I struggle to make small talk with polite strangers. What seems natural to them feels labored and awkward for me. It probably comes across that way to them too. I can go an entire weekend without using my voice, and when the cashier at Walgreen’s tries to be nice to me I struggle to string two sentences together.
What I am proud of though, is that I can stand in line anywhere without thumbing my phone to pass the time. Other idiots bend their neck and look like a candy cane while they stare at old emails and text messages for the 30th time, trying to look like their lives are important at that moment. They’re not.
Lonely and bored. Got really fucked up last night and went home with this really fat girl. Most unattractive girl I’ve been with. I couldn’t get hard, though. One of the few times I was glad that I drank too much. She told me, “You can jack-off on me if you want,” but I declined the offer. I collapsed in drunken exhaustion and we both passed out. I woke a few hours later, called an Uber and sneaked out during her snoring. I had the Uber driver go through the McDonald’s drive through window, which I only remembered because the empty filet-o-fish box was the first thing I saw on my bedroom floor when I opened my crusty eyes this afternoon. I lay in bed replaying the night in my foggy, dehydrated head, trying to visualize a much different version of me . . . someone who would have left the bar after two beers, declined the tequila shots, didn’t almost puke in back of an Uber and instead came home to a wife. I’m not there yet.
Ever feel like you don’t matter? I’m invisible to Melissa. I’m forgettable to Meaghan. I’m alone every single holiday. The Melissa disaster last night sucked. She basically kicked me out of there. Fuck her. I don’t need the humiliation anymore.
But another sad holiday alone in this apartment. Holidays suck all alone. I think of all my friends with their wives, homes and decent lives. Getting drunk just gets me in trouble. Tawnel called me last night – what a fucking loser. She called my cell and home number, but didn’t leave a message. She put some pics on her FB page. Just disgusts me to think that I fucked that. I got Kira’s phone number last night. She has mine too. She’s a little big, but I would love to bang her for some reason. Maybe she’ll drunk dial me. I wouldn’t mind.
I’m making the choice not to suck at life anymore.
But this loneliness, and isolation, and the change of seasons, and the dust bunnies under the TV stand, and these eye glasses that keep sliding down my oily nose . . . all of it. It’s too much to take on my current heavy dose of boredom and empty checking account. I’ll drink this Sleepytime tea, maybe two cups, followed by a dose of Walgreen’s brand Nyquil because I stayed in bed ’til 2PM today. No reason to wake-up, which is why Lina would be such a welcome return to my life. She always smelled like fabric softener and her perspiration during sex smelled like stronger fabric softener.
I’ll turn the heat on before I go to bed and get the first whiff of warm for the year. That burnt smell spat out by a dormant furnace. Today was admittedly tough. Rarely do I admit to myself how depressing a few of the day’s hours have been. It used to be all days and all hours at its worst. I used to down Nyquil after a night of solitary drinking, the idea being that it would keep me asleep so I wouldn’t be bothered with the hassle of waking up intermittently to piss. I wet the bed once.
I woke briefly this morning around 9:20 and thought of the weekly staff meeting that was happening without me. It was elation and self-satisfaction that I had the discipline and eventual success to land a new job. No longer would I sit every Tuesday morning around an old, chipped conference room table with mis-matched, stained chairs next to people who I didn’t like. Not only that, but they agreed to keep me on the payroll for the rest of the month, thus financing my current stay-cation at home. I passed time today lying on the living room floor, head propped-up by blankets and pillows, reading while eating microwave popcorn. My buttery fingers turning each page.
In bed this morning, my mind quickly drifted to when I slept with Jessica last month. She mentioned the next time her roommate is out of town I can come over and we can take a bath in her claw-foot tub. I wanted to masturbate, but I turned over and returned to sleep.
I got a massage today at an AMP (Asian massage parlor). Some so-so attractive Chinese girl got on top of me in reverse cowgirl, so that her ass rested on my rib cage and she was facing my feet. She really jack-hammered away at my cock. She was stroking so hard and fast that I barely felt the orgasm. If you think post-orgasm talk with a stranger is awkward, try it with a language barrier while you’re attempting to put on your underwear in a dimly lit room with atmospheric massage music playing too loudly from an iPod speaker dock. From what I understood and heard, she said she would be working there until September when she goes back to China for a month. And I think she asked me to come back and see her, and then she hugged me. I handed her two $20 bills for the “extras.” I can still feel the baby oil on me.
I don’t feel like much of a writer and I haven’t in a long time. I don’t feel like much of anything to anyone either. I am much better these days at choosing my thoughts – recognizing the harmful ones and throwing them away before they take root, like a weed in concrete. I’ve been living on a credit card and a lot of fucking prayer lately. I put the last of my checking account in my gas tank, and now I’m running up my credit card balance ’til pay day. The real toll of all this is that it makes me feel so exhausted and worn down. To live a struggle like this all alone and have no one along for the ride. The driver seat of my car is worn, but the passenger seat is pristine. Being happy and exhausted would not be that bad, I imagine. Being exhausted and in love would not be that bad, I imagine.
I am thankful for what I do have, but I’ll be hungry at work tomorrow. I’ll smell other peoples’ lunches and see their carry-out sandwiches. They will seem like wealthy people to me just because of that. Yesterday, I crept around the office in my dirty pants hoping for some treats or sweets in the break room. There were none.
It’s the annual post that I know all of you wait an entire year for. Time to see who has spent the last year giving me day-boners at work and making lube and Kleenex steady purchases for my trips to Target. Competition was stiff (pun intended), and there were a few ladies on the bubble who failed to get the phone call informing them of this career-making honor. However, one woman stood erect (pun intended) above the rest and earned the honor as the sole inductee for 2016.
Tennis star, Eugenie Bouchard
(click images for larger view)
Not since Molson Golden has Canada exported anything this perfect. A glance at the pictures above and you know why Nike designs her tennis dresses with the male viewer in mind. And one look at those pictures almost makes me want to forgive Canada for hockey.
My latest crush works at Chipotle. She looks like an only slightly shorter Maria Sharapova. The last time she made my veggie bowl she had fresh hickeys on the right side of her neck. The time before that she had fresh cut marks on the inside of her left bicep. They were red razor marks that looked like messy hash-tag symbols. She’s an obvious hot mess.
It’s 12:45am and I’ve only just started drinking. I have a sixer of Miller tall boys that I will work my way through before dawn. Kim texted me that she will be in town the first weekend of February and wants to see me. We have a long text history, but the last time I saw her was 2009 when we got drunk at Green Mill, passed out on my bed and had sex twice in the morning before she left. A nostalgia fuck would be nice, I guess.
Money and groceries are scarce again ’til next Friday. What used to be called struggling is now called intermittent fasting, I guess. Either way, I’ve dropped six pounds in the past month from involuntarily skipping lunches, microwave popcorn dinners and black tea to stop the hunger pains and cravings.
Today at work, the boss bought in fresh donuts for the break room. The office decorum is to take one. I waited ’til it was clear, walked in and snatched two and rushed back to my cubicle, the bounty hidden in two napkins. I hurriedly shoved them in my mouth not even caring that the glaze was making my fingers sticky. I immediately returned to the break room under the guise of getting a cup of the cheap, bitter (but free) coffee. I poured the black sludge into a styrofoam cup, thinking of the Saving Private Ryan scene when Tom Hanks watches the officer pour coffee into a tin cup after the allies have secured Normandy. I grabbed my third donut.
Walking back to my cubicle, a lady I rarely talk to had set out a tray of Halloween candy on a file cabinet outside her cubicle. I’m sure others have walked by and taken a dum-dum or a Hershey’s kiss. I grabbed three mini Hershey bars, not believing my luck of free dark chocolate. They’re in my bare fridge now resting alone on the top shelf, and the pic below is how I feel about them…