Sunday, October 11, 2009

Top Ten

internet, two reading, one emailing and one working. I have no idea how I
get so much done.
I'm writing my personal ad slogan, or banner. Something that will appear above my name and stats in pretty colors and bright lights.
I want to "Wow" any potential lovers. I want them to believe that I may be
the one true man out there: something like a super hero. I want women to
believe that I am the final product of evolution.

I write "I own a HAM radio."
I have trouble taking this personal ad business seriously. I personally
don't like it. I don't like the type of people it attracts.
But, I'm lonely.
It's taken awhile to admit this; but, it's true.
I spend my evenings alternating between the TV, the IPOD, the laundry, the
dishes, the dinner, the shower, the counting of Marlboro miles for a free
dartboard, and various other small tasks (watering a dead aloe plant) that
make me believe that I'm working towards something.
In my mind I believe that this is all moving me closer to finding a woman,
finding spiritual salvation, creating some sort of art-thing, and maybe
delivering me into God's warmth.
But, it's not. It's just shit to put in between where I am and when I will
There's no hidden formula for life.
For instance, I used to think I would have bad luck for three years and good
luck for three years; fat for three years and skinny for the other three
years; dating for three years and...well, counting Marlboro miles for the
other three.
I worked this all out in my head as my boss was teaching us how to create
S.M.A.R.T. goals for our department.

I bet you’re wondering what a S.M.A.R.T. goal is? It’s a Something Maybe A Retard Tries.

There’s a real set of five words that make a smart goal and they have nothing to do with anything. It’s like you have to think of a goal that’s S, M, A, R, and T. Once you get passed “R,” you’re in. I can’t even think of “S.” I can’t even remember the damn acronym. It basically has nothing to do with my theory of 3 years.

And did that theory work out?
Well, it's nine months passed the day when I was supposed to all of a sudden
become thin, find the girl, get the job, and ascend higher on the ladder of
Progress Report: I'm still fat, lonely, and staring at at one o'clock at my
shitty job.
So much for formulae.

And, so back to re-refreshing until something comes along.

I guess if things were better I’d have the nerve.

You know, the nerve.

Like, come to work one day and…

K, right, so I pull into work, like two hours late. And I'm not calling in or nothing. And then I'm like getting out of my car and I've got these boots on that are made out of the foreskins of everyone who died in World War Two and I'm like "Hey, buddy, see these boots? They're made out of the foreskins of everyone who died in World War Two!" I say this to the first person I see in the parking lot. And he's all like "Holy shit! That's rad!" and I'm like "Damn right!" So, I'm walking through the parking lot when it occurs to me that I shouldn't have to park nine miles away from work. So, I'm like, "I'm gonna take your car, buddy – watchu think of that?" And the guy in the parking lot is all like "Man, anyone with foreskin boots from World War Two can take my car anytime." And I’m all like "Yeah, that's right, tough guy!" And then I box him in the ears for good measure. So, I get in his car and crank the engine and floor it into the receptionist’s podium inside Building Two and get out like the Dukes of Hazzard. The receptionist is so taken by my awesome boots and this jacket made from Manimal's fur that she pulls up her skirt and begs me to take her on the podium. So, I nail her and people are all like coming up and asking me "Where's so and so's office?" And I'm like "Fuck I know? I'm trying to rail the receptionist!" And they're all like "Oh, I'll find it myself." And I'm like "The fuck you will! Get lost!" And I throw a bucket of cobra snakes at them and they're all like

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