5½ years ago—Here's a list of things you normally take for granted until you are faced with unemployment:
1. A fresh box of Arm and Hammer odor dissolving baking soda for the freezer and refrigerator. [If one of you would just click through a google ad, and buy some baking soda for christ sakes.]
2. Health care.
3. (2) two-liters a day cola habit is hard to break.
5 years ago—
While it's true that I have been eating better on food stamps than during my time with Arizona's Superior Court, it couldn't last forever. First there was that annoying sound my roommate would make everytime of the month rent comes around.
4½ years ago—
About Me. I was told every blog should have one of these. I am 38. I work in a grocery store. I am an atheist and a Marxist. I have acid-reflux disease, and for a white guy I can make a pretty mean homemade refried bean tostada.
4 years ago—
First, real beauty does not come in all shapes and sizes. I don't care if Tyra suddenly feels sympathy for fat chicks, they still is ugly. And I know a little something about ugly. Hell my memoirs are called "Memoirs from the short bald fat white guy who sits next to you on the bus who wants to get your attention but quickly averts his eyes when yours meet."
3½ years ago—
Of course it's 2:38 in the morning and I am on my 4th Natural Light beer. Don't ever bet against me—no matter how much you think the guy in the Fast in the Furious is not Ja Rule—otherwise you too will be offering up your secret beer stash to me.
3 years ago—
If you could feel my jugular right now you would feel how it is pounding away at me. My fat isn't the jiggly kind. It's more like hard yellow brick. Sometimes it feels like the blood feels all pudgy and gets stuck in my veins. I want to rub it. To coerce it through back through my veins like jelly stuffed in a donut. But I hear that is the worse thing you can do for a clot. You rub a clot and it could pass through right to your brain or to your heart.
2½ years ago—
We were at the Dollar PBR bar. Only today is not Dollar PBR. So instead we drank 4 or 6 pitchers of beer. The beer was warm and we stuck a plastic cup of full of ice in the pitcher to keep it cold.
My ex-roomie has the Gout. He drinks way too much. I drink way too much. I can't think of any other reason, (other than the Bone Cancer) that my foot should hurt. I must have the Gout too. I have to stop drinking. If I stop drinking I will soon have to kill most of the people I meet in my customer service line.
2 years ago—
I must love punishing myself like some kind of co-dependent housewife or something, because I always take jobs where I have to deal with complaints, assholes, and upset people, or just people in general. Why do I forget that I hate people?
1½ years ago—
My stomach feels like I swallowed a pine cone and I am now trying to squeeze it through my intestines. I guess that is why I am awake at five in the morning and why I've decided I would get this post out about "how my blog turned 4 years old last week and nobody cared." I started blogging 5 years ago on March 5, 2003. I was working for the local county at a self help center and library. I sold divorce forms and helped people get restraining orders. I used to save lives for a living before I bagged your groceries.
1 year ago—
I start the dishwasher. I glance at the left over dishes. 4 wine glasses. 4 shot glasses. I need to take out the trash. I need to shower. My face feels grimy. I may have smeared the bacon fat. I look dumbly in the mirror. I hope to see something that is not there. I see the growing scalp line appear where once there was hair. The computer hums in the background.
6 months ago—
July 30th is the fifth birthday of this blog. You might think I would be excited about that. But I am not. Somehow celebrating the five year anniversary of a blog that has attracted 12 readers only makes me want to cry. You can't celebrate 12 readers. Just like you can't celebrate how the writing on this blog has gone from awful to almost better.
4 months ago—
Anybody else just really tired of trying, I mean fuck, I've worked my ass off for almost 20 years and I am still barely just scraping by.
2 months ago—
I think the coke we bought had to have been cut with meth. Actually I am sure all coke is cut with meth. I am so not addicted to coke that a line sits on a paper plate hidden in my dresser drawer. I did not finish it off last night. I did not use it as a perk for getting up early and going to work this morning. I did not snort it up as soon as I got home. I did not think about doing the line while I stood around at work today. I am not even thinking about doing it right now.
1 month ago—
I had 4 beers before I took the pill. My ruddy complexion is even redder today than normal. My face feels quite warm to the touch. Almost alarmingly warm. Though I have had the feeling that I am running a temperature all day long.
Two weeks ago—
I have discovered: the connection, warmth, and empathy that I lack in real world. I know E is fake. All you do is sit on the couch with your friends touching fingers. But when I take E I get all the "feelings" you take for granted. I know it destroys brain cells. But let's face it. I have not been using those brain cells for anything.
Today—
Maybe you don't know this, but we are all going to die. I think that life is like a video game. That even if you beat the Donkey Kong arcade game and get a million points and finish the 39th level—some one unplugs your machine. I guess what I am trying to say is that at some point all of our high scores get deleted.
When I was a younger man, art was a lonely thing. No galleries, no collectors, no critics, no money. Yet, it was a golden age, for we all had nothing to lose and a vision to gain. Today it is not quite the same. It is a time of tons of verbiage, activity, consumption. Which condition is better for the world at large I shall not venture to discuss. But I do know, that many of those who are driven to this life are desperately searching for those pockets of silence where we can root and grow. We must all hope we find them. — Mark Rothko
Sometimes we have the absolute certainty that there's something inside us that's so hideous and monstrous that if we ever search it out we won't be able to stand looking at it. But it's when we're willing to come face to face with that demon that we face the angel. — Hubert Selby Jr. (Requiem for a Dream)
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