Tuesday, December 28, 2004
For some reason, I am having a very hard time writing this today. You're reading my fourth attempt at a post, and it has been a major pain for me. I don't know why it's been so difficult, seeing as I only took two days off (well, three if you count yesterday) and I have stuff to write about. Perhaps it's because I don't feel too well - when I left my home and family in Philly, I returned to NYC with tons of holidays pastries and sweets, which aside from some booze and kielbasa have been the only things I've eaten for the past three days. Also, whenever I take some time off from writing and have days worth of stuff to talk about, it can be overwhelming as I try to fight the urge to say, "On Wednesday...On Thursday...On Friday..." as I am not a very good writer, although I do know a lot of different curse words, and I think my grammar is pretty good for how quickly I write this.
But I think it is because I took that little bit of time off. Usually, I can spit this shit out in 15-20 minutes, no matter how long (it's simple formula really: fat joke - booby reference - something about booze/drugs - subtle cry for help - curse word - not so subtle cry for help - another curse word - retard joke - fin). But because I've fallen out of the routine, this has taken/is taking considerably longer.
So I'm just gonna fucking wing it, and you're gonna have to deal with it (everybody's off from work this week anyway, so hardly anyone's reading).
First, let's go with the obvious: it stinks to be back at work - big time. The trains on the commute in have been completely empty, and here I am at my desk, bored out of my mind on a slow day, wishing I was home in bed playing with myself on this cold day in NYC. Not good. Not good at all.
Second, celebrating Christmas on a Saturday stinks. Going through the whole Christmas celebratory stuff on a Saturday, knowing that the next day was Sunday, knowing that the day after that was Monday, knowing that that means back to work, knowing that eventually someone's going to discover that I kinda like guys - well, it's just no good.
However, it was nice to be home for the holidays. Some highlights:
Nothing like waking up at 7am on Christmas Eve morning to throw up in the bathroom of your dad's house because the night before at a friend's Christmas party you ate:
- a chicken cutlet supreme (chicken cutlet on a roll with cheese, lettuce, onion, bacon, smothered in mayo)
- handful after handful of chips, doritos, and honey roasted peanuts
- about a dozen lil' holiday cookies
- over a dozen beers
- three glasses of egg nog
- at least three "Green Apple" shots
- and the kicker: a huge ass pile of creamed chipped beef and a quart of chocolate milk at 3:30am
Sure, this caused me to wretch violently and I'm pretty sure I threw up a kidney, but if given the choice I would do it all again.
The best part was the conversation between my dad and I at about 11am:
Dad: "Did you throw up last night?"
Me: [embarrassed] "No."
Dad: "Well, then did you shit yourself last night?"
Dad: "There's some brown stuff on the toilet and on the floor on the side of the toilet. I was hoping it's throw up. It's not shit, is it?"
Me: [dismayed, defeated] "No, it's throw up."
Dad: "Well that's a relief."
Speaking of food, I fucking love egg nog. I can't stress this enough. Wawa, which is like a localized 7-11-type convenience store in Philadelphia and the Delaware Valley (comparable to Store 24 in Boston), puts out its own egg nog, and I shit you not, it's like drinking an orgasm.
[I just read that over and threw up all over my keyboard. Ugh. It's going to take a while to get this chunk of bacon out from between the "I" and "O" keys.]
I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's really fucking delicious, in no small part because it's incredibly bad for you. It has 180 calories and 6g of saturated fat (30% of your recommend daily allowance) per four ounces. Not eight ounces, but four ounces.
By my estimation, I had over a half gallon of this egg nog while home in Philly. Let's say I had 72 ounces of this heavenly egg nog. That equates to 3,240 calories and 108 grams of fat in three days in egg nog alone. This is to say nothing of the limitless kielbasa, ham, deviled eggs, potato salad, cheese, and, oh yeah, booze I had over my time at home.
Why am I single again?
Top Three Gifts:
1) Vodka and wine. My aunt got me a bottle of vodka, and two other aunts got me each a bottle of wine. Hmph.
You know what? Why don't we save the time that a slow death from alcoholism would give me and you can just stab me in the chest instead? At least punch me very hard in the stomach - I insist. Because what I really need is some more booze. Why not give me a dozen pre-made 8-Balls while we're at it, or a maybe even a noose or loaded revolver?
The best part is that the wine is supposed to be "good" wine. I'm sure that some people would drink this wine and say, "Wow - this is good wine." I drank it and thought, "Wow - this is wine." I can't tell the difference between a $5 bottle of wine and a $50 bottle of wine because I drink both with the same speed and under the same conditions: out of a pint glass at 10pm on a Saturday night while watching VH1 Classic with my roommates.
However, I was able to enjoy some of my aunt's vodka on the train ride back to NYC because I saw that the store in the train station sold OJ and I needed something to get me through the long train ride (all of 85 minutes). There's really nothing like coming above ground from Penn Station and looking at the gently falling snow against the backdrop of Madison Square Garden with a good buzz on. It's really quite beautiful.
So thanks for the booze. Look for me to come calling in six months well I need some donations to pay my way at a nice wellness center upstate where I can get clean.
2) Any cash gift. When in doubt, always go with cash. Sure, there's not much thought involved, but I don't want thought - I want money. If only my unsuspecting relatives knew that the $20 they gave me in their Christmas card was going straight to the purchase of an inordinate amount of marijuana, I'm sure they'd be thrilled.
[On a side note, how can I live in the largest city in America and be (quasi-) famous and have a hard time buying drugs? When all of my friends left the city this past August/September, thus went my drug connections. Christ. If this keeps up I'm just going to say "fuck it" and head to Central Park to try to buy some shit and wind up getting fucking arrested.
Cool story Hansel.]
3) A velour jump suit. One of the presents my mom got me was a velour jump suit. I don't know what to make of this, except that if I wear it without a t-shirt underneath I look like an Irish-American Tony Soprano with slightly more hair.
And you know what? I fucking love it. If you don't think I'm going to be decked out in my velour jumpsuit every time I'm laying on the couch smoking doobs, well you are sadly mistaken. Fucking awesome.
Everyone says that their family is dysfunctional. No matter how lame and boring their family actually may be, this is just something that everyone believes. It's kinda like how you'll never meet a person who believes he/she has a bad sense of humor, even though the can find no humor in the finest of dick jokes or jokes that start with "So I killed this homeless kid about a week ago..."
I don't have a problem with people believing that they have dysfunctional families, but I do have a problem hearing stories about their lame ass families.
And I can't count how many times I've had to listen to people's stories about their "dysfunctional" family holidays. Like, "Last year, in the middle of singing Christmas songs after Christmas dinner Grandpa Ed forgot the words to 'Silent Night' and stop in mid-song to say 'Oh darn it!' and we all laughed because it was so funny!" and "Two years ago on Christmas morning, we were all opening our presents and my mom gave me a present and I opened it but I saw that it was a girl's sweater so my mom said, 'Oh honey, I made a mistake - that's for your sister!' It was so crazy!"
None of these stories ever go, "We were playing poker at my Aunt Mary's house and there was an argument over cards and my Irish Uncle Nate said to my cousin Justin (who is obviously a homosexual) 'Stop being a fag!' and Justin got all hot and bothered and was like, 'I'm not being a fag - you're a fag!' and my Uncle Nate said, 'No, I mean you're gay! Everyone knows it! Just don't bring it to the poker table!' and at that point all hell broke loose and Justin's mom, Aunt Becky, started crying and Uncle Nate and Justin were yelling at each other and I saw that my brother was looking at my cards so I threw my beer at him and there was a bit of a melee and Lucky, the new dog, ran out of the house and they haven't found him yet." This is usually how some of my family's stories go.
But this year, I got nothing. Nothing crazy happened, nothing too out of the ordinary. Usually I'm guaranteed at least something - Uncle Ted showing everyone one of his balls, my cousin Fred showing up with his "Skank of the Week" girlfriend who proceeds to talk about Hollywood gossip in the thickest South Philly accent possible and privately asks each of the males over 14 if they'd be interested in a handjob for $15 - something. But this year, nothing. Damn.
Well, that only means one thing: next year I'm going to have to spike the egg nog with a little more than rum (wink wink). I should probably start working on finding that new drug connection...