For about five minutes this morning, I considered becoming a crack dealer. Don’t judge! My fabulous girlfriend and I were discussing paying some bills—my bills. I’m unemployed, which obviously sucks. Before I go any further, I have to say that she’s being awesome about all of it. My evil brain is the problem.
I was standing on the patio, smoking a cigarette in the rain and thinking about what a piece-of-shit loser I am when the idea hit me. SELL CRACK! That’s when my crazy-ass brain went a little out of control.
Dude! I can start selling crack and not have to ask my GF for money ever again. I can buy her a baller-ass ring and a bunch of shit from Williams-Sonoma. Pretty soon, I’ll start a record label and get my band back together. OMG this is gonna be sweet. I’ll probably start a clothing line and my own bourbon. I won’t have to sell crack for too long. Get out of the game before shit gets out of control. Man, that would suck if I got arrested and had to go to prison. I would definitely get ass-raped. I’m too goddamn cute, especially for prison. STOP BEING NEGATIVE. I won’t get arrested. I’ll be out before the police catch on. I’m white anyway. Shit, that was racist. What is wrong with me?
But where do I get the crack? I’ve never done crack, but I have been to rehab. I’ve even bought drugs outside of rehab. Wait a sec. A crack dealer outside of a rehab joint would probably be selling at retail prices, if not more. I’m fucked. No Williams-Sonoma or record label for me. Shit.
I was literally thinking all of that when I walked back in. I must have been looking guilty because GF looked at me and said, “What’s up with you?”
“Uh, huh. What is it?”
“I was thinking about, um, the US/Portugal game last night. Crazy!” That got me out of it. I couldn’t wait for her to leave so I could freak the fuck out in peace.
I went to Home Depot after she left to get a new toilet valve, which was the only item on my to-do list that seemed doable. I started to get low blood sugar and headed to 7-11 to buy OJ. Goddamn buck fifty on OJ when I had free OJ at the house. Being diabetic sucks assholes. Man, I’m complaining a lot today. Anyway, I got the valve and got home without freaking out, but I was so worn out mentally and emotionally that I immediately had to take a nap. It wasn’t even ten.
When I got up, I was still anxious about money and sad that I wasn’t going to be a crack dealer. I was sad that I wouldn’t be able to buy her fancy cookware or start a record label. I paced around for a while before I finally made myself install the toilet valve. I knew I would feel better after I did.
The toilet valve turned out to be pretty easy, and so far it’s not leaking. I’m so grateful for the broken toilet and my ability to fix it. I spent the morning emasculating myself but was able to remasculate myself by fixing a toilet. (I suck at endings/conclusions. All my stories used to end with me getting drunk and trying to figure out what happened, which seemed to work pretty well, but I don't drink anymore.) Ok. Done.