Everything is wrong with me
Monday, July 26, 2004
 
Katz's, the murder of attractive women, and an uncontrollable fear of fish
After a disastrous weekend (to my liver and self-esteem) last weekend, I took it easy this weekend. I battled through the rain on Friday night for the sake of boozing with friends I barely like and spent $40 on cabs, traveling from the Upper East Side, to Wall Street, to Washington Square Park, then back to the Upper East Side (have I mentioned that I hate living in the Upper East Side?).

To give you an idea of what a low-key weekend it was, the highlight of the weekend had to be on Sunday, when I traveled back to my old neighborhood, the Lower East Side/Soho area, and spent the day walking around and weeping about what I left behind (cool bars, good restaurants, hot hipster chicks, most of my friends) and what I have now (lots of people with little dogs, lots of pregnant women, Spanish Harlem).

The culmination was when I went to Katz's deli and lost it, dropping to my knees outside the deli, raising my hands in the air, screaming, "I'm sorry" with tears running down my face, my howls of agony muffled intermittently by taking mouthfuls of the pastrami sandwich (with Swiss and mustard) I had in my left hand and the hot dog I had in my right.

God, Katz's is really fucking good.

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How is it that I can't get a fucking girlfriend but there are men murdering their attractive wives all over the country? First, it was Laci Peterson getting offed by her husband. Now it's Lori Hacking, who is also pretty damn good-looking. Now, having personally been through the justice system many times (both in the US and in Guatemala), I'm all for "innocent until proven guilty." But c'mon - this guy did it. He lies to his whole family (and his wife) about getting into med school in NC when he didn't graduate college. He bought a mattress forty-five minutes before reporting his wife missing. And shortly after the incident police found him naked running around a motel and put him in a mental hospital (and I only got a fine). I work at a law firm, I know a lot of lawyers, I dated a girl who went to law school (for a year, but still, she went) and I want to sleep with three girls I know who are now in law school, so I feel that I am totally qualified to say: this guy is guilty.

Still, attractive women are marrying men who later kill them, and I can't get a girlfriend. Shit, I can't even get a girl to make out with me just once, even after spending $40 on Long Island Ice Teas and a couple of Kamikaze shots. I thought women were supposed to be perceptive...can't you tell whether or not the guy's going to kill you by the third date? I think that women everywhere should re-evaluate their dating and evaluation processes. In addition to asking yourself, "Will this man provide for me and our children?" and "What kind of father will this man be?", you should also ask yourself, "Will this man murder me when I get pregnant?" If the answer is "Oh, lord yes" or even "probably not" or "I don't think so", just stay away.

All the ladies out there reading (all three of them: my sister and my friends Annie and Nicole), I promise you that I will not murder you if we get married. Well, unless you cheat on me. Or if you tell any of my friends that you want to sleep with them. Or if you gain too much weight. But as long as you stay away from those three conditions, we should have a marginally happy marriage. So email me already.

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It's Shark Week on the Discovery Channel, also known as the Week Jason Can't Sleep at All Because of Terrifying Shark Nightmares, or the Week Jason Asks His Roommates If They Can Put Their Mattresses in the Living Room and All Sleep There, or the Week That Confirms That Jason Is a Total Pussy.

Of all my phobias (fat-free foods, naked women, the Dutch), sharks and the ocean in general is definitely my biggest. True story: when I was a kid and first saw "Jaws", I was so terrified that I actually ate at the dinner table with a wiffle ball bat for the next few months. You know, in case a shark decided to come through the dining room floor and eat my legs, I could beat him off with the wiffle ball bat (c'mon - I was like 5 at the time).

But to this day I am scared shitless of the ocean. This works to my advantage in one major way: being afraid of the ocean means not going in the ocean, which means one less opportunity for me to be shirtless in public. Nice.

I'm going to my cousin's wedding in the Bahamas next week and my buddy emailed me asking if I wanted to go deep sea fishing. Um, thanks, but no thanks. I'll sit by the pool, get a nice, deep sunburn, drink 30 pina coladas, and embarrass my family. But let me know how that fishing goes.



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