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All characters and events in this show (blog)–even those based on real people–are entirely fictional. All celebrity voices are impersonated.....poorly. The following program (blog) contains coarse language and due to its content it should not be viewed by anyone.
My job is crazy. Yesterday, I googled ##### for my client/patient. Well, I did it for both of us really. She does freelance writing for direct sales—indirect?—or whatever the fuck you call Mary Kay and all that. I suggested we should start writing for those ##### parties people have. We’ve been joking about it for a few weeks now, and yesterday I pulled up this one company’s website and read her some of the copy. “This synthetic-skinned, pink, super-girth, stank-resistant #### is a crowd pleaser,” and shit like that. I’m hoping she helps me out with freelance writing, so I can tell my boss to suck it any time I want. There was this other lady who was into vacuum cleaners. Expensive ones. I said, “Like those 500$ Dysons?” She said, “No way! I’m talking 5,000$ at least.” “Holy fuck!” I said. She was awesome. She had me google this older vacuum called “The Rainbow” which uses a water tank. Their slogan is “Wet dirt can’t fly.” That became our motto. We also researched ##### until we both started having nightmares. When she was done with her treatments, she gave me the sweetest card I’ve ever gotten, and I cried twice. I should mention that I give magnetic treatments for depression. I’ve had the treatment and it saved my life. Really. It’s not some hocus pocus shit either like those bracelets you see on the golf channel or in voodoo shops. This is baller-ass science. Anyway, I hang out with sad people five days a week for six weeks and watch them get better. We talk about EVERTHING. Sometimes it's fucking awkward. Shit! I just realized that I’m breaking all sorts of ethical rules by writing this, even without putting the names in. Dammit! So, I can’t tell you about the sweetest ex-##### alive, or how she wanted to #### in the #### one Friday when no one else was in the office. Speaking of that, I’ve realized that I’m sort of a real-life virgin/whore. Really. My girlfriend, the Super Fabulous Elle-Dawg helped me figure this out while I was talking about how to present myself on my website and all of that. Blah blah I love strippers and talking about anal I’m scared to kiss girls blah blah I want people to think I’m nasty blah I want people to know I’m not blah Hemingway blah Bukowski blah I’m a fucking Buddhist for fuck sake blah. Nothing really more to say about that, besides I’m the perfect example of a virgin/whore—without the virgin part or the vagina part or the actually selling myself for money. Another part of my job is telling “my story” to potential clients/patients. I’ve almost cried a few times telling people this shit. It was pretty rough after all. Most of the time though, I’m fucking sick of it. (Maybe I am an actual whore.) I just want to hand them a bulleted list. It would look like this:
So that’s my job.
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Since I have this fabulous new website, I'm going to try to put some shit on the blog every day. A lot of it may be total horseshit, and it will all be unedited and messy.
I woke up this morning with “First of the Month” by the Bone Thugs in my head. I probably haven’t heard that song in fifteen years, so I have no clue why it was in there. The song is a celebration of getting one’s welfare check. A call to party, if you will. While jamming out, I started thinking…started thinking some racist, classist shit. I’m nothing if not honest. Having had a lot of therapy, I’m also self-aware. I started thinking about the times I got a check for doing almost nothing. The two things that came to mind were unemployment and student loans. All of a sudden I wasn’t feeling like such a superior honky. Unemployment money was the first thing. I guess it seems like the closest thing to welfare, though I always tell myself that it was my money in the first place. Sorta. Getting that money in my Texas Workforce account felt fucking great. I always had to jump through hoops to get it. Confusing website. Assholes on the phone after waiting on hold forever. Explaining that, no I wasn’t drunk when they fired me. (Not that it should matter.) No, I didn’t quit. And yes, please, I’d like to appeal. After getting the money in my account, I would immediately go get all of it out and put it in my regular checking account. I didn’t want to be seen using that Unemployment debit card, and also, I was sure they could snatch the money back at any moment without reason. Fuckers. After that, I would buy a carton of Pall Mall Blues. One or two times, I bought a bunch of Keystone Light and Jim Beam, but I don’t drink anymore and that doesn’t count. Notice for the record that I was buying discount smokes and discount booze. Anyway, smokes in hand, I would go home and pay bills. Rent, phone, electric, or groceries for mom when I lived with her. (Okay, maybe I didn’t give my mom any money or groceries, but I’m sure I did at least one responsible thing with it.) After that, I would go directly to Target to buy a nine-dollar t-shirt or a pair of shorts. Having been freaked the fuck out about being broke and building beautiful catastrophes for months, I could finally breathe again, if only for a day. The student loan money was a much better day, and probably closer to the spirit of the song, since I didn’t do anything to deserve it, I spent most of it irresponsibly, and I still haven’t paid much of it back. Two hundred dollars, to be exact. Two hundred dollars out of what is now NINETY FOUR LARGE. But fuck it; I’m not here to talk about politics. Student Loan Day started much the same. Jump for joy seeing all that money—somewhere between 3k and 5k for living expenses. Then I would go buy Camels and Bud Light. I wasn’t so frugal in those days. After that I would pay the actual bills I hadn’t paid in a while. Credit cards, rent, electric, cable, car, car insurance, and whatever-the-fuck-else. Somewhere half-drunk in the afternoon, I would call my buddy, Jack. “Jack, you get your money?” “Yeah. Lodge?” The Lodge is the best titty bar in Dallas, and that means the best titty bar in the world. “Pick you up at eight. Peace.” I could write a novel right now about what happened on those nights, but I’ll just tell a quick one. Jack and I were throwing twenties and hundreds around like sons of oil millionaires and telling the girls we were lawyers, or young Bill Gates’s, or fighter pilots, or whatever. An hour or so in, our waitress comes over and asks if we would like to be VIP members. Well, FUCK YES, we would. I ended up dropping close to three grand that night, and I’m still pretty sure it was worth it. That’s what I’ve been thinking about this morning. And to the Bone Thugs, I say, “Grab your checks and come on.” Hey everybody, this is my new blog on my new website. I don't really have shit to say, but here's some stuff I'm thinking about:
It's really difficult to create the image you want the world to see. That sounds all "freshman comp essay" but that's not what I'm talking about. I write mostly about girls and drinking, and I always write about myself. Funny and stupid shit I do or have done. I also write about really fucked up situations that I've gotten myself into over the years--shit I couldn't have planned or made up. I've been told that a lot of my stories are funny, which is nice since they cracked me up while I was writing them. I also write about some seriously sad shit, though those almost never get published or even read. Either way, I take all of it very seriously. The problem is that I hate overly-serious, too-self-important, artist types. I don't want images of artsy shit on my website, even though I love artsy shit and am totally obsessed with myself. All of it makes me want to puke. Anyway, I'm not sure how to put myself out there in a way that is true. Jesus, that sounds fucking gay. I worked hard at creating this image of a nasty, smart, drunk, innocent guy. I was in to "myth making" like Hemingway and guys like that. Unfortunately, it kind of worked--except the innocent part. People read my stories, or hear me read them, and they believe the myth. They want to talk about strippers. They want to know if I really tried to fuck a skeleton or if I really had sex with my students. (College) Did I really get drunk and shit myself? That really pisses me off, or discourages me, at least. So, yeah, I tried to create this image and then got upset about the fact that people believe it. So what do I put on my website? Pictures of hot, drunk girls puking? A dude with his head in a urinal? The Dallas skyline? Kitties? Sad pictures of old ladies who can't afford their medicines? Essays about politics and inequality? All of those things are true. But then again, I have an image to uphold. |
