Marc
Jackson, Michigan
You ever have a few of those days in a row, where nothing seems to be going particularly right? No? Strange. Must be just me. First, I hate dial-up connections for the internet, and I realize that I'm coming off as a huge DSL snob here, which sucks in and of itself, but seriously, this shit sucks. Mostly AOL I think, not connecting, or not staying connected, but I need it, Jerry. I need it.
Two, I've come to the conclusion that I suck at eating. I don't eat right, which is one thing. I'm quite possibly the least nutritionally conscious person in the lower 48, but I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about plain old getting the food from the plate or bowl or napkin to my fucking mouth. Like, for example, going to the drive-thru at Wendy's last Friday after the Mt St Helen's show. I had the burger, and I was eating it, while unbeknownst to me said burger was literally pissing on my leg. Fucking greasy bastard. Ask Zook or Scoot or anyone else who saw me later that night, with shit all over my pants and shirt. I'm not trying to paint an unflattering picture here, folks. I'm just telling it how it is. This is one of the main reasons I don't like to date. What if I get a smidgeon of spaghetti sauce on my pants? Death. Tonight, I went to Fazoli's for pasta and I picked up the drink that they handed me. Seconds later, once again, something is dripping on my leg. Damn lid wasn't closed tight enough. Not my fault, I know, but still ... this shit doesn't happen to people nearly as often as it happens to me.
Third, I'm too short for this desk in this hotel. I'm 5'10". How fucking tall do you have to be to feel comfortable here? Christ with a corncob stuck in his eurethra! They made up for it, I guess, by making me the Guest of the Day. That's right -- Guest O' Tha Motha Fuckin' Day, b-otches! I got a nice little baggy with cookies and popcorn and potato chips and a little thing of water in it, and my name is on the marquee in the reception area. I went out and bought a camera and had someone take a picture of me by it. Ha.
Lastly, my mom broke her arm last weekend, while skiing in Colorado. They told me they were going out there for the company meeting. How come I wasn't invited? What were they doing skiing? Bastards. She sent me pictures, and I'd put them up, but I'm sure you don't really want to see my mom, smiling, with a nice little red cast around her forearm. What a clutz. See, it runs in the family.
I know, I know. I'm being a whiny bitch. I can't help it. Stupid being alone. Stupid short chair/tall desk. Stupid no DSL havin' hotel that made me Guest Of The Day! Okay. I think I'm better now. Goodnight.
*** Please note: At time of publication, author of above piece was kicked offline, for no apparent reason, eight different times. ***
Jackson, Michigan
You ever have a few of those days in a row, where nothing seems to be going particularly right? No? Strange. Must be just me. First, I hate dial-up connections for the internet, and I realize that I'm coming off as a huge DSL snob here, which sucks in and of itself, but seriously, this shit sucks. Mostly AOL I think, not connecting, or not staying connected, but I need it, Jerry. I need it.
Two, I've come to the conclusion that I suck at eating. I don't eat right, which is one thing. I'm quite possibly the least nutritionally conscious person in the lower 48, but I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about plain old getting the food from the plate or bowl or napkin to my fucking mouth. Like, for example, going to the drive-thru at Wendy's last Friday after the Mt St Helen's show. I had the burger, and I was eating it, while unbeknownst to me said burger was literally pissing on my leg. Fucking greasy bastard. Ask Zook or Scoot or anyone else who saw me later that night, with shit all over my pants and shirt. I'm not trying to paint an unflattering picture here, folks. I'm just telling it how it is. This is one of the main reasons I don't like to date. What if I get a smidgeon of spaghetti sauce on my pants? Death. Tonight, I went to Fazoli's for pasta and I picked up the drink that they handed me. Seconds later, once again, something is dripping on my leg. Damn lid wasn't closed tight enough. Not my fault, I know, but still ... this shit doesn't happen to people nearly as often as it happens to me.
Third, I'm too short for this desk in this hotel. I'm 5'10". How fucking tall do you have to be to feel comfortable here? Christ with a corncob stuck in his eurethra! They made up for it, I guess, by making me the Guest of the Day. That's right -- Guest O' Tha Motha Fuckin' Day, b-otches! I got a nice little baggy with cookies and popcorn and potato chips and a little thing of water in it, and my name is on the marquee in the reception area. I went out and bought a camera and had someone take a picture of me by it. Ha.
Lastly, my mom broke her arm last weekend, while skiing in Colorado. They told me they were going out there for the company meeting. How come I wasn't invited? What were they doing skiing? Bastards. She sent me pictures, and I'd put them up, but I'm sure you don't really want to see my mom, smiling, with a nice little red cast around her forearm. What a clutz. See, it runs in the family.
I know, I know. I'm being a whiny bitch. I can't help it. Stupid being alone. Stupid short chair/tall desk. Stupid no DSL havin' hotel that made me Guest Of The Day! Okay. I think I'm better now. Goodnight.
*** Please note: At time of publication, author of above piece was kicked offline, for no apparent reason, eight different times. ***
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