. They then turned to me, waiting for my answer.
I sipped my beer, shrugged my shoulders and told ‘em both that I would be perfectly comfortable being the only non-married guy in our group.
Newly engaged guy asked why?
I stood momentarily still, pondering the query that had just been delivered to me. Again, I sipped my beer and after I had removed my pint from the lip, I began to speak.
"You see friends, I consider myself single as an un-married man. Sure, I date some women from time to time, but nothing that can be labeled with that "serious relationship" tag. And I try to keep it that way for a many different reason. First off, when I put on "that" shirt, I will have nobody standing before me asking if I’m ‘truly going to wear ‘that’ shirt with ‘those’ pants?’. It’s much easier to dress myself as a single man. When you married blokes call me next summer to see if I can stop by some Saturday morning to help you paint your house, I can say that I might be there, and if I do show up, it will be late because I was out the night before painting the town. When you guys worry about the weeds that are growing in your wives gardens out back of your homes, I’ll be worried about the weeds I’m rolling. Still having the ability to see my paycheck will be a pretty nice thing too. There is something about waking up to the same face every morning for the rest of my life that scares the shit out of me. When I decide to go to a strip club with my single friends, it wont have to be a ‘secret mission’. I like to drive, and as a single man I will never have a driving instructor riding with me wherever I go. Instead of getting married, buying a house in the Suburbs and having 2.7 children, I’ll have a half million more dollars to buy grocery’s with. But most importantly.....I wont have a mother-in-law."
They both just stood there. Without movement. Without words. Staring at me like they had just watched the Devil dance through the room. They both stayed this way until recently engaged guys fiancee yelled down into the basement to notify him that it was time to go look at hotels for his future in-laws to stay at the night of their wedding.
I sipped my beer and smiled.
I'm looking for work, here's my app
I have just recently found an open application for employment on the internet. I think that it might be a good idea to fill it out, make a couple dozen copies, with the company name left blank and to be filled in by said company, and hand them directly to the person behind the counter/front desk while asking for a job. This is going to give me so many chances at becoming the multi-millionaire I know that I am capable of becoming.
NAME: Freddy in the Chi
DESIRED POSITION: Lying down. But to be serious, I ain’t too picky, I can deal with whatever's available.
DESIRED SALARY: $250,000 a year plus stock options, an open line of credit at any of the casino’s in Joliet, a company car (preferably a gas guzzling SUV), a fuel card and a three bedroom luxury condo on Lake Shore Drive.
EDUCATION: Yes, BA from the school of life and a Masters from the school of Hard Knocks.
LAST POSITION HELD: Wide receiver, ‘92-‘96, Minooka High School.
SALARY: I like my Bloody Mary’s with olives, not salary.
MOST NOTABLE ACHIEVEMENT: Being a Chicago Cubs fan the entire 31 years I’ve been on this planet.
REASON FOR LEAVING: I didn’t leave yet. When I do leave, it will be because the interview has ended.
HOURS AVAILABLE TO WORK: Noon till about noon thirty.
PREFERRED HOURS: Whenever I finally get to the office to whenever I feel like leaving, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.
DO YOU HAVE ANY SPECIAL SKILLS?: Ask the intern if I do or not. I’ll tell you later at the bar.
MAY WE CONTACT YOUR CURRENT EMPLOYER?: Hello I’m HERE for the job.
DO YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL CONDITIONS THAT WOULD PROHIBIT YOU FROM LIFTING UP TO 50 LBS?: Would you say that fifty pounds is about five cases of beer? If so, I have no prohibitions.
DO YOU HAVE A CAR?: Why do you need to know? Will I be making runs to Starbucks on the corner for the office? If so, I don’t have a car. If I had a car, or if you would have paid more attention to the beginning of application, you would have noticed that I am asking for an SUV paid for by the company. No, I don't have a car.
HAVE YOU RECEIVED ANY SPECIAL AWARDS OR RECOGNITION?: No, but I should have gotten one in the fifth grade for my science fair project. I was trying to show how water evaporated into the air and turned into rain. It took too long and was disqualified when I accidently pulled the fire alarm and pled to the judges that the water spilling from the ceiling, was actually the water that had evaporated from my bucket of water on the table. Didn’t work.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN CONVICTED OF OR CHARGED WITH, A CRIME? What is your definition of the term “crime.”
DO YOU SMOKE?: Smoke what?.
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE DOING IN FIVE YEARS? Your job.
DO YOU CERTIFY THAT THE ABOVE IS TRUE AND COMPLETE TO THE BEST OF YOUR KNOWLEDGE?: You will have to speak to my attorney’s.
SIGN HERE: Aquarius.
NAME: Freddy in the Chi
DESIRED POSITION: Lying down. But to be serious, I ain’t too picky, I can deal with whatever's available.
DESIRED SALARY: $250,000 a year plus stock options, an open line of credit at any of the casino’s in Joliet, a company car (preferably a gas guzzling SUV), a fuel card and a three bedroom luxury condo on Lake Shore Drive.
EDUCATION: Yes, BA from the school of life and a Masters from the school of Hard Knocks.
LAST POSITION HELD: Wide receiver, ‘92-‘96, Minooka High School.
SALARY: I like my Bloody Mary’s with olives, not salary.
MOST NOTABLE ACHIEVEMENT: Being a Chicago Cubs fan the entire 31 years I’ve been on this planet.
REASON FOR LEAVING: I didn’t leave yet. When I do leave, it will be because the interview has ended.
HOURS AVAILABLE TO WORK: Noon till about noon thirty.
PREFERRED HOURS: Whenever I finally get to the office to whenever I feel like leaving, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.
DO YOU HAVE ANY SPECIAL SKILLS?: Ask the intern if I do or not. I’ll tell you later at the bar.
MAY WE CONTACT YOUR CURRENT EMPLOYER?: Hello I’m HERE for the job.
DO YOU HAVE ANY PHYSICAL CONDITIONS THAT WOULD PROHIBIT YOU FROM LIFTING UP TO 50 LBS?: Would you say that fifty pounds is about five cases of beer? If so, I have no prohibitions.
DO YOU HAVE A CAR?: Why do you need to know? Will I be making runs to Starbucks on the corner for the office? If so, I don’t have a car. If I had a car, or if you would have paid more attention to the beginning of application, you would have noticed that I am asking for an SUV paid for by the company. No, I don't have a car.
HAVE YOU RECEIVED ANY SPECIAL AWARDS OR RECOGNITION?: No, but I should have gotten one in the fifth grade for my science fair project. I was trying to show how water evaporated into the air and turned into rain. It took too long and was disqualified when I accidently pulled the fire alarm and pled to the judges that the water spilling from the ceiling, was actually the water that had evaporated from my bucket of water on the table. Didn’t work.
HAVE YOU EVER BEEN CONVICTED OF OR CHARGED WITH, A CRIME? What is your definition of the term “crime.”
DO YOU SMOKE?: Smoke what?.
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE DOING IN FIVE YEARS? Your job.
DO YOU CERTIFY THAT THE ABOVE IS TRUE AND COMPLETE TO THE BEST OF YOUR KNOWLEDGE?: You will have to speak to my attorney’s.
SIGN HERE: Aquarius.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Christmas Came Early This Year
People go their whole lives and don't experience something this great. The thrill, the excitement, the rush is unmatched.
I'm not talking about winning the lottery. I'm not talking about a whirlwind love affair.
I'm talking about discovering photos of someone you know very well on a weird fetish porn site.
I was awoken at 2:30 this morning by a phone call from my non-boyfriend gushing the exciting news.
In order for this discovery to be truly great, there needs to be certain qualities. Luckily my situation has all of the attributes of pure greatness.
1. You need to know the girl well enough that it's a big deal, but you can't be good enough friends that you feel guilty getting excited over it. We've all heard stories that so-and-so saw so-and-so's best friend's sister on a porn site... But you don't know the girl, so who cares? Plus, who knows if it's even true. You need to have a personal relationship with the girl in order for this to be a truly amazing experience.
2. Bonus points if you know her in a professional capacity. It just so happens that I know this girl in both a social AND professional capacity. Fucking awesome.
3. It's always better if there's some sort of mystery or suspense involved. I was sent the photo this morning, so I know it's real... But neither of us have access to a personal computer right now, so we can't explore this further. Are there videos of this girl? Just how dirty does this get? Just how thorough is this site with the fetish? Obviously we need to become members of this site so we have access to the VIP shit. I may have to sneak out of work early.
4. Secrecy. If everyone knows, it's not nearly as exciting. My non-boyfriend, his friend, and I are the only three people I know who are aware of this. I want to tell someone so badly but I know that would ruin it. So this is my outlet.
5. The girl needs to exude a certain level of innocence, morality. It needs to be a huge shock that she would ever do such a thing. My girl has had a serious boyfriend for years. She would never cheat on him. She's pretty, not at all skanky, doesn't drink or party much. She's an ideal candidate.
6. The discovery should answer some age old questions. My girl always has a ton of money but doesn't have an especially well-paying job. But she was able to quit that not especially well-paying job to travel the world with her boyfriend, who also doesn't have a real job. It all makes sense now.
I'm like a little kid on Christmas Eve right now. I just can't wait to rush home and see what Santa brought me on the wonderful world wide web.
I'm not talking about winning the lottery. I'm not talking about a whirlwind love affair.
I'm talking about discovering photos of someone you know very well on a weird fetish porn site.
I was awoken at 2:30 this morning by a phone call from my non-boyfriend gushing the exciting news.
In order for this discovery to be truly great, there needs to be certain qualities. Luckily my situation has all of the attributes of pure greatness.
1. You need to know the girl well enough that it's a big deal, but you can't be good enough friends that you feel guilty getting excited over it. We've all heard stories that so-and-so saw so-and-so's best friend's sister on a porn site... But you don't know the girl, so who cares? Plus, who knows if it's even true. You need to have a personal relationship with the girl in order for this to be a truly amazing experience.
2. Bonus points if you know her in a professional capacity. It just so happens that I know this girl in both a social AND professional capacity. Fucking awesome.
3. It's always better if there's some sort of mystery or suspense involved. I was sent the photo this morning, so I know it's real... But neither of us have access to a personal computer right now, so we can't explore this further. Are there videos of this girl? Just how dirty does this get? Just how thorough is this site with the fetish? Obviously we need to become members of this site so we have access to the VIP shit. I may have to sneak out of work early.
4. Secrecy. If everyone knows, it's not nearly as exciting. My non-boyfriend, his friend, and I are the only three people I know who are aware of this. I want to tell someone so badly but I know that would ruin it. So this is my outlet.
5. The girl needs to exude a certain level of innocence, morality. It needs to be a huge shock that she would ever do such a thing. My girl has had a serious boyfriend for years. She would never cheat on him. She's pretty, not at all skanky, doesn't drink or party much. She's an ideal candidate.
6. The discovery should answer some age old questions. My girl always has a ton of money but doesn't have an especially well-paying job. But she was able to quit that not especially well-paying job to travel the world with her boyfriend, who also doesn't have a real job. It all makes sense now.
I'm like a little kid on Christmas Eve right now. I just can't wait to rush home and see what Santa brought me on the wonderful world wide web.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Here it goes again.
Alright, about three moths ago, my roommate/sexy as all hell girlfriend decided to break our lease and move back to Michigan to live with her mommy. If she's really living in Michigan (I doubt it) or not, I don't know and really couldn't care any less. Anyway, I decided to try and move on with my life. I started going out again in hopes to meet somebody new.
And I did. But it's the same old game that she's trying to play, I feel.
The night we met, she was wearing a white skirt that lowered down above mid-thigh, a black button up top that was buttoned to the bottom of her chest, a pair of black leather boots that were almost at the top of her knees and a white Victoria's Secret number holding her chest in.
I was wearing a one piece Nylon suit, orange, with a crazy large black afro wig, a mustache that covered my entire top lip and a pair of the coolest sunglasses ever made. Oh yeah, it was Halloween.
We chatted briefly, went for breakfast, she told me the best thing about her were her tits, I agreed. But then quickly took it back and told her at the time, which was a little after 4 in the morning, her tits were the best thing about her, physically, but I hoped to find out more about her, that I knew she was intelligent.
She told me she graduated from some college in Boston (don't remember where) when she was 20 and has been working as a Something or Another for a company that deals with banks accounts of large, international businesses.
When she woke me up...just kidding.
We finished breakfast and the lady came by with the tab. As I reached for it, she swiped it off the table and handed the lady her credit card and told me she had no problem picking the meal up.
I didn't like that, told her I didn't and she said that I'd get the next one.
She went home, I went home and the following Tuesday she flew to Detroit for work. We chatted on the phone and via text message for the rest of the week. I thought we got along fine at breakfast and on the phone, so why not try to set something up for when she returned.
She said that it sounded cool and she'd love to.
Then she got back from the Dirty "D" and must have lost my number.
The following Monday, she called and told me she spent the weekend in the burbs with friends. I told her I hoped she had a good time and that I'd still like to see her. She asked me if I was mad she didn't call, text or answer when I tried to contact her. I told her I didn't have the right to be angry at her. She said thanks.
So then she gets sent down to Mexico for a week for work. I tell her to have fun and to be safe, she says nothing for the week. I got a text when she "arrived in Houston and I have the flu."
Cool. Call me when you get back to the Chi.
No call. No text.
This feeling I had about us maybe starting to start (you understand that?) a relationship wasn't as good as it was.
So I didn't call or text her for a week. Last night, drunk, I text her a message hoping she didn't die from the Swine Flu which she may have contracted South of the border.
This morning, she text me she was feeling better, thanked me for my concern and told me she was "having to deal with alot of drama from the ex. He's been going through my phone secretly. I'll call you when all of this bs settles."
Now I asks you, dear reader, (that's u Boston) what am I to do? Do I leave her alone (which I will) until she calls/texts me? And when/if she does call/text, do I answer it or ignore it? Is she playing some sort of East Coast girl game?
And I did. But it's the same old game that she's trying to play, I feel.
The night we met, she was wearing a white skirt that lowered down above mid-thigh, a black button up top that was buttoned to the bottom of her chest, a pair of black leather boots that were almost at the top of her knees and a white Victoria's Secret number holding her chest in.
I was wearing a one piece Nylon suit, orange, with a crazy large black afro wig, a mustache that covered my entire top lip and a pair of the coolest sunglasses ever made. Oh yeah, it was Halloween.
We chatted briefly, went for breakfast, she told me the best thing about her were her tits, I agreed. But then quickly took it back and told her at the time, which was a little after 4 in the morning, her tits were the best thing about her, physically, but I hoped to find out more about her, that I knew she was intelligent.
She told me she graduated from some college in Boston (don't remember where) when she was 20 and has been working as a Something or Another for a company that deals with banks accounts of large, international businesses.
When she woke me up...just kidding.
We finished breakfast and the lady came by with the tab. As I reached for it, she swiped it off the table and handed the lady her credit card and told me she had no problem picking the meal up.
I didn't like that, told her I didn't and she said that I'd get the next one.
She went home, I went home and the following Tuesday she flew to Detroit for work. We chatted on the phone and via text message for the rest of the week. I thought we got along fine at breakfast and on the phone, so why not try to set something up for when she returned.
She said that it sounded cool and she'd love to.
Then she got back from the Dirty "D" and must have lost my number.
The following Monday, she called and told me she spent the weekend in the burbs with friends. I told her I hoped she had a good time and that I'd still like to see her. She asked me if I was mad she didn't call, text or answer when I tried to contact her. I told her I didn't have the right to be angry at her. She said thanks.
So then she gets sent down to Mexico for a week for work. I tell her to have fun and to be safe, she says nothing for the week. I got a text when she "arrived in Houston and I have the flu."
Cool. Call me when you get back to the Chi.
No call. No text.
This feeling I had about us maybe starting to start (you understand that?) a relationship wasn't as good as it was.
So I didn't call or text her for a week. Last night, drunk, I text her a message hoping she didn't die from the Swine Flu which she may have contracted South of the border.
This morning, she text me she was feeling better, thanked me for my concern and told me she was "having to deal with alot of drama from the ex. He's been going through my phone secretly. I'll call you when all of this bs settles."
Now I asks you, dear reader, (that's u Boston) what am I to do? Do I leave her alone (which I will) until she calls/texts me? And when/if she does call/text, do I answer it or ignore it? Is she playing some sort of East Coast girl game?
Merry FREAKING Christmas
*the following posts by BostonGirlwere transfered over from another spot we used to write. Enjoy
So, it looks like my first post on here will be a drunken one. Ehh... why not??
I'm trapped indoors due to the blizzard that hit Massachusetts today. We're supposed to get about a foot of snow. Like any normal person would do when a snowstorm hits, I've been drinking since they let us out of work at 3:00 this afternoon.
The thing is (how pathetic is this?), I couldn't be happier on a Friday night. I'm a pretty irritable person; it doesn't take much to make me angry. Traffic, people who don't return their carts to the designated spots in parking lots, long lines, people who don't use their blinkers, screaming children, people who go in the "Express" check-out line with more than 10 items... these things all drive me NUTS. I'm just very easily annoyed. But the snow, Christmas music, buying & wrapping gifts... that crap just makes me happy. I'm more than content sitting at home, drinking by myself, listening to Christmas tunes.
So here I sit alone, listening to Elvis Presley's "Merry Christmas Baby," wrapping dog toys in silver paper and red bows, drinking some Blue Moons and watching the snow fall outside. It's somehow peaceful.
Jesus fucking Christ, someone just had to ruin my moment by driving by my house with their fucking bass blasting. Listen, I know you're wicked cool with your hip hop beats and you don't care if there's a snowstorm - that's not gonna stop you from jammin' out and cruisin' in your pimped out ride. That's great and everything but just don't fucking do it in my neighborhood. I'm trying to listen to some Bing Crosby and wrap some Christmas presents and you have to wreck it with your UNNNNNTTTZ UNNNNNTZZZZZ UNNNNTSSSSSZ. I'm all set. Thanks. There is absolutely NO reason why anyone's music needs to be that loud inside their vehicle. I mean, it can only hold 5 people. Every passenger's ears are within a foot of a speaker.
Alright, my Christmas spirit is killed. LATA
So, it looks like my first post on here will be a drunken one. Ehh... why not??
I'm trapped indoors due to the blizzard that hit Massachusetts today. We're supposed to get about a foot of snow. Like any normal person would do when a snowstorm hits, I've been drinking since they let us out of work at 3:00 this afternoon.
The thing is (how pathetic is this?), I couldn't be happier on a Friday night. I'm a pretty irritable person; it doesn't take much to make me angry. Traffic, people who don't return their carts to the designated spots in parking lots, long lines, people who don't use their blinkers, screaming children, people who go in the "Express" check-out line with more than 10 items... these things all drive me NUTS. I'm just very easily annoyed. But the snow, Christmas music, buying & wrapping gifts... that crap just makes me happy. I'm more than content sitting at home, drinking by myself, listening to Christmas tunes.
So here I sit alone, listening to Elvis Presley's "Merry Christmas Baby," wrapping dog toys in silver paper and red bows, drinking some Blue Moons and watching the snow fall outside. It's somehow peaceful.
Jesus fucking Christ, someone just had to ruin my moment by driving by my house with their fucking bass blasting. Listen, I know you're wicked cool with your hip hop beats and you don't care if there's a snowstorm - that's not gonna stop you from jammin' out and cruisin' in your pimped out ride. That's great and everything but just don't fucking do it in my neighborhood. I'm trying to listen to some Bing Crosby and wrap some Christmas presents and you have to wreck it with your UNNNNNTTTZ UNNNNNTZZZZZ UNNNNTSSSSSZ. I'm all set. Thanks. There is absolutely NO reason why anyone's music needs to be that loud inside their vehicle. I mean, it can only hold 5 people. Every passenger's ears are within a foot of a speaker.
Alright, my Christmas spirit is killed. LATA
Okay, Now What?
Okay, so my love-of-my-life boyfriend dumped me a couple months ago. After going through a number of stages (the "I Can Convince Him to Stay With Me" stage, the "I Understand His Point of View and This is Okay" stage, the "Holy Shit This is NOT Okay" stage [absolute panic], the "I'll Pretend I'm Over Him So He Misses Me" stage, the "This Time I Really Can Convince Him to Stay With Me" stage, etc.), I eventually arrived at the "Fuck You, I'm Not Spending Another Second Depressed Over You" stage.
Now, as most of us know, the "Fuck You, I'm Not Spending Another Second Depressed Over You" stage usually involves a new "companion." Mine was the roommate of a friend's boyfriend. We met at a Thanksgiving pub crawl in Boston. Honestly, after 7 hours of chugging vodka, I probably would've picked the first guy who showed any interest in me. This guy happened to be the one.
We went out five or six times. Maybe I would've really liked him under different circumstances. Maybe not. Who knows?
All I know is I'm beginning to remember how frustrating it is to be single. I mean, there are a lot of nice people out there. Good people. But it's pretty rare to find someone with whom you "click."
I'm pretty sure the New Guy thinks we "click." He's made that pretty apparent... say, for example, when he rested his head on my shoulder while we were sitting in the movie theater watching Role Models. Or when he told me that he knew we were going to get married. His horoscope told him so.
Clearly he's not grasping the concept of taking things slowly. Oh well, at least he helped me get through my Fuck You, I'm Not Spending Another Second Depressed Over You stage.
Now, as most of us know, the "Fuck You, I'm Not Spending Another Second Depressed Over You" stage usually involves a new "companion." Mine was the roommate of a friend's boyfriend. We met at a Thanksgiving pub crawl in Boston. Honestly, after 7 hours of chugging vodka, I probably would've picked the first guy who showed any interest in me. This guy happened to be the one.
We went out five or six times. Maybe I would've really liked him under different circumstances. Maybe not. Who knows?
All I know is I'm beginning to remember how frustrating it is to be single. I mean, there are a lot of nice people out there. Good people. But it's pretty rare to find someone with whom you "click."
I'm pretty sure the New Guy thinks we "click." He's made that pretty apparent... say, for example, when he rested his head on my shoulder while we were sitting in the movie theater watching Role Models. Or when he told me that he knew we were going to get married. His horoscope told him so.
Clearly he's not grasping the concept of taking things slowly. Oh well, at least he helped me get through my Fuck You, I'm Not Spending Another Second Depressed Over You stage.
Lame Pick-Up Attempts
It's Christmas Eve. I stop at the liquor store on my way home from a family party to pick up some booze for my brothers and me. I'm a skinny little girl and encounter a certain degree of difficulty in making it to the register while juggling a handle of rum, a bottle of pinot noir, and a case of Coors Light. But I manage to make it to the counter without shattering any glass.
The guy behind the register looks to be about my age, mid-twenties, and asks for my ID before he rings up my items. He reads me my total, I slide my debit card through the thing, and he tells me to enter my PIN. Immediately after punching in the numbers, I hear the guy ask me, "Do you really think it's a good idea having 7165 as your PIN?"
Okay, it's pretty fucking creepy that this kid watched me enter my PIN and then recited the number back to me, but I had already downed a bottle of wine and it was Christmas, so I go with it for a second.
"Ummm.... that's pretty creepy. Are you going to write down all my credit card info now?" I say, half serious, with a flirty smile. I'm in my buzzed make-friends-with-anyone-and-everyone state (he killed that pretty quickly, though). "Actually, you're probably right," I go on, "it's the last four digits of my phone number, so it's not all that secret. I probably should change it."
"Great, now I just have to guess the first six digits," he responds, in an eerily serious voice... and I leave as quickly as possible.
Lesson #1: If your pickup attempt leaves the girl debating whether or not she should call the cops, rather than whether or not she should call you... something's not working.
Note to self: Change your PIN first thing Monday morning.
Things That Make Me Mad
I find it very frustrating when an employee is unfriendly to customers. If you have a job that requires you to interact with the clientele, then it is part of your job to be courteous so people keep coming back. Unfortunately, many of the idiots working in shops and stores want to spread their misery to all who they come in contact with.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone into the CVS on Comm. Ave. in Allston, made a purchase, and left the building without an employee saying one word to me. Nothing. No “Hi! How are you today?” ... No “Thank you! Have a nice day!” … They don’t even tell you how much you owe them, for Christ’s sake! They just stare at you blankly and put their hand out, expecting you to read the amount due on the cash register screen.
Those people drive me absolutely nuts. I usually end up making some sort of snide comment and get angry enough to ruin the next 15 minutes of my day.
The other extreme, however, is almost as bad.
The employees at my local Dunkin’ Donuts are overly friendly. Their friendliness destroys the entire purpose of the drive-thru window, which is to allow customers a speedy way to get their coffee without lengthening their commute.
My idea of a drive-thru conversation is as follows:
Drive Thru Guy: Good morning! May I take your order?
Me:
Drive Thru Guy: Sure, drive up.
BAM! Conversation over in six seconds. Back on the road in under a minute.
Unfortunately, this is what I’m faced with every morning:
Drive Thru Guy: Good morning! Welcome to Dunkin Donuts! My name is Robert. Would you like to try a bagel today?
Me:
Drive Thru Guy: Sure thing! That’s a large regular hot coffee, with regular cream and regular sugar. Would you like a donut or muffin this morning?
Me:
Drive Thru Guy: Alright, so that’s just the large regular hot coffee, with regular cream and regular sugar. Okay, your total comes to $2.10. Go ahead and drive up to the next window please, and have a great day!
I mean, really… come on. We both know how these things work. I pull up to the speaker, say what I want and you get it for me. If I wanted a donut or a muffin, I would tell you. There’s really no need for us to drag this on any longer than that. All you’re doing is making me want to go to the Dunkin’ Donuts down the street because they don’t blab on and on the way you do. But then I’d be going out of my way. Damn you, drive-thru guy!
So, I guess what I’m trying to say is… if you have a job where you regularly communicate with the customers, find that happy medium. Please.
Mommy, the copier is jammed!
"Janet, my mom would like to see you," I hear in a soft, high-pitched voice. It sounds like the voice of a child, but how could that be? I'm sitting at my desk in the finance department of my company, tucked away in the corner of this office building. It is 11:00 on a Thursday morning. Why would there be a child here?
I turn my head to the right and discover that there is indeed a little boy in the office. He looks to be about 8 or 9 years old. I watch as he leads Janet to the payroll administrator's desk. Of course it's someone in HR's kid. I believe it is the Human Resources department's personal mission to be as disruptive and annoying as humanly possible. I've seen a good 15-20 employees come and go in HR, and every single one has been a female, usually overweight, who constantly gossips and talks nonstop about her pathetic life as loudly as possible, so it is impossible to drown out the sound, even with iPod headphones at full volume. There also seems to be some sort of requirement where you must have an extremely loud, shrill, piercing laugh before you can be hired into the department. Oh, and an abnormally loud, startling sneeze.
So anyways, a Human Resources employee bringing her small child into work is like the fat woman stealing cupcakes from the office fridge. Of course it was her.
I mean, really, how obnoxious can you be? Who brings their kid to work? And no, I don't think it's "cute" at all. This is a fucking office. If I wanted to see kids, I'd spend my lunch breaks visiting the daycare next door or volunteering as a substitute teacher.
p.s. just a quick update. This fucking kid just delivered me my W-2. Like, are these people really serious right now????
I turn my head to the right and discover that there is indeed a little boy in the office. He looks to be about 8 or 9 years old. I watch as he leads Janet to the payroll administrator's desk. Of course it's someone in HR's kid. I believe it is the Human Resources department's personal mission to be as disruptive and annoying as humanly possible. I've seen a good 15-20 employees come and go in HR, and every single one has been a female, usually overweight, who constantly gossips and talks nonstop about her pathetic life as loudly as possible, so it is impossible to drown out the sound, even with iPod headphones at full volume. There also seems to be some sort of requirement where you must have an extremely loud, shrill, piercing laugh before you can be hired into the department. Oh, and an abnormally loud, startling sneeze.
So anyways, a Human Resources employee bringing her small child into work is like the fat woman stealing cupcakes from the office fridge. Of course it was her.
I mean, really, how obnoxious can you be? Who brings their kid to work? And no, I don't think it's "cute" at all. This is a fucking office. If I wanted to see kids, I'd spend my lunch breaks visiting the daycare next door or volunteering as a substitute teacher.
p.s. just a quick update. This fucking kid just delivered me my W-2. Like, are these people really serious right now????
HONK IF YOU LOVED JOE SCHMOE
*this was written by BostonGirl on a different site we used to write on together.
As I drove down the icy, snowy roads back to my office building during my return from a doctor's appointment, I couldn't help but notice a bumper sticker on the car in front of me. "In memory of Marc Rice, 05/13/1985-09/16/2008" was written below the image of a cross that looked like it was taken from the Microsoft Word Clip Art Gallery. The shiny black & white sticker looked especially cheap, as if a bumper sticker can appear as anything but.
I began wondering who decided that this would be a worthy memorial for young Marc. Was it his sister who came up with the idea to get a big box of bumper stickers with her big brother's name plastered across the front? Or perhaps it was one of Marc's college buddies who never quite got to know his friend's family until the wake, but he wanted to show how much he cared.
What exactly was it about a bumper sticker that appealed to those close to Marc? What made them think it was a good idea to get these bumper stickers made? So Marc's name and his dates of birth and death could sit alongside the words "I brake for tailgaters" and the name of a local morning radio show? Don't get me wrong; I feel for those who have lost someone they love. I just can't understand the recent trend of memorial bumper stickers. What's next, memorial air fresheners? Visors? Magnets? Shot glasses?
Upon my return to the office, I was determined to gain a better understanding. I began my research. Let's see how the distributors of memorial bumper stickers market their products.
"Our memorial decals / memorial bumper stickers are truly unique. A fitting way to honor a loved one or friend," reads the product overview at mainelyurns.com. Hmm... Personally, I'd be insulted if I was up in heaven watching crappy cars drive around with my name written on their bumper stickers. So, they really thought a bumper sticker was a fitting way to honor me???
In my search, I came across a couple memorial bumper sticker websites that actually do make sense. One was in memory of someone who was killed by a drunk driver and the bumper sticker included the words "Please drive sober" underneath the victim's name and date of death. This one makes sense; it issues a reminder to other drivers of the risks of driving drunk. Okay, that's fine. Another website issues personalized bumper stickers honoring law enforcement professionals who were killed in the line of duty. These stickers, the website says, help to inform others of the sacrifices law enforcement officers make for the public. Okay, that makes a little sense. At least they have a purpose.
My research hasn't helped me to understand why some people decide to order customized bumper stickers when a loved one dies. To me, it seems very strange. But... who am I to judge? Right? Go nuts with your funeral souvenirs.
As I drove down the icy, snowy roads back to my office building during my return from a doctor's appointment, I couldn't help but notice a bumper sticker on the car in front of me. "In memory of Marc Rice, 05/13/1985-09/16/2008" was written below the image of a cross that looked like it was taken from the Microsoft Word Clip Art Gallery. The shiny black & white sticker looked especially cheap, as if a bumper sticker can appear as anything but.
I began wondering who decided that this would be a worthy memorial for young Marc. Was it his sister who came up with the idea to get a big box of bumper stickers with her big brother's name plastered across the front? Or perhaps it was one of Marc's college buddies who never quite got to know his friend's family until the wake, but he wanted to show how much he cared.
What exactly was it about a bumper sticker that appealed to those close to Marc? What made them think it was a good idea to get these bumper stickers made? So Marc's name and his dates of birth and death could sit alongside the words "I brake for tailgaters" and the name of a local morning radio show? Don't get me wrong; I feel for those who have lost someone they love. I just can't understand the recent trend of memorial bumper stickers. What's next, memorial air fresheners? Visors? Magnets? Shot glasses?
Upon my return to the office, I was determined to gain a better understanding. I began my research. Let's see how the distributors of memorial bumper stickers market their products.
"Our memorial decals / memorial bumper stickers are truly unique. A fitting way to honor a loved one or friend," reads the product overview at mainelyurns.com. Hmm... Personally, I'd be insulted if I was up in heaven watching crappy cars drive around with my name written on their bumper stickers. So, they really thought a bumper sticker was a fitting way to honor me???
In my search, I came across a couple memorial bumper sticker websites that actually do make sense. One was in memory of someone who was killed by a drunk driver and the bumper sticker included the words "Please drive sober" underneath the victim's name and date of death. This one makes sense; it issues a reminder to other drivers of the risks of driving drunk. Okay, that's fine. Another website issues personalized bumper stickers honoring law enforcement professionals who were killed in the line of duty. These stickers, the website says, help to inform others of the sacrifices law enforcement officers make for the public. Okay, that makes a little sense. At least they have a purpose.
My research hasn't helped me to understand why some people decide to order customized bumper stickers when a loved one dies. To me, it seems very strange. But... who am I to judge? Right? Go nuts with your funeral souvenirs.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Waiting...
“I see a lot of qualities in you that I want in a girlfriend or in the person I spend the rest of my
life with. I’ve told my parents that. I’ve told my friends and family. You are the perfect girl
for me. I know that.”
Okay, waiting for the “but”…
“I just move extremely slowly. It’s really hard for me to get past a certain point.”
There it is. Hmm… this sounds familiar. I think I’ve heard this before... in about ten to fifteen
past failed attempts at relationships… Oh yeah, and in my nightmares almost every night.
“I’ve really only had three girlfriends my whole life…”
Okay, let’s do the math… He’s 32 now… that’s about 17 years of “dating age”… divided by 3…
That’s an average of one girlfriend every 5.7 years…
“…and the last girlfriend I had was over five years ago…”
Ooohh well at least he’s almost to the 5.7 year mark!
“...and I thought I was going to marry her. And I think that’s what scares me… if I had married
her, it would’ve been a HUGE mistake. Our relationship was so fucked up… it was NOTHING
like you and me…”
Wait, so our relationship is significantly better than the one with the girl you were willing to
propose to, but you’re not even willing to make me your girlfriend?
“...I just have been caught in this cycle where I start seeing a girl and then after a little while
I’m basically just like, ‘Well, that was fun. Moving on…’ I just get stuck and can’t get more
emotionally involved than that…”
Okay, then what the f are we doing here? I’m not going to be the one to magically change you.
“The difference with you is I went into this from the very beginning wanting something more…
wanting a real relationship. I knew you were different. And I know I have to stop screwing
around. I just need to move really slow…”
Yeah, I’ve heard the “just wait a little bit longer and I promise I’ll be ready” line so many times
it makes me sick to hear it again. I’ve “waited a little bit longer” for over three fucking years for
one guy. Over a year for another. I know the way this story ends. And I’m not going to suffer
through another fucking page this time around.
“I care about you so much and the last thing I want to do is hurt you. I know that you deserve
more than I’m giving you. It’s not fair and I understand that. I hate to think that you’re
struggling for answers that I’m not giving you. I am really going to try to work on this…”
Okay, how about… NO. For the first time in my life, I am going to learn from my past. I am
going to make a decision based on what’s best for me longterm, not based on what I want right
now. If you want to be with me and I mean that much to you, then make a real commitment to
me. Otherwise, see ya lata. I’m gone. This game is getting reaaaally old.
“I understand that you need to protect yourself… but why throw something away that is so
good? There hasn’t any negative signs whatsoever, we’ve never fought, everything has been
so great for the past six months... What will happen if you decide to end it just because I can’t
give you a definite answer of what the future will hold? You start dating some other guy, the
same thing happens, but by then you’re even more impatient?”
I don’t know what will happen… But the only thing I have any sort of confidence in is that if I
continue to wait around for someone who cannot commit to me, I’ll be waiting until I work up
the courage to walk away. If you can’t commit now, you can’t commit ever. It’s not like I’m
asking for a ring… all I’m asking for is the uncertainty to be gone. I want it to be real. If that
scares you, I’m sorry. Toughen up.
…And now it is almost two weeks later…
You’ve had almost two weeks to make your decision, and the fact that you haven’t yet means
it’s time for me to make my decision. I’m not going to embarrass myself by bringing it up to
you again.
I guess it’s back to searching for yet another guy who won’t want to be with me.
life with. I’ve told my parents that. I’ve told my friends and family. You are the perfect girl
for me. I know that.”
Okay, waiting for the “but”…
“I just move extremely slowly. It’s really hard for me to get past a certain point.”
There it is. Hmm… this sounds familiar. I think I’ve heard this before... in about ten to fifteen
past failed attempts at relationships… Oh yeah, and in my nightmares almost every night.
“I’ve really only had three girlfriends my whole life…”
Okay, let’s do the math… He’s 32 now… that’s about 17 years of “dating age”… divided by 3…
That’s an average of one girlfriend every 5.7 years…
“…and the last girlfriend I had was over five years ago…”
Ooohh well at least he’s almost to the 5.7 year mark!
“...and I thought I was going to marry her. And I think that’s what scares me… if I had married
her, it would’ve been a HUGE mistake. Our relationship was so fucked up… it was NOTHING
like you and me…”
Wait, so our relationship is significantly better than the one with the girl you were willing to
propose to, but you’re not even willing to make me your girlfriend?
“...I just have been caught in this cycle where I start seeing a girl and then after a little while
I’m basically just like, ‘Well, that was fun. Moving on…’ I just get stuck and can’t get more
emotionally involved than that…”
Okay, then what the f are we doing here? I’m not going to be the one to magically change you.
“The difference with you is I went into this from the very beginning wanting something more…
wanting a real relationship. I knew you were different. And I know I have to stop screwing
around. I just need to move really slow…”
Yeah, I’ve heard the “just wait a little bit longer and I promise I’ll be ready” line so many times
it makes me sick to hear it again. I’ve “waited a little bit longer” for over three fucking years for
one guy. Over a year for another. I know the way this story ends. And I’m not going to suffer
through another fucking page this time around.
“I care about you so much and the last thing I want to do is hurt you. I know that you deserve
more than I’m giving you. It’s not fair and I understand that. I hate to think that you’re
struggling for answers that I’m not giving you. I am really going to try to work on this…”
Okay, how about… NO. For the first time in my life, I am going to learn from my past. I am
going to make a decision based on what’s best for me longterm, not based on what I want right
now. If you want to be with me and I mean that much to you, then make a real commitment to
me. Otherwise, see ya lata. I’m gone. This game is getting reaaaally old.
“I understand that you need to protect yourself… but why throw something away that is so
good? There hasn’t any negative signs whatsoever, we’ve never fought, everything has been
so great for the past six months... What will happen if you decide to end it just because I can’t
give you a definite answer of what the future will hold? You start dating some other guy, the
same thing happens, but by then you’re even more impatient?”
I don’t know what will happen… But the only thing I have any sort of confidence in is that if I
continue to wait around for someone who cannot commit to me, I’ll be waiting until I work up
the courage to walk away. If you can’t commit now, you can’t commit ever. It’s not like I’m
asking for a ring… all I’m asking for is the uncertainty to be gone. I want it to be real. If that
scares you, I’m sorry. Toughen up.
…And now it is almost two weeks later…
You’ve had almost two weeks to make your decision, and the fact that you haven’t yet means
it’s time for me to make my decision. I’m not going to embarrass myself by bringing it up to
you again.
I guess it’s back to searching for yet another guy who won’t want to be with me.
Events from the mail box
As I walked to my mail box on the other side of the room, I could tell that there was something in it for me. Maybe it was the gift of money from some far and away relative that I never knew I had. Or maybe it was 4 tickets to this Sunday's Bears game against the Eagles. (p.s.: if it were to be 4 tickets for the game, I wouldn't be going. What the fuck's the point? Go to watch Cutler throw ANOTHER interception in the red zone? Nice deal McCaskey.) And by some long shot of a chance, maybe it was a letter from the ex who has moved far and away from my city to chase her dream of being whatever the fuck it is that she wants to be.
But it wasn't any of the above. It was a letter from 5th 3rd Bank, for her. Since she left, every piece of mail that she has received here, I call or text her and tell her she has something. She'll either answer the phone or text me back, asking me to open it and tell her what it is. Each time, she's told me to throw it out, that she didn't need it.
So today, I opened the mail up and it was a notice to tell her that she was overdrawn on her account. I texted her, told her that 5th 3rd sent her what they did and she owed them the money. She, faster than she left Chicago, texted me back and told me "DONT OPEN MY MAIL! THATS ILLEGAL! ASS!"
O.K. by me. You ever get another piece of mail at MY house, it will be deposited into the nearest trash bin. You will get no call or text from me telling you that you received something. I really couldn't give a shit less. I can be like you know and pretend that you no longer exists. Something only children can do.
Bye kid.
But it wasn't any of the above. It was a letter from 5th 3rd Bank, for her. Since she left, every piece of mail that she has received here, I call or text her and tell her she has something. She'll either answer the phone or text me back, asking me to open it and tell her what it is. Each time, she's told me to throw it out, that she didn't need it.
So today, I opened the mail up and it was a notice to tell her that she was overdrawn on her account. I texted her, told her that 5th 3rd sent her what they did and she owed them the money. She, faster than she left Chicago, texted me back and told me "DONT OPEN MY MAIL! THATS ILLEGAL! ASS!"
O.K. by me. You ever get another piece of mail at MY house, it will be deposited into the nearest trash bin. You will get no call or text from me telling you that you received something. I really couldn't give a shit less. I can be like you know and pretend that you no longer exists. Something only children can do.
Bye kid.
Party Foul
Five months ago, when I moved into a beach house with three close girlfriends, I was sure the next year would be one big party. We gave our new home a name (“the Coors Light Sorority Beach House”) and stocked its fridge with as many silver bullets as would fit. We even created “House Rules,” each worded in a way the legendary Kenny Powers would appreciate: “Rule #68: If you bring sand into the house, you’re fucking out,” “Rule #84: If you drink Bud in the house, you’re fucking out,” “Rule #99: If you don’t look sexy while you puke, you’re fucking out.” And of course, the final and most important rule: “If you get pregnant, you’re fucking out.”
It didn’t take long for us to develop a name for ourselves at our beach. Four bikini-wearing Coors Light Girls and two dogs living in one small house apparently sparks people’s interest. We learned this when we first walked into a neighborhood bar and the bartender’s first words were “*Gasp* Are you the bunnies?? Everyone has been talking about you girls.”
So armed with our new nickname, the “bunnies,” we partied the rest of the summer away. But who would’ve guessed that, as the summer cottages began to empty out and the ocean breeze turned from refreshing to harsh, one of the bunnies would break the biggest Coors Light Sorority Beach House rule??
Okay, to the general public, maybe it’s not that shocking that a reckless, sex-crazed party girl got knocked up… but to me, it came as a huge surprise.
The “House Rules” sign still hangs on our porch, blowing in the cold Autumn winds, but with one new adjustment: The final rule is crossed out in black ink.
It didn’t take long for us to develop a name for ourselves at our beach. Four bikini-wearing Coors Light Girls and two dogs living in one small house apparently sparks people’s interest. We learned this when we first walked into a neighborhood bar and the bartender’s first words were “*Gasp* Are you the bunnies?? Everyone has been talking about you girls.”
So armed with our new nickname, the “bunnies,” we partied the rest of the summer away. But who would’ve guessed that, as the summer cottages began to empty out and the ocean breeze turned from refreshing to harsh, one of the bunnies would break the biggest Coors Light Sorority Beach House rule??
Okay, to the general public, maybe it’s not that shocking that a reckless, sex-crazed party girl got knocked up… but to me, it came as a huge surprise.
The “House Rules” sign still hangs on our porch, blowing in the cold Autumn winds, but with one new adjustment: The final rule is crossed out in black ink.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Real Grown Up, I Know.
So, August 28th was pretty much the worst day of my life. Sure, I almost got killed in a car accident in 2000 and other bad shit has happened to me over the past 31-years, but that day in late August stands by itself as the worst of them all.
That was the day she left. There wasn't a fucking thing I could do to stop her. Just stand there in confusion, wonderment, rage and pain, watching her move everything that she owned out of our house and load it into the back of the pick-up her father borrowed from a buddy in Michigan.
Now, I've lost people that I've loved before. But none of them, fuck, all of them combined doesn't equal the pain I got from this one. The others that beat feet, they at least were still in the same city/town/village and there was a damn good chance that I'd run into them someplace. Not her though. She had to move back to the fucking hand state of Michigan.
And then there's the fact that she would call me at night when she couldn't sleep to see how I was doing. Those times were the highlights of my days after she left. Now though, she wont even return text messages.
I'll send her a text, maybe once a week or so, that just says "hi. hope you're well. would love to hear your voice soon." And she can't even as much tell me she's busy. Or return the text the next day or a few days later.
It seems that she wants me completely out of her life. Which is complete bullshit seeing how she up and left without so much as a whisper of a warning.
Out the door one morning for work she went, when she came home 6 hours later, mommy and daddy were with her ready to move their little girl back to Michigan.
Fucking shit.
Maybe she didn't realize that love and relationships weren't the fairy tale that everybody and their fuckin mama dream about. Maybe she was scared because I told her that I wanted to marry her someday. Maybe she was bored with me. Maybe she wanted to live like the 22-year old slut bags that she called her "bestest's". Who knows. I never will.
The thing is, I realize that she's gone and she wont be coming home. And that she knows that if she ever decided to come back, the door would be open and she could have the over sized closet to store her outrageous amount of clothing in, back. And she knows that I still love her, without a doubt, more than anything in this great giant city of Chicago.
But she doesn't know that....
Yeah, she probably does. She knew it all. Like how certain it was that we would eventually breal up anyway, so why not speed the process up and get it done then when she left. And she knew that I would eventually hit her, because her cousin is married to a douche bag who hits her. And she knew that we would never be happy again like we were the first six months we dated because her mom and dad got a divorce because they couldn't get along.
That might just be the fucking problem though. Her mommy. Her mommy says to jump, she asks how high. Her mommy says to go and shit, she asks if it should be hard, soft or medium feeling shit.
I still love her to death. I still find myself thinking about her every chance that I get. I still follow everything that she wanted me to do in our house: towels can't touch each other while hanging in the bathroom, vaccuum every other day, scrub the kitchen floor after cooking dinner each night, wash the kitchen table after every meal has finished.
Those things might sound silly to you, but they're the only thing I got of her.
That was the day she left. There wasn't a fucking thing I could do to stop her. Just stand there in confusion, wonderment, rage and pain, watching her move everything that she owned out of our house and load it into the back of the pick-up her father borrowed from a buddy in Michigan.
Now, I've lost people that I've loved before. But none of them, fuck, all of them combined doesn't equal the pain I got from this one. The others that beat feet, they at least were still in the same city/town/village and there was a damn good chance that I'd run into them someplace. Not her though. She had to move back to the fucking hand state of Michigan.
And then there's the fact that she would call me at night when she couldn't sleep to see how I was doing. Those times were the highlights of my days after she left. Now though, she wont even return text messages.
I'll send her a text, maybe once a week or so, that just says "hi. hope you're well. would love to hear your voice soon." And she can't even as much tell me she's busy. Or return the text the next day or a few days later.
It seems that she wants me completely out of her life. Which is complete bullshit seeing how she up and left without so much as a whisper of a warning.
Out the door one morning for work she went, when she came home 6 hours later, mommy and daddy were with her ready to move their little girl back to Michigan.
Fucking shit.
Maybe she didn't realize that love and relationships weren't the fairy tale that everybody and their fuckin mama dream about. Maybe she was scared because I told her that I wanted to marry her someday. Maybe she was bored with me. Maybe she wanted to live like the 22-year old slut bags that she called her "bestest's". Who knows. I never will.
The thing is, I realize that she's gone and she wont be coming home. And that she knows that if she ever decided to come back, the door would be open and she could have the over sized closet to store her outrageous amount of clothing in, back. And she knows that I still love her, without a doubt, more than anything in this great giant city of Chicago.
But she doesn't know that....
Yeah, she probably does. She knew it all. Like how certain it was that we would eventually breal up anyway, so why not speed the process up and get it done then when she left. And she knew that I would eventually hit her, because her cousin is married to a douche bag who hits her. And she knew that we would never be happy again like we were the first six months we dated because her mom and dad got a divorce because they couldn't get along.
That might just be the fucking problem though. Her mommy. Her mommy says to jump, she asks how high. Her mommy says to go and shit, she asks if it should be hard, soft or medium feeling shit.
I still love her to death. I still find myself thinking about her every chance that I get. I still follow everything that she wanted me to do in our house: towels can't touch each other while hanging in the bathroom, vaccuum every other day, scrub the kitchen floor after cooking dinner each night, wash the kitchen table after every meal has finished.
Those things might sound silly to you, but they're the only thing I got of her.
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