| (no subject) |
[Oct. 21st, 2008|02:38 am] |
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Oops. I did it again. |
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| 24 out of 30 points--lowest grade yet. |
[May. 7th, 2008|05:59 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Ms. John Soda - Hands | ] |
Make Pressure Work For You (Or How to Effectively Wait Until the Last Minute to Complete College Assignments)
These days, the life of a college student is a busy one. Some students may be forced to work part-time, if not full-time, while in school in order to pay for bills or for recreational activities. As if work and class aren’t enough, students have to make time for hours of television watching, video game playing, hanging out with friends and excessive drinking. With all of these responsibilities, who has time to complete assignments and study for tests? However, with just a few simple steps, any student can learn to succeed in college with minimal effort and maximum procrastination.
On the night (or early morning) before an assignment or test is due, it is important to relax. You could be doing your assignment, but you still have several hours with which to perform one or several relaxation techniques. You could take a nap, or even get a full night’s sleep and finish your assignment in the morning. You could check your email, Facebook, MySpace or any other mindless or useless internet pages. You could have a drink (or four), or watch a movie with a roommate or friend. Relaxing before beginning an assignment is crucial in order to put you in the right state of mind for writing the assignment. However, it is very important to always keep in the back of your mind the knowledge that your assignment will be due, and how long you have until it is.
The next step is to panic. Panicking is the second step of framing your mindset for the assignment you are about to write. First, open a Word document and type your assignment heading in. Then spend fifteen to forty-five minutes staring at the otherwise blank document. Think about how much work you have to do and how little time you have to complete it. Just let that fester for awhile. If it helps, scream obscenities in your head or aloud. At this stage, it is vital to be consuming inordinate amounts of caffeine, so get up frequently for cups of coffee or energy drinks. A racing mind is crucial to writing your assignment, but you should never allow your mind to stray from the fact that it is soon due. Allow your anxiety to build to a near-unmanageable point. This is important because your motivation will be stemming from the unbearable pressure of getting the assignment done in time.
Once your anxiety has reached its apex, begin to feverishly vomit information onto the page. Throw your ideas down with reckless abandon; at this point, you are racing the clock. Be sure to frequently check your word or page count, and compare it with that of the assignment’s requirements. In doing so, take note of the amount of time left until the assignment is due. Allow yourself to feel pleasantly surprised or horribly dismayed by this, as either reaction will only continue to motivate you to get the assignment done.
You may experience small cases of writer’s block. Taking cigarette breaks to brainstorm in your head or on a notepad can be extremely helpful, as can pacing back and forth obsessively. Insert a healthy amount of BS to pad your assignment accordingly, and use big words to make your BS appear useful and justified. The frequent use of adjectives can be extremely helpful in padding your word count. Remember to continue checking the clock to further your motivation. As you near your word or page limit, wrap it up by restating what you’ve already established.
Now you are ready to begin revision. Read over your assignment, checking meticulously for grammatical, spelling, and punctuation errors. Make certain your paper makes sense and flows well. While this step is important, keep in mind that if you are running low on time, this step can (and probably should) be omitted.
It is now time to submit your assignment. If possible, submit the assignment online and immediately go to sleep or to a bar with friends. If not, go to class and submit the assignment, then remain inattentive and impatient for the remainder of class until you are released and can go to sleep or to a bar. After the assignment is submitted, worry constantly about your grade until it is posted; this is perfectly normal, perfectly healthy behavior.
Following this simple guide to completing college assignments can help students to manage their free time in more productive ways, allowing them to spend more time doing the things they enjoy. By putting all thought of the assignment aside until the night before or the morning that the assignment is due, students can feel free to think about other, more pleasant things in their lives. Focusing all of their stress regarding the assignment into a few short hours before it is due converts that stress into motivation, and that is the key behind this method of procrastination. |
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| Apostrophe ( ' ) |
[Jan. 14th, 2008|05:19 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | determined | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Long Range - Madness & Me | ] |
It came to me tonight. I was not looking for it, was not thinking about it. But tonight, almost precisely a fortnight after New Year’s, I realized what I had to do.
I have not made a New Year’s resolution in...well, honestly, I cannot remember making ANY New Year’s resolutions, let alone having followed up on them. But this time...this time is different. This time, I am doing something important. This time, I am taking a stand. This time, I will hold true. This time, I fight for something that I believe in. I can simply no longer stand by and watch something that I love be destroyed, while the people destroying it do not even notice or care.
Tonight, on the fourteenth day of the first month of the year, I dedicate 2008 to abolishing the use of contractions in my everyday speech.
No longer will I abridge my speech! From this day onward, I vow to revere every syllable equally and without prejudice! No more will I perpetuate this attitude of verbal laziness! I will project my thoughts in a manner that will utilize each and every word in its entirety, and leave no word wanting! I will force other people to suffer through every painstaking syllable, refusing to give in to the thoughtless shortening, the mindless butchering of the English language! I will speak like Data of Star Trek: The Next Generation!
It’s not that I can’t, won’t, or shan’t, but because I CANNOT, WILL NOT, and SHALL NOT. I shall embark on this quest in solitude, and I will endure any ridicule that comes my way. I am not backing down this time. Any confusion I cause is for the best, and while I expect people to be confused at first, I will take it in stride. Undoing what I have been trained for almost twenty-two years to do in my colloquial speech will not be easy, but I will endure, and it will be worthwhile in the end. What I do, I do for the greater good of the English language, and god help the man that tries to take that away from me.
It’s going to be tough. |
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| Ridiculousness: The Sequel |
[Nov. 14th, 2007|12:15 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | XTC - The Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead | ] |
It wasn’t until two o’clock in the morning that I became worried. I had prepped up fifteen medium pies and fifteen large, and it was no big thing for me take the orders as they came and toss them into the oven. Joe had brilliantly suggested that we turn on the classic “Ridiculousness” mix to pump us up for the business we knew was coming, and it had certainly done it’s job. I could feel it; Joe and I both knew that the dance had begun, and we were each in our proper positions.
Working with Joe was different from working with Keith. Keith did a fantastic job making sure everything was run correctly as he worked the phones and carryout, all the while calling out our statistics for the hour so far: our sales, labor, and average delivery times. It had been nice, but sometimes I’d wished he would just shut the fuck up and let me focus on slapping pies.
Joe was different. He did just as great a job with the phones and carryout, but now I was in charge of the shift. I didn’t have Keith there to route the deliveries to the drivers, and I couldn’t let someone else slap or the entire system would have crumbled. I would have to run the store from the slap table, and I knew that strategically, that was the worst place in the store to try and do so.
But when I turned my head over my left shoulder, I had Joe expertly handling the drunken customers, dividing his time evenly between the ringing phones, the customers picking up pies in our carryout area, putting in fax orders from Campusfood.com, and hanging labels on boxes for the pies coming out of the oven. And when I turned my head over my right shoulder, I had Joey pulling pies out of the oven and putting them in boxes, calling out when a carryout’s pie was ready, and stacking pie screens neatly on the prep table to cool before bringing them back to me to put more pies on.
When I had worked with Keith, we always had an inexperienced insider working our ovens and just hoping for the best. Back then, it was me and Keith against the world, trying to get as many orders in and as many pies in the oven as quickly as possible while trying to hold the store together as it hung by a thread.
But it wasn’t like that now. Joe, Joey and I had, as we called it, “started the dance.” We occupied the same space at the same time, each performing our separate, yet intertwined functions, all without getting in one another’s way. Joey walked right past me to put cooled screens back on my rack without my even noticing. Joe posted labels for Joey as he talked on the phone with a customer long before Joey ever needed the box he was posting. We danced around one another in perfect rhythm, all the while shouting to each other the lyrics from the eighties love songs that pounded on in the background, courtesy of the Ridiculousness mix.
And then two o’clock hit. I always expected a hit at two o’clock, when the bars closed; whether it came or not, it was always better to be ready for it. That night, however, I HAD been prepared for a rush, but I was in no way prepared for what actually happened.
“Hey, what the fuck’s up with the dispatch screen?” called my driver, Logan, from the other side of the store.
“Whaddayou mean, what’s up with the dispatch screen?” I called as I dropped some sausage onto a medium pie. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s all fucked up. There’s all these runs on here that don’t exist, they’re not fuckin’ anywhere.”
“What the eff?” I exclaimed as I pushed the last pie into the oven and rushed my way across the store. I looked at the dispatch screen to see several bright red runs up on the screen, some at an hour and fifteen minutes old. “Wha—what?” I scratched my head as I looked up at the screen.
“These orders DO exist,” I said, puzzled. “The order number is about thirty away from our latest run right now. These orders have already been delivered.”
“Well, it’s not letting me clock in,” Logan said as he poked at the screen. “And the runs that we DO have up aren’t on the screen. What do I do?”
“Not letting you—what the fuck?” I said, becoming irritated. I glanced over at my makeline. I was hanging four pies. Three more popped up as I watched. “Shit, I don’t have time for this...” I tried to clock my drivers back in quickly, but to no avail. “What are you taking?” I asked Logan.
“Uh, the Mary Jane Circle and the Pheasant Run,” he answered.
Joe came over from the phones and looked at the dispatch screen. “What’s up? What’s going on?”
“I’m on it,” I told him. “Get back on phones.” I turned back to Logan. “Look, it looks like the orders that are up now aren’t on the screen, but anything we’re clearing is going up there. I’ll dispatch your runs manually. Just go.”
Logan bagged his runs and headed out the door as I ran to the computer closest to my slap table to dispatch him. Once I had done that, I turned my attention back to the makeline. However, each driver that returned to the store had the same complaints: “I can’t clock in”, “Where are these runs?”, “What’s wrong with the dispatch screen?”
“Look,” I told each and every one of them, “I don’t know what’s wrong with the dispatch screen. I’m going to have to dispatch you manually from over here until the computer catches up with us. Just tell me your number and the order numbers of the runs you’re taking when you leave.”
Luckily, my time off the makeline hadn’t put me too far behind. Nothing had gone in the oven over four minutes old. I still had plenty of preps, and it was a good thing, because the orders were coming in strong.
When Joe got a break on the phone, he came behind me and said, “Hey, Jeff, our system time says it’s one-fifteen, but it’s two-fifteen. Could that be what’s going on on the dispatch?”
I shook my head without halting my pie-making. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would it do that? Daylight savings isn’t for another week.”
“Yeah, but that just started last year. These are old computers, they might have been set for the old daylight savings.”
“Alright, fine, but these computers aren’t supposed to update automatically. We have to change the time manually after close on Saturday...” I stopped talking. “I suppose that’s so...THIS wouldn’t happen.”
The good mood I was in had faded. We were still getting our deliveries out on time, but you wouldn’t know it looking at the numbers. I knew for a fact that we only had six late deliveries for the night so far, putting us just above ninety-five percent on-time...but the computer was counting all the deliveries that had already been delivered and were back on the screen as “late.” I was pissed, and everyone could tell. I was getting pies in the oven with a speed born not out of determination, but out of anger. We were doing a great job, goddammit. We had the A-team staffing the store. I looked up at the screen. For Christ’s sake, our oldest pie going in the oven was at six minutes, and we had been relentlessly busy. While I topped pies, I calculated our pie hour in my head. We’d done seventy-two pizzas so far that hour, plus the twenty-six sides...six plus two is eight, two plus seven is nine...
I stumbled over my next pie. I stopped for only a second, then continued to top the pie as the realization hit me. We’d done ninety-eight pies so far in the hour. I turned to put the pie in the oven and stretched my head to see the time. Two forty-three.
I was going to beat my record.
I ran back to the slap table and pounded out the next pie. I was hanging twelve on the makeline. I had more than fifteen minutes to get in as many orders as I could before the hour was over. At this point, my record beaten. It was just a matter of by how much I would blow it out of the water.
“Let’s get those Campusfood orders on the floor into the system, Joe!” I yelled out.
Joe shot me a look that said, “I’m on the fucking phone, I know about the goddamn Campusfood orders!”
As I continued to bang out the pies, I realized that Joe was under enough stress as it was. I waited until he got off the phone and I called out, “Joe, it’s two forty-five. We’ve done a hundred and twelve pies so far this hour. Do you know what this means?”
Joe blinked, then his eyes lit up. “You’re gonna beat your record!” he exclaimed.
“WE’VE already beaten it, Joe,” I said as I threw another pie into the oven. “The question is how MUCH are we gonna beat it by? We need to get as many orders in the system as we can while it’s still the two o’clock hour. It doesn’t matter when they get made, just that they’re in our system before three. Now, those Campusfood orders cannot sit on the floor. Let’s get them IN.”
Joe nodded and picked up the Campusfood orders, calling out to the driver that just walked in, “Clock in and put in three of these orders!” I grinned as I slapped out an extra-large.
Joey came up behind me with screens. I slapped out a large pepperoni and tossed it into the oven. “One hundred and twenty-four!” I called out to Joe as he posted a label while greeting a carryout customer (managing to pull off a cheerful greeting while still stressing urgency at the same time, I might add). My sour mood had lifted, and the entire store had resumed “the dance.” We danced around one another, each expertly performing their function as I called out our pie hours to my teammates, and we ate it up.
“One hundred thirty-two!”
“One hundred forty-four!”
“One hundred fifty-three!”
“One hundred fifty-four, what time is it, Joey?”
“It’s three-oh-five, J!” answered Joey. I looked up at my screen. My oldest pie hung steady at six minutes. It was still within the window. I furiously slammed pepperonis down on the \pie and threw it into the oven.
“A hundred and fifty-five pies,” I said under my breath, and as I cleared my next pie, all my pie-hour columns shifted. Last hour shifted to one fifty-five, this hour shifted to one.
I looked up at the clock. “We’ve got fifty-four minutes until close, guys,” I yelled to anyone that could hear me. “We did a hundred and fifty-five pies last hour, six minutes in the oven. Let’s finish this up with as much as we can.”
I was tingling. It wasn’t over yet, and that was good, because the adrenaline had yet to wear off. The computer thought that our late percentage was much more than it really was, but I knew. I knew nothing had gone in that oven over six minutes old, and nothing had left the store more than nine minutes after that. We didn’t have a single late delivery after midnight, and we had done so during a record pie hour, with more than a little computer trouble.
We were the A-team. Everything had gone absolutely swimmingly. Everyone in the store, driver or insider, worked as one unit. We were a well-oiled pizza delivery machine, and we hadn’t just survived a hundred and fifty-five pie hour, we had conquered it.
And that was only the beginning. |
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| By the by, I don't have anyone's number anymore. |
[Oct. 21st, 2007|07:06 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Space - Female of the Species | ] |
When you’ve been awake for forty hours, the mind begins making up excuses for the body to remain awake, no matter how loudly the body complains. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. Either way, when I looked at my watch and realized just how long it had been since I’d slept, I had every intention of making my way to bed. I would soon find out, however, that fate had something far more sinister in store for me.
I laid on the couch for a long while, staring at (but not reading) the credits to Joe Versus the Volcano. Finally mustering the energy to get up, I pushed myself off, landing heavily on the floor.
Huh, I thought to myself as I pulled myself to a standing position. Am I drunk?
I couldn’t recall how many drinks I’d had. I didn’t think it was very many, but the effects were amplified by my lack of sleep, as was my memory, as evidenced by my inability to remember how long ago my co-worker had left to go to sleep. He certainly didn’t finish the movie, but how far into it had we gotten before he decided to crash?
I sighed. He had more sense than I did. It had just been so long since I had seen Joe Versus the Volcano, and I’d really wanted to finish it. I chuckled to myself, recalling my favourite line of the film, Meg Ryan’s deadpan, “I have no response to that.” I looked over at the hallway to my room, then at the back porch, and decided that I would go to bed after one more cigarette.
Immediately upon lighting the cigarette, I fell into a coughing fit. I hadn’t realized how sore my throat was, and it dawned on me how much caffeine I had ingested during the day, which always makes me smoke more cigarettes than I should. I sat down on the bench and propped my head up on my hand as I continued smoking.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement, which I took to be the figure of a person walking behind me. I turned my head to see, in spite of the fact that I knew it was impossible for someone to be walking behind me, as I was sitting on the second floor balcony of my house next to the railing. I quickly realized that I was merely seeing my hair out of the corner of my eye, but every time I returned my view ahead of me, I would see it again.
I’ve had more than my fair share of sleep deprivation, so I knew that mild hallucinations were normal, but every time I have them, I am still strangely fascinated by them. Usually it would take more than forty hours to have such a persistent visual hallucination, but there it was, plain as day: a human figure, walking towards me in my peripheral vision, made up of my own hair. I turned my head once more, just to make certain I was correct. I was.
“Jeff!”
I turned my head to the right, startled. Someone had just called my name, right? I stood up and looked out over the balcony. No one was there. I shook my head and sat back down. I still had half my cigarette left. I sat uneasily on the bench, my eyes darting back and forth. Just finish your cigarette, and go to bed, I told myself.
“Jeff...!”
Alright, Jeff, this is getting too creepy. You’re going to bed, I ordered. I put out my half-finished cigarette and rushed inside.
I made my way to my room and took my cell-phone out of my pocket. I set an alarm to wake me up two hours before I had to be at work, knowing full well that that was sixteen hours in the future, and I would more than likely be awake by then anyway. However, I always liked to be sure, because too many times I had not set an alarm and slept straight through the beginning of my shift. I set my phone down on my desk and decided to check the status of my downloads on my computer before I went to sleep.
I futzed around checking my e-mail and such for awhile before I noticed the unopened pack of super glue next to my computer. I had bought it several days prior with the intention of finally fixing the flap that covered the power connector to my phone. It was an unnecessary part, but it bothered me that it didn’t look right, and being mildly OCD, I had wanted to fix it for a very long time. Alright, Jeff, I said to myself again, realizing suddenly and disturbingly how much I talk to myself when I’m drunk and/or sleep deprived, we’ll just do this one last thing, and then we’re going to bed.
I tore open the package and twisted off the cap to the super glue. It was one of those tubes that you have to remove the cap, then turn it upside down and pierce the film to open the tube, so I did just that. I don’t know if it was because of the drinks, or the lack of sleep, but I seemed to be squeezing the tube just a little when I did this, because super glue exploded all over my hands, instantly bonding to my skin.
Fuck, Jeff! I screamed inwardly as I made my way to the bathroom. In the mere seconds it took to get there, the glue had hardened on the skin of my fingers, and I doused them with hot water and soap. I got very little of it off with simple rubbing, so I began to scratch at my skin with my nails, finding this method much more effective. Unfortunately, the majority of the glue had landed on my left index finger, and I was finding that particular area the most stubborn, so I scratched harder, eventually tearing a flap of skin off along with the glue.
FUCK, Jeff! I screamed at myself again. My finger wasn’t bleeding, but was certainly exposing raw skin, which the soap and hot water immediately seeped into, causing quite the burning sensation. “Ugn!” I groaned as I stared at the torn skin surrounded by super glue. Fuck it, I thought, and I dried my hands off with a towel. That glue will stay as long as it likes.
I returned to my room and looked around my desk to see if glue had landed anywhere else. Luckily, my desk and computer were untouched, and then I noticed a tiny drop on the face of my cell phone. I sighed and went back to the bathroom to wet a washcloth with which to wipe it off. I did, and then looked it over. The glue hadn’t left any streaky residue, so that was good. I pushed the slider to open the phone up, but it wouldn’t budge. I blinked, then pushed again. Realization slowly set in.
I had just super-glued my cell phone shut.
“FUCK!” I screamed, this time audibly. I pushed as hard as I could on the slider mechanism, but it was no use. I couldn’t get any leverage against the glue. I grabbed a pocketknife and tried to wedge it in where the glue had set. No luck. I threw a drawer open and retrieved a razorblade and tried the same, but to no avail. I set the slider on the edge of my desk and tried to force the other end down as the desk pushed up, and still nothing. I began banging the one end on my desk, and quickly realized what a bad idea that was, and was still getting me nowhere.
My mind was swimming with the consequences of having a phone that would not open. Sure, I could make calls to my saved numbers with it unopened, but I couldn’t dial any new numbers, or send text messages, or even save new contacts. While I could still answer calls, I couldn’t check voicemail if I missed one. The situation was not good, and I had spent too much money recently to think about buying a new phone, especially when it had not even been a year since I bought this one. All these thoughts went through my brain as I stared helplessly at my cell phone. As if it had personally affronted me, I narrowed my eyes at it and, in a fit of frustration, slammed the face down on the corner of my desk.
I sat motionless with the face of my phone still touching my desk for quite some time. Slowly, I turned it around to face me, and I stared, horrified, at the shattered, ruined display.
“Oh, well, that’s fucking fantastic,” I said quietly.
If it wasn’t ruined before, it most certainly was now. I thought briefly about what I was going to do about this situation, and the answer became suddenly clear to me. I set my phone back down on the desk, stood up, and took off my pants. I threw my clothes to the floor and turned off the light, then made my way towards the bed.
Jeff, I said to myself, you, mein Freund, are going to sleep. |
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| For Sarah...Sorry I'm Late |
[Oct. 12th, 2007|07:24 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | K's Choice - Not an Addict | ] |
“Well, you look like you’re having fun.”
I let out a slow sigh before returning from my position leaning on the counter to a standing one. “Really, Mike?” I said to my driver as he put away his hot bag. “Well, I’m, uh...I’m not.”
“Yeah, where’s all the business?” Mike asked.
I sighed again. “I don’t know. I would think the students would be back from fall break and drunk by now, but this is ridiculous. We’ve had three orders in the last hour.” I shook my head. “Fuckin’ ‘fall break.’ It’s a three-day weekend; I can’t even believe people went back home for that. The concept of going home to visit the parents on every holiday is completely alien to me.”
I poked at the computer screen, staring at the pathetic sales numbers we’d pulled in. “Sorry, bud. I know you don’t usually work in Blacksburg, but we needed someone to close tonight.”
Mike shrugged. “S’alright,” he said, “I’ve made better tips here than I do in Radford.”
“Heh,” I chuckled, “I guess that’ll happen when everyone pays with Mommy and Daddy’s credit card.” I reached under the front counter and fumbled around for a bit, then threw the phone book onto the table in front of Mike. “Alright, start calling people and asking them what they want on their pizza.”
Mike smiled. “Anything I can start cleaning to get ready for close?”
I laughed. “This ain’t Radford, buddy. It’s only nine-thirty; we’ve still got two hundred thirty minutes left until we close.”
“Wow. I am so glad you counted that in minutes, that makes it seem so much better,” Mike said as he shook his head.
“Buddy, I start counting down in my head the minute I get here. It was five hundred forty minutes then. Two-thirty’s a helluva lot better.”
I took a seat on the box counter and began to play catch with myself, using a box for chicken kickers. After promptly losing, I put the box back and stared vacantly ahead, until Mike grabbed my attention.
“So...is there anything I should be doing?”
“Alright, FINE, we’ll do work,” I said and jumped off the box counter. “I suppose we could be folding boxes, since dayshift didn’t see fit to do so.”
“Oh, yay,” Mike said, ironically unenthusiastically, considering his choice of words.
“Hey, YOU wanted something to do,” I said, pulling out a bundle of medium boxes and one of large. “Pick your poison,” I told him.
He picked up the mediums and my face fell. “Oh,” I said. “I wanted to fold the mediums...”
Mike opened his mouth and looked at me, then shut it. He opened it once more and started, “Uh, then why...?”
“I’m fuckin’ bored, sorry, I’m fucking with you,” I said as I ripped open the bundle of larges.
He smiled and shook his head as he began folding boxes. “I can’t tell when you’re joking. You’ve been doing it all day.”
“Yeah, I get that from my grandfather,” I explained as I put together a large box. “He used to scare the piss out of me with his ‘jokes.’”
At that moment, the phone rang, and I sighed again. There comes a point on Mondays where business is excruciatingly slow, and yet—paradoxically—any orders that come in piss me off. Orders give me something to do and relieve my boredom, but when they only come once every twenty minutes, they disturb my valuable sitting-around time. Thus, I’ve come to see Mondays as “just busy enough to be obnoxious.”
I moseyed my way over to the phone and picked it up, exclaiming, “Thanks for choosing Domino’s Pizza, where we LOVE our customers! My name is Jeff, how may I assist you with your order?”
“Yeah, ah’d lahke to speak to a manager,” came the voice on the other end, in the southern drawl tell-tale of the local Blacksburgians.
“Well, sir,” I said with a sly grin, anxious to utter my favourite line to a customer, “you’re speaking to him. What can I do ya for?”
“Whale,” he began (and I simply assumed he meant to say “well”), “did ya’ll just deliver up to Clayton Estates?”
“Clayton Estates,” I said thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, that’s the trailer park on Givens Lane, right?” I knew it was, I just like to feign ignorance sometimes and point out the fact that the “estate” they’re referring to is, in fact, a trailer.
“It’s the mobile home park up here, yeah,” the man replied.
“Yessir, I do believe we just delivered some pies out to Givens Lane. Was there a problem?”
“Whale,” he said again, “Ah was settin’ out here an’ ah saw yer drahver pushin’ ‘bout fifty on through here. Ah told him to slow the fuck down, but ah just wanted to call an’ let you know you need to tell him to slow it down through here. Ah got kids out here, an’ I don’t need no punk drahver runnin’ ‘em down.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my other closing driver, Aaron, come through the driver door and check back in. I said as politely as I could, “Oh, dear. Fifty miles an hour, eh?” I know for a fact that it is just about impossible to get up to fifty on that gravel road, and while I was positive that Aaron was speeding, I was also positive that this man was exaggerating. “Could you see what kind of car it was? I’d like to know which of my drivers took that delivery.”
“Hell nah,” said the man on the line. “It was dark, an’ I couldn’t make it out, plus he was goin’ so fast.”
“Well, sir, I only have two drivers on the clock right now, so could you tell me: was it a car, or a truck driving?” I giggled to myself in anticipation; I was going to have fun with this call, goddammit, I was too bored not to.
“Oh, it was a car, that’s fer damn sure,” the man said.
“Ah,” I said. “I know just exactly who you’re talking about, sir, and if you’ll hold for just a minute, I’ll take care of the situation accordingly.”
I then held the phone about two feet from my face and yelled, “AARON! GET YER FUCKING MONEY TOGETHER AND GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE, YOU ARE FIRED!”
Aaron looked at me from across the room with a shocked expression on his face. I gave him a half-smile, shook my head, and pointed at the phone. “I DON’T GIVE TWO SHITS ABOUT YER THREE KIDS AND HOW THEY’RE GONNA EAT, THAT’S NOT MY FUCKING PROBLEM, NOW IS IT?! I SAID GET YER MONEY AND GET THE FUCK OUT!”
I took a deep breath, smiled, and returned to the phone. “Sir, I appreciate you letting me know about this, and don’t worry, the situation has been taken care of.”
“Uhh...ah didn’t mean to get no one fahyerd, now...” said the voice on the line.
“Sir, please,” I interjected. “I appreciate your call. As the manager, I’m in the store all day, and I don’t know anything about these things unless concerned citizens such as yourself bring them to my attention.”
“Ah, but ah didn’t mean to cause no trouble, ah just wanted him to slow down…”
“Sir, we are professionals here at Domino’s Pizza, and we are dedicated to your safety. This is his second complaint in his four years of service, and I simply cannot tolerate this kind of behavior. We thank you for your concern, and we have handled the situation accordingly.”
“Ah still don’t think it’s necessary to—”
“Thank you sir, and you have a wonderful evening,” I said as I hung up the phone.
I turned around and walked back to the prep table to continue folding boxes, all the while whistling a tune much more cheerful than I had previously been. |
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|
| Chewing on a paper clip helps. |
[Apr. 11th, 2007|04:54 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  irritated | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Blackalicious - Rhythm Sticks | ] |
I have one cigarette left, and I’m not going to smoke it.
We’ve been having a staring contest for fifteen minutes, and that little tobacco bitch is NOT going to win, I swear it. It’s been five days since I decided to quit smoking. The first day started off well, then deteriorated into me getting drunk and bumming lots of cigarettes from my co-worker after work. The second day went swimmingly, as I was too hungover to enjoy a cigarette, and I managed to abstain for an entire day.
Unfortunately, work was exceptionally stressful on the third day. My manager had texted me before I’d even woken up asking me if it would be alright if he could leave as soon as I got there. I had figured, “Hey, it’s Easter. We’re NEVER busy on Easter. I may as well let him go.” And that’s what I did.
I arrived at work and immediately told my boss to go home. For two hours, I sat around with my co-workers and beat dick, when suddenly, the phone started ringing. Shocked, I answered it. To my surprise, the phone continued ringing. This continued for five hours, and at some point, I grew frustrated enough to stop making pizzas (even though I still had twenty to go) and ask one of my drivers for a cigarette.
From there, I smoked two cigarettes before going to sleep. The next day I opened the store and didn’t smoke any cigarettes until I was given a ride home by a smoker, from whom I requested a cigarette. And when my friend Stephen Via picked me up to ride with him to wire some money to a friend, I bummed one from him.
After helping out his friend, Stephen and I returned to my house and, many drinks later, went outside for a cigarette, bringing me up to three cigarettes that day. When we finished, Stephen drunkenly offered me another cigarette before he left, just in case I wanted one. And in my drunken stupor, I accepted it.
Which brings us back to my original statement. It’s one day later, and I have one cigarette: the one Stephen gave to me. And I’m not going to smoke it. I’ve gone the entire day without a cigarette. I got, I went to work, I went through my entire nine-hour shift without taking a smoke break. I got off work, I came home, and I started drinking, and I have not taken a smoke break. I watched my roommate go out for a cigarette, and I did not take a smoke break. And now all of my roommates have gone to bed…so it’s just me and this cigarette. And still…I refuse to take a smoke break.
I am going to keep this cigarette. It is going to lay directly in front of me, on the shelf just above my computer screen, and I am not going to smoke it. Because I am stronger than that. It is so much easier for me to accept the fact that I am not going to smoke if I would have to walk all the way to the store to buy a pack, or illegally drive my car. Basically, if I don’t buy a pack of cigarettes, it makes it easy to quit, because I would have to go to great lengths to get a cigarette at four o’clock in the morning. However, that is not the case. I have a cigarette right here. If I wanted to have a cigarette, all I would have to do is reach out my hand.
I won’t be reaching out my hand tonight. |
|
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| Anyone else remember "Skifree" for Windows 3.1? |
[Mar. 1st, 2007|07:07 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Cut Chemist - Metrorail Thru Space | ] |
Tipping my bottle back, I finished the last gulp and threw it under my seat. I looked up at the clock on the dash; three-thirty in the morning. “That’s queer,” I said to myself as I pulled a cigarette from my pack.
“What’s that?” asked Peter from the driver’s seat.
I lit my cigarette and cracked the window. “It just doesn’t feel like we’ve been on the road for three hours.”
“Yeah, I agree,” Peter replied. “You mind if I grab a cigarette?”
“Sure thing,” I said, then looked down into my empty pack. “I’ve got another pack in my coat.” I maneuvered myself around to face the back of the car and sifted through the clusterfuck of blankets that littered the seats. “If I can just find the goddamned thing…”
“I might have thrown some stuff on top of it,” Peter offered.
After shifting around blankets for a couple minutes, I was beginning to get irritated. “Shit, I must be drunk,” I muttered and climbed into the back seat. “Where the fuck is my jacket?” I said as I picked through the same six blankets I’d just picked through.
“Maybe you put it in the trunk,” Peter said. “I’ll pull over in a minute, I need another beer anyway.”
“Fuck,” I moaned. The blankets were beginning to taunt me, because none of them had any pockets that contained my cigarettes.
Peter then slowly pulled to a stop. “Check the trunk,” he said.
I hopped out of the car and walked around to the back. Alas, the trunk was empty, save for the cooler that held our beer. I walked back to the back door of the vehicle and asked Peter, “Can you turn on the light?”
Peter complied and I began throwing blankets out of the car. I cleared out everything except for our snacks and bottled water for the trip. My coat was nowhere to be found. “Fuck!” I cried again.
“Can’t find it?” asked Peter.
“It’s not here.”
“Dude, how do you not bring a jacket on a skiing trip?”
“I did bring a fucking jacket, it’s just not fucking here!” I snapped. “I got in the car and threw it in the back seat…” I stopped. “Oh, shit.”
It all came flowing back to me then. Indeed I had brought my jacket. I had taken it off and tossed it in the back when I got in the car…and then Peter had reminded me that we needed some CD’s for the trip. I had gone inside and ripped off my jacket as soon as I got in the door, letting it fall to the floor and thinking that I would surely see it as I made my way back out. What I hadn’t counted on was the fact that I was already three beers and two bongloads in at that point, and had completely disregarded (and even stepped on) my coat laying on the floor as I exited with the CD’s.
“Oh, god,” I said, “I forgot my jacket on a skiing trip.”
Peter started laughing. “Shut up!” I yelled. “This is your fault!”
“What?! How is it my fault?” Peter asked.
“This never would have happened if your car had a tape player I could hook my iPod up to!” I said.
“What? You can’t be serious,” Peter said, laughing.
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m drunk. It’s just easier to blame others than to blame myself.”
Peter kept laughing. “FUCK!” I screamed, and threw my empty cigarette pack in no particular direction. It landed an unimpressive four feet away. Peter and I both stared at it for a moment before I looked back up at him and sighed.
“Alright,” I said, “let’s get drunker,” and I grabbed the rest of the case of beer from the trunk. I threw one to Peter and popped the cap off of one for me, taking a long drink before getting back into the car.
We drove in silence for a few minutes before Peter spoke up. “Was your pot in your jacket?”
“Yeah.”
Peter took a swig from his beer. “You bummed?”
I sighed. “I mean, I can live without smoking a bowl while skiing. That’s not the issue at all. The issue is being wet and cold on top of a goddamn mountain without a coat.”
Peter giggled, and this time, so did I. “Heh…SHIT, man! Who goes on a skiing trip and forgets their coat?”
Peter smiled and raised an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, I know,” I said in answer to my own question. “Jeff Caplan, that’s who.”
I finished my beer and reflexively felt my shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes that was no longer there. “Ugn…I specifically put an extra pack of smokes in my coat so I wouldn’t run out.”
“You want a dip?” Peter offered.
“Uhh…I’ve never had a dip before. Never really wanted to add another addiction to my already heavily-populated list, y’know?” I eyed the can for a minute, then gave in to my nic-fix. “What the hell am I doing here?” I asked as I opened up the can and grabbed a pinch. After Peter explained how to form a pouch with my lip, I stuck the tobacco in and was immediately shocked by the surprising sting. After accidentally swallowing most of the foul stuff, I spit the rest out in disgust.
“Well,” Peter began, “we’ve got about an hour and a half left to go, and I’m starting to get tired. This seems as good a place as any to pull over and get some sleep.” I agreed, and we went to it.
Peter pulled out the blankets I had gotten quite familiar with and tossed two over to me. “Just think,” he said, “in a few hours, we’ll be on those slopes and none of this will have mattered.”
“Yeah,” I said as I bundled up as much as I could with the blankets that seemed like they were made for a child half my size. “We wake up in two hours, then?”
Peter nodded and rolled over. “G’night, man,” he said, and immediately passed out.
I stared up at the night sky, which wasn’t lit by city lights whatsoever, but instead by a tapestry of stars the likes of which I’d never before seen. “Yeah…good night.”
* * *
“Cold?” Peter inquired.
“Not at all, actually,” I replied. And I wasn’t. I’d found the four shirts I’d brought with me were more than sufficient to protect me from the wind. I snapped my first boot down into my ski, and it clicked just like I remembered it. I had been worried that it had been so long since I’d gone skiing that I wouldn’t remember quite how to do it, but all my worries vanished once I got the skis on. I followed Peter over to the mountain map, pushing myself with the poles at first, then remembering to glide across the powder with my skis.
“Where do you want to go first?” Peter asked, gesturing at the map.
“Something easy. I’ve got to get back in the groove.” I pointed at a green line. “Green’s easy, right?”
Peter nodded. “We’ll take the ‘Upper Flume’ to the ‘Lower Flume’ and meet at the ‘Powder Monkey’ lift. Good?”
I nodded. “Alright, let’s do this, then!”
Peter pushed off on his snowboard and took the left hill. I pushed myself in the same direction and made my way down the slight slope to the path crossing where Peter had stopped. I looked at the sign that indicated a green slope to the left and a blue going right.
“Left?” I called out to Peter, pointing with a pole.
He nodded and waved me on. “You first.”
I nodded and started my way down. It was at this point that the hill really started sloping downward, and I suddenly forgot what I was supposed to do with my feet. What am I doing? I thought to myself. Do I lean on my right or left leg to turn right? Do I want to turn right? I’m gaining speed pretty rapidly here. Pretty sure I shouldn’t be going this fast. How do I slow myself down again? Pizza slice…here we go. That’s not right, is it? Should I be slaloming down? Yeah, I think that’s it…oh, shit, my feet’ve gotta together…we’re a TEAM, feet, okay? Little wobbly there, on that one…let’s have the feet follow one another, alright? Okay…okay, the feet are following each other now, that’s good…gotta make this turn up here—whoa…
I made it into the turn just fine. I finally felt like my feet had gotten the hang of working as a team, and I straightened up coming out of the turn. Unfortunately, my feet disagreed, specifically the left one. The little guy slid just a tiny bit to right and threw off the whole team. I reflexively caught myself with my other foot and cut hard to the right. It was almost a perfect save, keeping me on my feet and slowing me just about to a stop. Unfortunately, it also threw me directly in the path of a small boy skiing behind me, and I managed to let slip an, “Oh, shit” just as my left ski caught the child in the leg.
As I tumbled over, the only thought running through my head was, Ohmygod, my first run down the mountain and I’ve already spilled innocent blood. My dark thoughts were only reinforced by the cry of pain that escaped the boy’s lips as I rolled over myself.
When I stopped sliding across the snow, I immediately looked up to where the boy had stopped. He was lying there motionless as a man I could only assume was his father approached him. “Oh, my god, are you alright?” I cried out. “I am so sorry, is he alright?” I asked the man.
Suddenly, the young boy sprang up and scratched his head. “Ow,” he said, and immediately skied off. Without a word, his father followed.
“Sorry,” I said quietly. I stood up and instantly fell back down from a sliding ski.
“Ugn…see you at the bottom, kid.”
* * *
“Peter!”
Peter looked up from fastening his boots. He grinned. “You’re late. We were supposed to meet here an hour ago.”
“I’m not late,” I shot back. “I’m ten minutes early for THIS hour.”
“Yeah, okay,” Peter said, then looked up at the sky. “It’s getting dark. This slope’s gonna close soon, but I think we can get one more run in before we go to the other slopes. Whaddayou think?”
I nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good. Hey, I’m pretty impressed with myself, I haven’t fallen down at all besides that first spill I took. How about you?”
“Man, I’ve been falling all over the place. It’s been awhile, I guess.”
“Yeah, it has been a year, but I thought it would take a lot more getting used to than it did for me.” I shrugged. “Ah, well. Let’s go!”
I started down the mountain, stopping periodically to let Peter catch up, since his snowboard was hard to get going without much of a slope. Eventually, he gained enough momentum to pull in front of me, and I mimicked his movements.
Peter gained a significant lead in front of me, and I suddenly found myself trapped behind another skier slaloming back and forth. Coming up behind her quickly, I tried to watch where she was headed so that I could avoid her, but she wasn’t making it easy. Every time I tried to speed by her, she would swing back in my direction, forcing me to cut sharply to avoid a collision. Finally, I just decided to gun past her. Unfortunately, she picked that precise moment to cut right, and I swerved violently to miss her.
My left ski left the ground, and my right ski wasn’t feeling very stable all by itself. I was trying to replace my left foot on the ground when I realized there wasn’t any ground to put it on. Don’t get me wrong, there was snow, but there wasn’t any ground underneath of the snow. And so I flew through the air, one ski skimming the snow beneath me and off the edge of the path until I finally hit something solid. Unfortunately, the “something solid” happened to be a giant rock, and the thing that hit it was my right knee. I sprawled out over a rock, knocking a foot of snow off of it and revealing its extremely hard surface surface underneath.
After the initial shock passed, I uttered a very loud and very deliberate, “OW.”
Someone flew past me and hollered out, “Are you okay?” as they sped on, making me wonder why they had even asked. Retrieving my ski, I made my way to meet Peter at the bottom.
Looking up, Peter burst into laughter. “I thought you weren’t falling down!”
“Shut up, our luck has switched,” I said. “Look at me, I’m covered in snow.”
“Yeah, that is a fantastic sight: you, coming down the mountain, head to toe covered in ice.”
I laughed at myself. “This is great…let’s go to the other mountain.”
* * *
I stepped off the bus and made my way over to the top of the slope. After taking a brief lunch, Peter and I had hopped on the shuttle to the other side of the mountain that was open for night skiing. The ride was excruciating, as staying still for a prolonged amount of time let me know just how wet, cold, and tired I really was. I was wishing I had gotten more than two hours of sleep the night before when a group of loud and obnoxious people hopped on the bus from the resort bar, reminding me just how much I can’t stand drunk people when I’m not drunk. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet…it felt like we had just gotten there, even though we’d been skiing for hours.
“Alright, where to first, boss?” I asked once I’d finished putting my skis on.
Peter looked up at the first slope he noticed and pointed. “That one.”
I nodded. “Alright, then. Let’s go.”
Peter started down the slope first, and I followed quickly. I quickly found that throughout the day I had made a complete hundred and eighty degree turn; where in the beginning of the day, I had to take time to remember what my body was supposed to be doing, I was finding that in the latter portion of my day, I knew what I was supposed to be doing, but my body was so fatigued that it wouldn’t follow my instructions. My left foot wouldn’t follow my right foot, although I was telling it to pretty clearly. I stopped and recollected myself.
Once I felt that I could control myself, I started again down the hill. The further I went, the more comfortable I felt, and I suddenly began to remember this slope from the last year I had been here. I smiled as I recalled that I had loved this run last year and had gone down it many times in a row just trying to go as fast as possible.
Once I remembered how fond I was of this slope, I lost all inhibitions and stopped trying to slow myself down. I was surprised to find how well I remembered the twists and turns of this slope, and my body seemed to react before I willed it to even do so.
As I neared the end of the slope, I saw Peter stopped at a crossroads and stopped next to him. I pointed to a flatter area he was eyeing and told him, “That leads to a lift that way, but it’s hard to get down if you don’t have any momentum. Let’s just go this way, there’s another lift down there.”
He nodded and I led the way, cutting between hills as I rapidly gained speed. I remembered having trouble with this last portion of the slope before I’d figured out the easiest way to get down. I had to do some quick maneuvering to avoid some ice patches, and picked up quite a bit of speed before I made it over the final hill and saw the lift below.
Pretty proud of myself, I sped down the final leg of the slope towards the lift, which was getting close a lot quicker than I expected. It was then that I realized just how fast I was going. I was going to have to cut pretty hard to the left if I was going to be able to stop myself from going off the edge of the slope, so I did. I expected the sharp turn to slow me down, and was unpleasantly surprised to find that it did no such thing. I cut hard to the left, where I found a giant metal support column holding up the lift to appear right in front of my eyes.
Uh-oh, I thought.
Instinctively, I put my hands out in front of me, and at full speed they hit the support column, followed by my head hitting my right hand. I bounced back and hit the ground.
For a moment, I was stunned. This ceased as soon as I heard the cries of, “Oh, my god!” and, “Are you alright?”
Alright, I’m gonna hafta play this off, I said to myself and jumped up in the most nonchalant manner I could muster. “I’m fine!” I snapped, and brushed myself off.
“JEFF!” I heard from behind me. “Are you okay?” Peter slid up behind me.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, and I was. Other than a momentary dizziness, I didn’t even feel as if I’d just run full speed into a giant metal pipe (which I had).
“Dude, I was wondering why you weren’t slowing down! That was insane!”
I took off a glove and wiped my face off. In front of me, a kid skied down to his friend, who said to him, “Hey, don’t do what THAT guy did!” as he pointed at me.
Must…control…fist…! I told myself. Just a kid…
“You’ve got to learn to control your speed,” the lift operator called to me.
“Oh, really?!” I snapped back. “Could you teach me?”
Peter laughed as we hopped on the lift. “Dude, that was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen. It was just like in the cartoons!”
I giggled. “Heh heh…man…now I wish I’d seen it.”
“I was seriously about to call for a medic. I thought you were gonna have to go to the hospital.”
I shrugged. “I can’t believe I did that. Other than that, I’m fine.”
“That’s a goddamn miracle, man.”
I looked out into the sky from the lift. Then I looked down at the people below me, some skiing masterfully through the hills, some stumbling and falling down the mountain. I looked back at the lift I had just come into close contact with, and I looked back at Peter and smiled.
“What a fantastic day, man.” |
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|
| Good News & Bad News |
[Feb. 12th, 2007|07:26 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Frank Zappa - Peaches en Regalia | ] |
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Sunday, 06:16
I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, and the combination of the drinks and late night infomercials are giving me ideas. Since I got off work an hour ago I’ve been sitting in my room futzing around on the ‘net, listening to music and staring at my bed. I suppose calling it a bed is giving it more credit than is due; rather, I’ve been staring at the mattress I’ve slept on since I was seven that lays on the floor in front of me. Frankly, I’m tired of looking at it. I reside in the master bedroom of a four bedroom house and I sleep on a mattress on the floor. Looking at my bank account on-line is making me uncomfortable, as I’ve never seen that much money in a bank with my name on it, let alone money that was acquired one hundred percent legally. The drinks are telling me something has to be done, and the only thing I can think of is to empty the account on something I could definitely live without. That said, I embark on an early morning on-line browsing spree that will most likely end in an impulse buy that I should probably put a lot more thought into than I will. Armed with a drink and a debit card, I begin my walk through the bright and decorative hallways of on-line shopping.
[LOG OFF]
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Sunday, 09:47
I can’t sleep in this bed. It’s not because the sun is beaming directly into my eye, or the fact that I realized just how long it had been since I washed these sheets. No, I can’t sleep in it because I can’t stop thinking about how much more comfortable the Tempur-Pedic mattress I ordered two hours ago is going to be. After watching infomercials for hours (as there’s never any actual television programming on when I get off work), I broke down and visited Tempur-Pedic’s website. To my dismay, their cheapest mattress that was bigger than the one I owned now was about the price I was planning on paying for a frame, box spring, and mattress altogether. Fortunately, after piddling around other websites I decided to give eBay a try, and almost immediately found a Tempur-Pedic mattress for less than half the price listed on the website. After committing myself to buy it, I hastily bought the first cheap bed frame I could find that didn’t look like crap. Now all I have to do is wait the week and a half they will take to get here, which I’m beginning to think is going to be difficult, as my current bed has suddenly become even more uncomfortable than before. Worse, my bank account is looking more like I’m used to, and that’s making me more uncomfortable than it being over-inflated was. And now, my stomach’s growling. Ah, well. I get paid on Friday. I’ll eat then.
[LOG OFF]
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Thursday, 13:24
My bed frame arrived today, waking me up in the process. It came in three very long boxes. I’m not sure what I expected, but it really never occurred to me that I would have to put the thing together. Now that I think about it, it was silly of me NOT to think so, but I guess I prefer not to think about that type of thing until I absolutely have to. The directions look like they’re going to be hard to follow, as they appear to be poorly translated from Japanese or Chinese or Malaysian or something like that. There is a big sticker that says, “MADE IN MALAYSIA,” but I’m not sure if Malaysia is a country in Asia or a city in China. All I’m really thinking about is getting one of the Malaysian kids that made this thing over here to put it together for me. Whatever…I’m still groggy from waking up and I’m not making any sense. Got work in almost four hours, so I’m gonna need to go back to sleep if I’m gonna be of any use.
[LOG OFF]
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Monday, 10:51
The door to my room will just barely open wide enough for me to squeeze inside, because behind it is an enormous foundation to go under my new mattress that has yet to arrive. Twenty minutes ago, two large black men woke me up with a pound on my door to deliver the thing, and I was quite taken aback by the sheer enormity of it. Again, I don’t know what I expected, ordering a queen size bed, but this thing is lying on its side and it’s still taller than I am. I’m wondering how I’m going to rearrange my room to fit this thing and, what’s more, I’m wondering how I can do while lifting as little furniture as possible. Fortunately, that’s something I can figure out later, as I only went to bed a few hours ago and I need to be rested up for work. While I’m procrastinating, I’ll go ahead and put off figuring out how to get to my bathroom while the enormous foundation is blocking the door until later, as well.
[LOG OFF]
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Tuesday, 07:36
Once again, I was woken up to a phone call regarding my new mattress. The conversation went roughly like this:
ME: “…hello…?”
BITCH: “Mr. Caplan?”
ME: “…yeah…?”
BITCH: “I’m with UPS Freight, and we have a package here for you…looks like a therapeutic mattress?”
ME: “…”
ME: “…yeah…?”
BITCH: “We need to set up a time when we can deliver it…how’s tomorrow morning?”
ME: “Uhh…I have to open my store tomorrow morning.”
BITCH: “Will you be available before five?”
ME: “Uhh…I can’t guarantee that. I typically open at nine and am there until at least five, but more like seven or eight.”
BITCH: “[sigh] Alright, well, how about Thursday?”
ME: “Yeah, I open on Thursday, too. Look, if this has to be during the day, it’s gonna hafta wait until Friday.”
BITCH: “[long sigh] Friday?”
ME: “Uh, yeah. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
BITCH: “Okay, well, we’ll give you a call on Friday to set up a time to deliver.”
ME: “Fantastic. I’m gonna try going to sleep again. I was almost there when you called.”
BITCH: [click]
So far, this experience has interrupted more of my sleep than it has enhanced it.
[LOG OFF]
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Wednesday, 23:57
Well, I’ve gotten a start on putting my bed frame together. And by that, I mean I opened the boxes and laid all the pieces out on the floor, then got a call from some friends from work urging me to drink with them, and then got wasted.
Whatever. I’ll do it tomorrow.
[LOG OFF]
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Thursday, 22:48
I’d been putting my bed together for about an hour before I realized I’d put the headboard on backwards. I’m pretty sure a full minute passed as I simply blinked and stared at it while my jaw slowly fell to the floor. One “fuck it” later and I’ve made the decision not only to leave it as it is, but to accept my roommate Bobby’s invitation to watch Scrubs rather than finish assembling my bed frame. I’ll just get a little high, relax for a bit, and watch a few episodes before I finish up here. I need to get my mind off all this carpentry stuff, anyway.
[LOG OFF]
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Friday, 04:01
After waking up three hours ago on the couch with the music from the Scrubs DVD pounding repeatedly into brain, I’ve finally finished assembling the bed frame. Things went a lot quicker once I realized I’d been using the fine-tuning end of the Allen wrench (is that supposed to be capitalized? I just learned the name of the tool) for twenty minutes. I’m completely exhausted, and I suddenly have an intense appreciation for power tools, because I sure as hell could have used a power screwdriver. I never realized how hard it is to put in a screw completely flush before now, and a couple of them I gave up on, so I’m hoping that won’t become an issue later. Now I have to collapse, since UPS will be calling me in a few short hours, and I’m sure they expect that I’m on the same sleep schedule as everyone else, which I’m most certainly not. I hope I wake up for the phone call.
[LOG OFF]
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Friday, 12:15
I never thought it could take so long to move twenty feet, but that enormous mattress is fucking HEAVY. I’m pretty sure I threw out my back last night between slapping out a ridiculous amount of pizzas and putting together my bed frame, so dragging the two hundred fifty pound mattress from our front door to my bedroom turned out to be quite the adventure. Getting it through my doorway turned out to be equally as exciting an adventure, and took just about as long. I’ve finally got it in my room and on the bed, so now all I’ve got to do is throw on the sheets and then I’m back to sleep until I go to work. All my work has come to fruition, and I’m too tired to even care. G’night, I’ll let you know how it goes.
[LOG OFF]
Captain’s Log – Stardate: Saturday, 07:42
After a horrible workday in which I could barely move without hurting my back (and moved constantly anyway), I laid down on my new bed to try it out for REAL night’s sleep. I’m sure it’s extremely comfortable; unfortunately, I’ve fucked my back up so much in setting the damn thing up that I can’t find any position that doesn’t make my back scream in agony. To make matters worse, an hour ago I developed an excruciating charley-horse that brings me nearly to tears unless I tuck my right leg up tightly in a bent position toward my chest, which makes it all but impossible to fall asleep, because every time I start to fall asleep my grip loosens on my leg and the agony returns. Not to mention the fact that I now have the obnoxiously large box the mattress came in propped up against my wall since I can’t fit it into the bin that the trash company will pick up. And so, I finally have the bed I’ve wanted for so long, and I can’t enjoy it in the least because I fucked up my back putting the damn thing together. It’s times like these that let me know that God hasn’t forgotten me…he’s only forsaken me.
Laugh it up, God. Real funny.
[LOG OFF] |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 23rd, 2006|09:20 am] |
I grab two pie-preps off the pizza tree and toss them into the oven. I thank the heavens that I was prepped this time around as I shoot a glance at the clock. One-sixteen in the morning, and already we’ve done thirty-three pies this hour. It’s looking good…last week we had ninety-eight pies in the one o’clock hour of Friday night…this week, I’m shooting for a hundred thirteen. I’d pulled the number out of my ass, but I think it’s reasonable.
A thousand sounds assault my ears at once, but I don’t hear any of them. None of them pertain to me, except for the music. Directly above my head, the speaker spits out a familiar playlist, the playlist I’d made explicitly for these late-night rushes. I’d named it “Ridiculousness,” because that’s precisely what it consisted of. But I know all of the words, and without even asking my permission, they spill out of my mouth.
It’s got to be the caffeine, I tell myself. I’ve got six hundred milligrams of the stuff swimming through my veins right now, making my every move before I’ve even figured out what’s going on. Pepperoni, it tells me as I throw the topping onto the pizza. Sausage! it screams as I open my hand and let the meat fall onto the pie.
I let my mind wander as I belt out random lines from the song playing. A year ago, I would have been in hell over this situation. A year ago, I would have shit my pants if someone told me I had to slap out a hundred pie hour by myself on the makeline, and I would have cursed my manager for sitting there and taking more orders on the phone, casually calling out our sales while I busted my ass making the ridiculous orders he was taking.
But it’s been a year since then. Back then, I would have shit my pants. Now, I’m definitely feeling that Hardee’s mushroom and swiss burger I’d had earlier, but shitting can wait…I have pizzas to make.
Now, this is what I live for. I belt out a falsetto chorus to “Smooth Criminal” as I pull preps off the rack, and I look at the pie hours again. Sixty pies at one thirty-three…we’re gonna make it, at this rate. One-thirteen is no fuckin’ thing, I have GOT this.
It’s one-forty exactly in the morning when I run out of preps. I glance up at my pie hours and see we’re only at eighty. The orders aren’t coming as strong as they were before, but I can beat this. As long as the orders keep coming I can bang these pies out, I don’t need fucking preps.
A year ago I would have shit my pants. Eighty pies so far, and we’re forty minutes into the hour. But I need more. Keep the orders coming, Keith. Work those phones and carryouts…I said I’d hit a hundred and thirteen tonight, and by damn, I’m gonna hit a freakin’ hundred and thirteen.
I’d told Keith earlier in the night that I couldn’t wait until one o’clock. He had smirked at me, like I was being sarcastic, which I usually am. But when I told him I couldn’t wait for one o’clock, I was dead serious. One o’clock of Friday night has inexplicably become the highlight of my week. Having the makeline all to myself, slapping out a hundred or more pies by myself…it’s addictive. The adrenaline kicks in and I lose myself in what I hate most about myself…my job.
A year ago I would have been in hell. But at one forty-eight in the morning on this Friday night, I look at my pie hours and see that I’m only at eighty-eight. I silently urge Keith to hurry up on his order-taking so that my pies will be made in the one o’clock hour—all the while audibly singing along to Eddie Money’s “Take Me Home Tonight.”
I look up from slapping pies to see my pies at ninety-eight for the hour, and I battle with myself over whether or not I should look at the clock. Ninety-eight was my one o’clock hour last week, and I have to beat last week. After throwing the last banana pepper onto my pizza, I whip around to throw it in the oven, and half-inadvertently, half-intentionally look at the clock.
One fifty-nine.
Instantly, I stop what I’m doing and run to the phones. If I can take another order, along with the one Keith’s taking right now, I could very well hit the one-thirteen I had promised everyone…the one-thirteen I had promised myself.
Unfortunately, the minute passes with Keith taking another order, and myself only being hung up on by a person as drunk as I would like to be. I move swiftly back to the makeline and pound out the last order for the one o’clock hour…ending at a hundred and one pies.
I call out our one o’clock pie hour with a silent swear for myself. I know that a hundred and one pies slapped out by one person is no small thing, but I’d wanted something bigger. The business doesn’t let up, but I feel like the orders should have come earlier, that one o’clock should have been twelve pies more than it was.
The adrenaline wears off just as the phones stop ringing. I smoke a cigarette outside with Keith, who tells me I did a great job tonight. I know I did a good job, but I can’t help but wonder what those extra twelve pies would have felt like. I know very well what this feeling is. It’s addiction.
I didn’t make a hundred and thirteen pies in an hour tonight…I only made a hundred and one. But that hundred and one was what I’d been waiting for all week long, and I only just now realized it.
A year ago I would have been in hell. Tonight, all I felt was bliss.
I was in heaven tonight. And heaven was slapping out over a hundred pies to hungry drunk people.
Maybe next Friday I’ll do a hundred-thirteen. |
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| Monstrosity |
[Sep. 14th, 2006|08:39 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Malice Mizer - Beast of Blood | ] |
A million thoughts circle my brain as I watch the bloodstain on the carpet beneath me grow rapidly. I’ve never been to Europe. My throat…it’s warm and sticky. I still haven’t made the schedule for next week. It doesn’t hurt yet…should it? My boss is gonna be pissed if I can’t close the store this weekend. I can’t breathe. We’re going to have to replace this carpet, this is a mess. Is all that coming from me? The oven timer’s going off…my taquitos are gonna burn. Damn, I’ve lost a lotta blood…and goddammit, I still have a review due for SpiderFan.
I look up into the monster’s eyes, and it finally hits me: My throat is slit, and I’m going to die.
“Hey, baby,” calls my roommate as I slam the door behind me. “How was work?”
“Shitty,” I reply, taking off my shoes. “I hate training people. It’s just pizza, fer Chrissake, it’s not freakin’ hard.”
“That sucks, man. Tryin’ to get high?” Norman looks up from packing the bong and waves it enticingly.
I sigh. “Yeah, I really am.” I plop my butt down on the couch and throw my pot at Norman to pack up. “I should really do this review I’ve got for SpiderFan, but I really, REALLY don’t want to read that god-awful comic again. Getting high sounds like a reasonable alternative.”
Norman chuckles as he finishes packing the bong and takes a hit. “That bad, eh?”
“Oh, it’s terrible. It’s a sequel to the series they ‘hired’ me to review, so I feel obligated to do it, but…it’s just so horrible, I don’t even want to have think about it anymore.” I take the bong and pull a tube myself.
“Yeah, I know how you feel. I have ANOTHER paper due tonight, but I just keep smoking and staring at my research,” Norman tells me as he passes the bong to Julie Ann, who I just now notice is even there.
“I dunno. I know I should just do it and get it over with, but it’s just so incredibly boring. Of course, I know all I’ll do instead is just smoke this bong and watch TV. Eventually, I’ll pass out, just to wake up and go to work tomorrow and do the same thing all over again.” As Norman breathes out, I take the bong from him and hit it again. “I keep saying to myself, ‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ and then I keep doing the same thing over and over again.”
Norman picks at his dinner plate from earlier, and I realize how hungry I am. “Yup,” he says, “The whole time I’m at class I look forward to getting home, drinking a few beers and just fucking around until I have to wake up for class the next day.”
I get up and walk over to the freezer, looking for something to eat. Finding some taquitos, I set the oven and throw them in. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not like I don’t have fun getting fucked up and doing nothing,” I tell Norman as I sit back down. “In fact, I love it. But I definitely feel like I could get more accomplished if I wasn’t just killing time until the next time I have to go to work.”
Julie Ann snuggles up to Norman after she passes the bong back to him. He hits it with an arm around her, and I shake my head and smile. “You guys are fucking adorable,” I mutter.
Norman coughs and looks up at me through eyes like slits. Smiling, he passes me the bong and calls me a motherfucker as Julie Ann nibbles on his neck. I hit the bong one more time and cough horrendously. Once I regain my composure, I remark, “That’s kicked,” and place the bong on the ground in between the couches. Standing up, I stretch and I say, “Still, I wish life could be just a little more exciting, y’know?”
An enormous crash sounds from behind me, and I see shattered glass flying in my peripheral vision. I whip around to look at where my sliding glass door used to be, and an enormous, bestial hand envelops my face, picking me up and throwing me violently through the beer pong table and into the north wall of my living room. Like a rag doll, my torso hits the wall and bounces off, landing unceremoniously on the ground amongst the broken pieces of the beer pong table.
I groggily shake my head and allow my eyes to focus ahead of me, where I see an enormous black beast crouching and growling. Terrified, Norman and Julie Ann jump up, but the beast easily swats them unconscious with its gigantic arms. The beast stops, then whips around to face me directly.
For a moment, I’m frozen in fear as my vision clears and I get a good look at the beast. It’s hunched over in a very feral fashion, and its five-fingered hands (sporting claws that appeared as if they could tear through steel) hang low to the ground, but it’s obviously bipedal. It has a sleek black complexion, but I cannot tell if it has a shiny black coat, or shiny black scales. It breathes heavily, and its tongue hangs languidly out of its mouth. It almost seems to lick its lips as it stares at me, and then suddenly, it throws a recliner out of its way and pounces.
Instinctively, I jump out of the creature’s path and land on the bar. The beast changes direction instantly and I’m forced to jump backward one more time, into the kitchen. For its size, the beast seems to move impossibly fast. The thing must be over eight feet tall and four hundred pounds of ripped muscle, but it moves like a cornered monkey. I reach into the refrigerator and grab a beer, smashing it over the kitchen counter and sadly watching the alcohol drip out of my newly formed weapon.
At that moment, the beast lunges toward me, and I kick it square in the jaw. Its jaws knock together, and I can clearly see the creature’s enormous fangs and dangling tongue. I jump back, then move in and swing my beer bottle at the beast’s midsection. It howls angrily and lashes out with its claws, catching my own midsection. I grunt, then leap back out into the living room.
Ricocheting myself off the walls and furniture, I pummel the beast with kicks and swings with my makeshift weapon as the beast lashes out with its claws. Amazingly, it never connects, but my blows only seem to make it angrier. I wonder how I’m even performing these moves, and I attribute them to the adrenaline.
How much time passes, I do not know, as I throw everything I’ve got at the creature. Finally, I go in for a killing blow with my weapon, but the creature catches my arm, and I stare into its blank eyes for a moment. Grabbing my shirt, the beast throws me into another wall, and I land helplessly on the floor. I shake my head to get my bearings, only to have the beast lift me up by the throat and draw a claw viciously across my neck. Throwing me to the ground, the beast roars ferociously.
The first spot of blood hits my carpet and my left hand rushes instinctively to my neck. Time seems to slow down as I feel the warm, sticky liquid run over my hand.
A million thoughts circle my brain as I watch the bloodstain on the carpet beneath me grow rapidly. It seems like forever before my brain wraps itself around the situation at hand.
My throat is slit, and I’m going to die.
I look up at the beast, who gives one final triumphant roar, which almost seems like a belly laugh. Then it opens its jaws and lunges for my head with that terrible tongue and wicked fangs…and everything goes black.
I twitch awake and look around my darkened room. Some sunlight shows through my tapestry over the window, and I glance over at the clock. Noon, I think to myself. Still four hours until I have to work.
I get up and walk to bathroom, shaking my head and trying to remember my dream. I remember being both excited and terrified at the same time, but I can’t remember of what. I flush the toilet and walk over to my desk, reaching for my pot and my bowl, when something catches my eye.
Last Planet Standing #5. I was supposed to have that review done a week ago. I look at my bowl longingly, then back at the comic I should have reviewed long ago.
I pick up the pot and throw it back in a drawer. Then I turn on my computer and pick up the comic book. Getting high can wait, I think to myself. I’ve got work to do now.
And before work, I review that god-awful comic I’d been putting off for so long. |
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| Jeff the Slaptastic in...Adventures in Insurance Shopping! |
[Aug. 17th, 2006|05:56 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | M83 - Night | ] |
THEM: Thank you for calling Progressive! To report an accident, or for help with a claim, press 1! If you are not a Progressive customer and would like to buy a new policy, or get a quote for a new policy, press 2! To make a payment, request a change, or ask a question about your current Progressive policy, press 3!
ME: Uh…I guess I have a question about my current policy…so I’ll hit [3].
THEM: To make a payment, press 1! To confirm your last payment, or to check the amount or date of your next bill, press 2! To speak with a customer service representative, press 0!
ME: Well, I need to speak with a person, so…[0].
THEM: Please enter your nine-digit policy number!
ME: Crap. The only documentation I’ve got with my policy number on it is in the glove compartment of the car I gave away. Um…maybe if I sit here long enough without doing or saying anything this answering machine’ll give me another option.
THEM: The entry was not valid. Locate your policy number in the upper-right hand corner of your bill. It is the nine-digit number, including the number after the dash. Please enter your nine-digit policy number!
ME: Yeah, you stoopid machine, I still don’t know my policy number. If I could talk to a person, I could give you any other information about me you wanted, just not the damn policy number. Gimme a break.
THEM: For an automobile policy, press 1! For a motorcycle, motorhome, boat, or recreational vehicle, press 2!
ME: Now we’re talkin’…[1].
THEM: If you purchased your policy through a local independent agent or broker, press 1! If you purchased your policy some other way, press 2!
ME: Uh…I guess it was some other way, being that I just called the toll-free number and got a policy. [2]
THEM: Please hold while we connect your call, which may be recorded or monitored!
ME: Oh, Jesus, I remember this music. I must’ve been on hold for thirty minutes the first time I called this place, because it’s ingrained in my memory. It’s actually pretty catchy…it wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t repeat the same eight beats mercilessly. Ugh, it sounds even worse on speakerphone, but at least I won’t have to hold the phone up to my ear. Alright, do I have everything? Got the title, got the license plates…I won’t need the plates, will I? Good god, you’re drunk, Jeff. What is it now, nine-thirty in the morning? Christ, it’s normal-people time. Hopefully they’ll think you just woke up rather than that you’ve been up drinking for an inordinate amount of time. But you’ve got to get this policy switched from your old car to your new one, and for heavens’ sake, you’ve got to stop talking to yourself in second-person.
THEM: Progressive Direct, this is Shannon, how may I help you?
ME: …oh! Uh…Shannon? Is your name really Shannon?
THEM: …yes, sir, it is; how may I help you?
ME: It’s just that…every time I call a corporation that has an automated answering system, the receptionist’s name is Shannon. I’m wondering if it’s a coincidence, or something more.
THEM: I can assure you my name is Shannon. What can I do for today, sir?
ME: Pardon me, I have a policy with you guys for a car I no longer own…I’d like to switch it over to the car that I…well, DO own. Unfortunately, I just moved, and any documentation with my policy number on it is either in the garbage or in boxes I’ve been too lazy to open.
THEM: What’s your social?
ME: 092…oh, shit…uh, 09-6616…I think.
THEM: Date of birth?
ME: Uhh…May sixth…nineteen…eighty-six.
You can’t even make it sound convincing when it really is your birthday. Good luck buying beer at a gas station.
THEM: [typing] Mr. Caplan?
ME: I’m Jeff. Mr. Caplan’s my father, heh heh…!
That joke’s older than your father, you twit. It’s not even a joke, it just sucks. Stick to business, Jeff.
THEM: And what can I do for you today, Mr. Caplan?
ME: I already told you. I have a policy out on a car I don’t own. I need to transfer that policy to the car that I now own.
THEM: Alright, you no longer own the ’92 Nissan Sentra?
ME: No, I do not, I am now the proud owner of a brand new 1992 Oldsmobile Royale 88.
THEM: What was the year?
ME: It’s a ’92, ma’am, just the same as the car before.
THEM: What model?
ME: Oldsmobile. It’s a ’92 Oldsmobile Royale 88.
THEM: Make?
ME: …
THEM: Mr. Caplan?
ME: It’s a 1992 Oldsmobile Royale 88. Your grandfather probably drives one.
THEM: Okay, and what’s the vehicle identification number?
ME: I’m sorry, is that the VIN?
THEM: Yes, Mr. Caplan, it is.
ME: Sorry, that just seemed too obvious. It’s 1G3HN53L9NH315346.
THEM: [typing]
ME: …hello…?
THEM: Mr. Caplan, your rate for your new car will be a three dollar difference from your old rate. The rate we have charged for this month will remain the same—
ME: Whoa, whoa, WHOA! Wait, you say there’s a three dollar difference?
THEM: Yes, Mr. Caplan, there will be a three dollar difference in your bill—
ME: Well, which way? Three dollars up, or three dollars down?
THEM: Your bill will be raised three dollars per payment period, and that will cover the same liability as you stated before—
ME: Wait just a minute! I had a ’92 Nissan Sentra before, which rode like a DREAM, by the by, and I switch to an Oldsmobile of the same year, and I have to pay three dollars MORE?
THEM: Mr. Caplan, these are the rates given to me, I can do nothing about them.
ME: I drive a grandpa car!
THEM: Sir, I don’t make the rates, I just answer the phones.
ME: That Nissan was stylish as hell! I was born to raise hell in that car, and you better believe I won’t be raising ANYTHING in that Oldsmobile!
THEM: Sir, there’s nothing I can do.
ME: I drive a ’92 Oldsmobile Royale 88! I can’t afford three dollars a month!
THEM: Sir—
ME: That’s a pack of smokes, or my insurance! Well, almost a pack of smokes…
THEM: Your coverage will be a three dollar difference from your old rate.
ME: Fine, you vultures. Suck me dry. And I know you know I’m Jewish, so FYI, I’m not just being cheap. I just have no money.
THEM: Anything else I can help you with, Mr. Caplan?
ME: I need another drink.
THEM: Have a great day, and thank you for calling Progressive Direct. |
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| Dedicated to My Daughter |
[Aug. 9th, 2006|07:17 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Rjd2 - The Horror | ] |
I’m panic-stricken, completely overwhelmed. My daughter is missing--kidnapped! She’s my whole world…I’m not worth a damn without her.
Who would do this to me? It doesn’t matter, all that matters is getting her back, safe and sound.
I remember when she was born…or do I? I don’t remember anything…what’s wrong with me?
Two years…it was two years ago that she was born, and I don’t remember any of it. What’s wrong with me, that I can’t remember the two years of her life? It doesn’t matter…all that matters is getting her back.
It DOES matter, though…why can’t I remember my baby? Was it the drugs? Have I scarred my brain that badly, that I can’t remember my baby’s first steps, or her first words? I remember her being born, I think…
I’m a bad father, aren’t I? I look at my father with tears in my eyes as he speeds down the road. What have I done to my brain that I can’t remember my own daughter?
My father looks at me with expressionless eyes and tells me, “You remember her now. That’s all that’s important, is that you’re there for her when she needs you. And she needs you now, son.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes. Yes. Yes, she needs me now, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna let her down. I may not be able to remember these past two years, but I’m gonna find my baby and get her out of that place (wherever that place may be), and get her home.
The car stops and I jump out. I’ve never been to this house before, but my daughter is here, I can feel it. My father calls for me to wait for him, but I run across the drawbridge (why does this two-story house have a drawbridge?) and barge into the house.
Immediately upon entering the house, I hear laughter. It’s a sinister laugh, and I know it’s coming from the bastard that took my daughter. Four men round the corner, but the laughter isn’t coming from any of them. Wordlessly, I try to push my way past them, but they try to stop me. I won’t be stopped. No man can keep me from rescuing my baby, the light of my life. The laughter ensues as I punch and shove aside my attackers, making my way into the next room. Punks and thugs aren’t going to stop me from getting my little girl.
In the next room, there are more thugs trying to halt my progress, but I ignore them, completely focused on getting my daughter back. Without looking at them, I shove my aggressors aside, all the while becoming angrier and angrier at the mocking laughter of the mastermind behind my daughter’s kidnapping. Whoever would do this to me and have the balls to laugh in my face about it is going to pay dearly once I know my baby is safe and sound.
I follow the hallway to a door wrapped in chains, and I know my daughter is inside that room. I hear shouting from behind me, but I ignore it as I rip into the locked door. The maniacal laughter is mocking me as I struggle futilely against the chains, and the thugs behind me catch up to me. I divide my efforts between fighting off whoever’s minions are trying to stop me and snapping the chains, all the while only thinking about my inability to remember my own daughter’s name.
Fighting with all my strength, and crying out “Baby!” since I cannot for the life of me remember her name, I miraculously fight off the last thug and break the last chain on the door at the same time. Pushing away the limp, unconscious body of my enemy’s minion, I pull the locked door open and step inside to retrieve my daughter.
The horrible, mocking laughter ceases as soon as I step into the room, and I have an uneasy feeling all of a sudden. Shocked, I slowly scan the room.
It’s completely empty.
Not only is the room completely barren, but there are no walls that I can see. There is only white, empty space, and even the door I had entered has vanished. I turn around in confusion and try to make an assessment of my situation. My daughter was in this room, I had FELT her. She was behind the door that no longer exists…
And that’s when it hits me. I don’t have a daughter. The disembodied laughter had been mocking me the entire time…not because it had taken my daughter, but because I had been chasing a dream. I couldn’t remember my daughter because there had never been a daughter.
I stare directly ahead at the empty white space and bring my hands up to my face. I feel as though I haven’t shaved in several days, but it slowly occurs to me that none of this is real. I slowly let myself fall back, only to land on an extremely comfortable chair that wasn’t there before. I reach into my shirt pocket for a cigarette that had never been there, and light it with a lighter that materializes in my hand.
As I smoke my cigarette in that empty room, I mourn for the daughter I never had. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 26th, 2006|03:53 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Four Tet - She Moves She | ] |
I wake up to an alarm every day. Every single day, the ringtone on my phone entitled “Farewell” wakes me up forty-five minutes before I have to be awake. And every single day, I hit the snooze twice, which wakes me up fifteen minutes before I have to be awake, giving me time to shit, shower, and shave before I smoke a bowl and catch the bus to work.
The following is the story of the day I hit the snooze not twice, not thrice, but frice.
The fifth time I heard “Farewell,” my eyes snapped wide open. I snatched my phone from my dresser and stared at the time. 4:15, it screamed at me. “FUCK!” I screamed back. Fifteen minutes I had until the bus came.
Leaping from my bed, I ran into the bathroom and studied my options as I relieved my bladder. I HAD to take a shower, I knew that. My sweat reeked of beer, and I’d been sleeping in it. I’d wanted to trim my fingernails to decrease the amount of cornmeal I’d take home with me, but I supposed I’d have to skip that. I had to shave, because I never knew when we were getting an inspection, so that was out. It then occurred to me that I’d been urinating for an awfully long time, and that that was cutting into my shower time.
I had barely finished peeing when I jumped into the shower and lathered up, rinsed off and jumped out. I tossed in my contacts and shaved, then ran back to my room to put some pants on. I got dressed and looked at the time. 4:23. I had seven minutes to catch the bus, and I still had to tie my shoes. Would I be able to get high before work today? I still had to read a comic book, eat something, brush my teeth, and masturbate. I clenched my teeth and decided that I would forego the aforementioned luxuries so that I could pack up the bong before work.
Amazingly, I found the time to brush my teeth after I’d killed the bonghit at four-thirty. I had to run after the bus to catch it, but the minty-fresh feeling was well worth it (it lasts all day!)
Once I had caught the bus, I figured I was golden. I’d arrive at Squires at a little before quarter to five, and I’d be able to pick some up from Burger King to satisfy the hunger I hadn’t sated since two nights ago, with just enough time to make the eleven-minute walk to Domino’s. Unfortunately, God wasn’t on my side this day.
We got out of Foxridge just fine. But we got on Prices Fork Road, and there was a guy at one of the stops there with a bicycle. I have nothing against cyclists, but this guy took eight minutes to attach his bike to the bike-hanger on the front of the damn bus. I mean, fer Chrissake, just hang your fucking bike on the hanger. It’s not hard, and your precious bike will be safe from harm. Not to mention the elderly lady that needed the ramp lowered to get on the bus, or the kid with cerebral palsy, but good LORD, some people have to go to WORK--!
When my bus finally arrived at Squires, I immediately hoped off (after hollering a hearty “Thank you!” to my local bus driver), and lit up a cigarette. I walked towards my work (which just so happened to be towards Burger King), and contemplated whether or not I had enough time to get lunch to go.
I had finished my cigarette by the time I got to Burger King, which meant (according to the deal I made with myself) that I would go inside and get lunch real quick before work. I put my cigarette out on the trashcan, threw it away, and pulled open the door.
I walked up to the register and was about to spew my usual order when the cashier thrust a paper bag in my face.
“Number eight, no lettuce, no tomato. And a pink lemonade for your hangover,” he said, and handed me my meal.
In my stoned stupor I stared at him for well over what would be considered acceptable or comfortable. I graciously took my food and, acting on instinct alone, handed over four dollars and eighty-three cents.
Finally, I said, “That helps out…I’m late for work.”
The cashier smiled. “I saw you coming.”
Had I done this that many times before? Was I that predictable that the cashier at Burger King could see me out the window and have my order ready before I stepped up to the counter? How was it that he could remember what I ordered when I couldn’t remember his face?
The day that I was running late was the day that this guy had my order ready when I walked in the door. Before I took my food, I turned my gaze towards the cashier’s nametag. “Thanks, man,” I said. “My name’s Jeff.”
“I’m Robert,” he replied, pointing to his nametag.
“Heh,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And with that I ran off to work, perfectly on-schedule. And the best part? I wasn't even hungover. But GOD, do I love me some pink lemonade. |
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