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| Articles: My Day, a painful voyage. |
Posted by
Comedian on Friday, July 20, 2001 - 05:11 AM PST
My alarm clock no longer wakes me in the morning anymore. Not that I had an alarm clock, but now that I do, it's chirp and cry is superseded by the cries of the Hispanic workers outside my window screaming "PUTA!" and "ANOS!" at eachother, in a odd attempt to repremand the same people that they will go drinking with later today. But that's the way friends are to eachother in the -- bloody hell, what do we call the 2000's years?
After i scream in abject horror in pain after looking at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock, I begin to appraise my physical situation. My hand has not been in a bowl of water, my penis is still attached in th3 same region it was when I last checked yesterday morning, there is nothing scrawled backwards in permanent marker on my forehead, my fingernails are still cut down to the bleeding edge. Hence the checklist whenever you live in a house full of gothic people who have a sense of humor like Charles Addams on opium.
My stomach hurts like a bitch. It has been for a while, and I hope it doesn't continue for much longer. I'm not a doctor person, simply because doctors would rather put a sharp object into a blood vein than give you a pill.
My stomach, in it's usual charm and subtely, gurgles andreminds methere is breakfast to be had, somewhere. I stagger out, into the blinding light, and in a myopic hobble I voyage forth, into the kitchen.
The appraisal within the kitchen is not good, and my choices are few and limited: Lucky Charms, or Cinnibon. No wonder my gut feels like a nailbed futon. The Cinnibons are taken out of my grasp of hope for a immediate breakfast, as I have the "Absolute Politeness Despite All Personal Needs And/Or Proclivities, Opinions, Etc." personality, and, in a house where you are the first person to be risen by cries of "Canta y no llores, porque cantando se alegran cielito lindo, los corazones" as one of the workers tries to carry a tune, I default to the cereal.
I wonder what kind of marshmallows do not get soggy in any liquids at all before I return to my computer.
As the computer warms up, my time of philosophical reflection for each day approaches, and, as the scandisk starts, I am given my half hour to contemplate the world, performing a scandisk on all the thoughts that race through my mind, few of which are caught by the net of the subconcious and drudged up to be examined.
"Chivalry is the concept for men to hope that life will turn into a porno and she will give you her phone number and a blow job just for holding that door and saying "good ma'am.""
"Note to self -- find world's record for oldest virgin in the world and call Guiness."
"I think I should go to the beach today."
"Must write story in journal to appease the scruffy psychiatrist I visit."
Scandisk finishes.
I begin the painful browsing.
It comes to me, in the light of the dim monitor in front of me, that the internet is the electronic confessor for the sins of the world. As ICQ warms up for the one ten-minute session of it I will have on today, I realize that all people, despite any racial/religious background, can meet on the internet and discuss their innermost feelings articulately and without interruption for all the annoying pauses that normal conversation and chatting face to face would give. People feel secure giving away electronic confessions of sins long past, and discuss their philosophies, theologies and cults with people on the other side of the earth or right next door.
And they manage to do all this with relatively slow connections, compared to mine, and my thoughts of idealistic psychological notations on sociological interactions drop off almost immediately, contributed to the fact that my internet connection is so fast, internet explorer has a almost less than 1-second delay after I open up my browser and it displays my homepage.
ICQ finishes, and I feel fear creep in to the deepest recesses of my body, noting that my dear mother -- whom I would have drug before the lions and given a chain and a rund shield to fend for her life -- has left 6 FUCKING MESSAGES IN MY GODDAMN ICQ BOX EACH 450 FUCKING CHARACTERS LONG.
This discourages me strongly from even touching Outlook, which does NOT have the 450 character limit.
And that's as far as I've gone so far.
Maybe I'll update later.
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| My Day, a painful voyage. | Login/Create an account | 3 Comments |
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Re: My Day, a painful voyage.
by Devin (devin-at-vibechild-dot-com)
on Jul 20, 2001 - 01:12 PM
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http://devin.vibechild.com/
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It's funny how much reality can resemble a short story. This totally reads like fiction, it's like you're waiting for the plot to start after setting up the scene. The amusing part is that it's real. When real life gets all surreal like that, I'm always waiting for the plot to start. But just like this post, there's no murder mystery - no superhero coming to the rescue - no vampires. Just scandisk.... again....
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A later update!
by Comedian (comedian@callatg.com)
on Jul 21, 2001 - 06:34 AM
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Sometimes, at night, I walk down to the beach when no one else is awake. It's pretty much a straight shot, with a left here when the block ends and a right here to catch up where the new street begins. I don't know why I do it, but I think, maybe, I just like it down by the water the older I get.
At night by the water you cansee the people having small bonfires and lovers on the beach taking that moonlit stroll they always wanted to do. Maybe their marraige is falling apart, and this walk is their one last desperate scramble for love that they can try before divorce happens. Maybe not. Maybe they're passionate new lovers, the kind that go at it 16 times a day without resting, like some Australian rat from out in the boonies' boondocks, that is born and fucks until it dies three days later because of dehydration. Maybe these two people are just romanticists, walking down by the beach at two in the a.m. just because they saw it in some Fred Astaire movie, and they thought it would be great, and horribly romantic in the corniest way. Maybe I'm just putting too much thought into these two people.
There's this little pathway near the beach that you can walk along, a railing that guides you at two in the a.m. and prevents you from taking a fourty foot dive of a sheer cliff into a hard sand beach. If you walk along it you can get a good view of the beach, and the ocean, and the people on the beach, and the island of Dr. No just about a half a mile out from the beach, which is an oil rig designed to look like something else, but instead looms ominously in the horizon like some cheesy Bond Villain's flick island.
The bonfires on the beach are small, and as I'm not aware of the laws and regulations, that might be just to hide them from the police or the coast guard or whomever might come trolling by to regulate things like having fires on the beach. At one little fire I see some kids, maybe three, four years oder than me, just sitting around it doing the things you expect teens to do, or college frosh, or whatever those people encountering their "three score year and ten" years to do. One of the boys is playing a Spanish guitar, trying to tune it by th way he stops from the look of him in the distance. One of the other boys, with that bleached-top-crew-cut haircut is holding his aprobriously thin and unnaturaly blonde girlfriend in his arms, and i doubt their relationship will carry much farther than "social lovers." The other guy stands out, just sitting there, drinking what looks like a Heineken from the silver-blue flash I get every times he brings it up to his mouth, and right before he puts it down. For some odd reason, I'm always at the perfect angle to notice these crapulistic little details. He has black hair down to his ears, a small upside-down triangle shaped goatee, and looked a tiny bit scruffly, like he's been playing on the beach. He's not smiling, just sitting there, drinkig his beer, waiting for the Whiskey River to Take His Mind, and Not Let His Memory Talk To Him any more.
"God, please grant me the power to DESTROY mine evil generation!", I say, fists clenched and body shaking from anger.
Has anyone ever noticed that the walk back is what always disenchants anything romantic, or simply just something you should do anyway, for the health of your mind at one point? The conversations between your lover and you turn sour, the little stuffed animal sitting on your shoulder, like some parrot acomplice to an evil pirate, starts talking back to you and freely doling out the criticisms on EVERYTHING you do(Well, I don't know if any of you have had this happen before, and if i turn out to be alone on the stuffed bear thing, I, sure as hell, am going to be pissed.). The walk back is longer, more arduos, and whatever phrases you can find for it that make it sound evil in ways that evil cannot be defined. Evil like that last fucking rocket-piano puzzle in Myst was.
As all things happen to turn out, I return to the house without being mugged, ra
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Another Sequel to a relatively unsuccesful franchise? I should design toys!
by Comedian (comedian@callatg.com)
on Jul 24, 2001 - 11:18 PM
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I think Straw Hat Pizza has taken over the abandoned husks of Round Table Pizza recently, as I notice more Starw hats than Round Tables nowadays, and they all have the same wood-wall/70's bathroom color scheme.
But for pizza, I will tolreate anything. I will tolerate donkey pornography, 6 and-a-half hour marathons of Midget Porn in all it's digitized glory on the Sega channel. I will even tolerate bad pizza, simply because IT IS pizza, and one can't be too rude or brash when you have something set before you that is a rather decent fascimile of something you desire.
The scene of chaos before us is somehow typical on a Sunday afternoon in a pizza joint, and somehow oddly mixed. Well, considering mixed is a population of 4 children, all probably under the age of 14. Two of the aprobruis excrescences who are making their appearences all to readily visible are both wearing what look soccer/baseball uniforms, and the grotesquely rotund one in a baseball uniform is standing near me like he expects me to give up my arcade seat so he can display how blatantly skillless he is. No. Away.
My brother is playing pinball next to me. And he's damn good at it. I've gone through two of his five dollars he's kindly(and rather unselfishly) converted to quarters to fuel our arcade madness. But Hydro Thunder just gobbles quarters, you know?
As things usually do work out to be, like some perverted lnumeral somewhere on the Code of murphy, they call our order when each of us has just won a game and have the extra play sitting there. We fall to temptatation.
My sister, as if somehow hearing the psychic cry we both give, somehow glides over and gets the pizza in what seems like seconds. Conviniently, my quarter runs out and I hop over the pilots seat and get back to the table. Sitting down, I notice my hands feel like I'd be doing odd sexual things to a jar of clear honey, and excuse myself to go to the bathroom.
Staying true to the Pizza-place style, the bathroom smells like cigarettes and cherry-scented urinal cakes. I think they had to have filmed something from "Pulp Fiction" in this bathroom. The color of the brown tiles and the white cieling seem to come from soem cheap horror movie scheme, and there should be a zombie comign through the door at any moment, and my cheap shotgun is in hand and there's some girl remnant of the hippie decade in an odd pink tie-dye hue standing next to me.
My hands are slightly moist as I step lightly from the bathroom, and round the curve to get back to the table where the pizza is awaiting attention. Unfortunately my way is being blocked.
Two of the aforementioned blighted soon-to-be monster mongers are running between the counter, and their big sister is herding them forcibly to the table where they will gorge their already repulsively chubby faces. Their older sister is there, and I say older sister meaning that she would watch pokemon with them older. And she would still enjoy it. I have to pause and stand until they're done blocking the way. The girl looks up.
Sometimes someone can just automatically lock eyes with another person, no words, just eyes. They can look up, and you are locked on their eyes, just staring, and they are doing the same with you. She had those clear blue eys that look like a kind of perfect pastel blue plate with a single blackened peice of toast on them.
I think I smiled.
I don't think I managed it.
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