Everything is wrong with me
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
 
what the fuck I’m doing
I haven’t written about it as much as I should, probably because I don’t want to rub it in your faces. But it’s time to face facts: not working totally fucking rules.

From October through December, I worked one day a week at my normal job. I did this to work on my still-can’t-fucking-be-talked-about projects. But now I’m off entirely until the middle of February, when I go back full time, as one of my deadlines approaches (I can barely even write that without breaking into sobs and convulsions).

I go back to work on February 13 and in some ways it won’t be a moment too soon. Not that I exactly live a “healthy” lifestyle otherwise, but I have essentially become preoccupied with destroying both my body and mind during this time off. And it’s pretty awesome (most of the time).

I write mostly at night (as I write this, it’s 3:11am on Monday night, though I’ll finish and post it tomorrow afternoon). I find it nearly impossible to get work done during the day, what with emails and fantasy sports and phone calls and the like. Also, I’m lusty during the day, so I pretty much compulsively masturbate from the time I wake up until the evening. When I’m finally finished making love to myself, I start working on my stuff, usually about midnight. This will continue to around 5am.

Of course, what kind of writer doesn’t drink when he writes? I learned early on to find the delicate balance between “Drunk enough to write well” and “Too drunk to hit the proper keys and OH MY GOD I JUST KNOCKED OVER MY BEER ON THE FUCKING COMPUTER!” Alcohol should be handled with care. Think about it: just the right amount of booze makes you better at everything – playing pool, having sex, writing, etc. But too much and you’re scraping the pool stick against the table, trying to stick your bird in your girl’s heinie, and writing things that read like:
I don’t know what the wolrd is coming too. I mean, serioulssy. You knew? HOW THE DUCK WONT IT SOPT? I know.
My greatest difficulty with this whole process, aside from not getting too drunk, is that I have had more trouble writing blog entries than I ever have before. Before these projects, the blog was my hobby. I had my normal job and this was my release. But now, it’s the other way around. Writing funny (or trying to write funny) is my job. So even though I write posts when I need a break from working on the projects, it’s like picking up another term paper or taking on another client or – I don’t know – adding more work to whatever the hell it is you already do for a living. And I think (as some of you have noticed and gone to great lengths to point out) the blog occasionally suffers because of this.

But aside from that, life is pretty peachy keen. I wake up anywhere between noon and 2pm and eat some much cereal that I feel sick for the next few hours (currently we’re enjoying Frosted Flakes, but last week I ate a whole box of Cookie Crisp IN ONE DAY). Once I’ve showered, I’ve pretty much met all of my goals for the day. If the mood strikes me, I can continue writing and try to do some work in the day, or I can go lay on the couch with my hand down my pants to watch “The Cosby Show.”

Sunday night was a good example of the freedom that I now have. I met up with my friend Lauren who was in town from DC for dinner. Lauren has the distinction of being one of the only girls that I am friends with who I have not tried to make out with. This is not because she is unattractive or anything (she is actually purdy, though I admit that I’ve never like something like “unattractiveness” or “penis-having” stop me from trying to force myself upon women before), but because when we first met at work I was already secretly dating two girls at work and it was a very stressful situation. I look back at the time in my life now and think that sounds like a pretty good problem to have, as today my “women problems” mostly consist of “How much trouble would I get if I ‘accidentally’ walked into the women’s bathroom?” or “This craigslist’s personal ad is very hard to write. Should I use ‘healthy’, ‘robust’, or ‘a little extra’ to describe my weight problem?”

But anyway, Lauren and I met up for dinner. I have problem eating in front of women, even if they’re my friend, because I don’t know how to properly eat. There are blind horses with better table manners than me, as each meal is a contest to eat as quickly as possible. Also, I have a beard, so that means the occasionally slab of goat cheese gets stuck in the moustache or a nice streak of vodka sauce runs from the corner of my lip, down my chin, and through my neck beard.

(Is anyone else really turned on right now?)

Lauren was still full from a late lunch and only got a famous dessert. I got a salad, when I could have eaten a terrier. But we got wine. Boy did we get wine.

Three hours and three bottles later, we stumbled out of the restaurant. Lauren was staying with a friend nearby, so after saying goodbye I decided to make the walk from Alphabet City down to my place in Little Italy. So I took off, my purple-stained mouth scaring away any dangerous people that approached me.

When I got home around midnight, I was feeling pretty good and so had myself a Guinness. Then I had another. When we ran out, I tapped into the PBR that is now a fixture in our fridge. The next thing I knew, it was 2:45 in the morning and I was on the couch crying while watching the show “Intervention” (and it wasn’t even a good episode – a bulimic and a homosexual meth/sex addict). After drying my eyes at the end of “Intervention”, I was flipping through the channels but couldn’t find anything, so I went to HBO on Demand. I decided on a lovely lil’ documentary called, “Gladiator Days: Anatomy of a Prison Murder”. It’s a documentary about a racially-motivated prison murder in which two white inmates stabbed a black inmate 67 times. And, oh yeah, this attack was caught on videotape. Because really, when it’s 3am on a Sunday night, you’re drunk, alone, and sad, is there anything better than watching a man stab another man?

That was sarcasm. If you take one thing from me or this site, let it be this: do not watch this documentary late at night when you’re really fucked up and depressed. Trust me on this. The subject matter itself is disturbing, the video of the attack is worse (especially stabs 60-67, which focused primarily on the head and neck), and I will carry the memory of the autopsy photos with me to my grave (though the photos are not from this attack, but from the original crime the defendant was in for – another murder). I felt physically ill several times during the show and it made me very sad, even though I can’t remember much aside from the graphic stuff (thank you, PBR). Anyway way you cut it (pun intended), it was not the perfect end to the night.

My time off has been like last night. For the most part, very nice. Going out to dinner, getting drunk, walking through the streets of Manhattan around midnight with a smile on my wine-stained mouth, taking it all in. I get to sleep in, do what I’ve always wanted to do, and have fun.

But then, there are times. Not good times. I don’t know what’s worse: watching that horrible documentary or sitting in front of a blank Word document, watching that cursor blink, and thinking, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Just write, you fat bastard! You can churn the shit out for the blog in no time, so what’s the problem here?”

So when I go back to work on February 13, I think I will have mixed feelings. I’ll miss some freedoms, but I’ll be glad to have some routine to my life. And I’ll be content.

(That is, until about 10:10am on the first day back at work, when I’ll think to myself, “This fucking sucks. I wish I was at home downloading porn and writing. I guess I’ll go poop or something. Only eight hours to go!”)



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