love
wednesday wank
April 29, 2008
There are a bunch of new photos uploaded on the left… a little lower, no, a little higher… click on the picture. yeah that one. now click. ok, enjoy. If you scroll to the bottom of the page and click on “archive” you can see all of them and choose any that catch your fancy… enjoy.
Kathy is starting to look baaaaaad. Something tells me she pissed off her make-up gay.
play the game
I don’t write about my work very often because I try to keep that side of my life separate from the day-to-day neuroses that inhabit my head during the off hours, the times when I’m sitting in traffic or vegging out on the couch; but it occurred to me that my work, the nature of my job affects those off hours so much more than I’ve ever let on to myself.
I realized this morning while walking the ever-faithful Superdog Stella that the stress of my job has been wearing on me a great deal of late. Once this thought took hold in the darker, scarier corners of my mind I started to look back at the past few years, the various job changes, the great physical moves across country to Chicago and the triumphant return to the Bay Area only to realize that it has been this underlying stress that has driven all of these, some would say, hasty decisions.
I’m in sales. I have numbers to meet, people to schmooze and tasks to complete that cannot be taught from a textbook only learned through trial/error experiences. I have learned how to be shallow and friendly to people that I would rather not know, how to sound interested in stories about people that I would not talk to outside of work (though I’ve been fortunate enough to meet some wonderful people that have maintained a presence in my life) and how to meld my image, my voice, and my demeanor to ingratiate myself into the customer’s positive view.
The whole process makes me shudder. From time to time, I travel to regional sales meetings where I rub elbows with the “successful” sales people that have landed good accounts, that play the game chasing the ever elusive “big win” account that’ll set them up for life with a lot of money and prestige in the sales world. These people are usually very arrogant and filled with self-adoration and boastful talk about the glories of the job.
I sit, usually with a like-minded colleague quietly mocking them thankful that I’m not like that, yet always just a little jealous that I’m not like that.
April 28, 2008
They tried to make me to go to rehab…
All day long, the lyrics of Amy Winehouse’s signature song have been rolling around in my head.
“They tried to make me to go to rehab… I said No No No”.
I think, just maybe, bear with me now here, that I should possibly consider taking them up this little suggestion after the events of yesterday.
For the most part, the weekend was non-eventful, dare I say, a little boring. I spent the bulk of it on the couch, staring at the wall… which is something somebody with extremely limited financial means tends to do on a regular basis. So there I was. Sitting on the couch watching the floaters in my eyeballs swim about making fanciful loops and arcs as I rolled my eyes to animate them further when the phone started beeping with a new text message.
“Come to bearbucks then the beer bust”
So I showered, walked Stella, headed up to the city, admonishing myself to “Be Good”, stop drinking by 7pm so I could be sober by 10pm, and be home asleep in time to be well rested and energetic for the coming workweek.
And I did too. For the most part, I was pretty good. I drank slowly, sipping at the cheap swill they serve at the beer bust, taking my time to prevent myself from getting super drunk. “Just a little tipsy” I chanted under my breath as the warm fuzziness of the combination of sun, beer and sexy shirtless men filled my surroundings.
I met and chatted flirted with a lot of guys and at one point, as it turns out the pivotal point, one of the cute men handed me a shot (said to contain tequila) and at that point, the little voice changed from the good natured tipsy with me all afternoon to the louder “lets get drunk and have wild sex” of the early evening. The louder voice won out as we traveled to the next bar, the next beer bust, the next dark room until I found myself in a hotel room with a very hot man being strapped into a leather straight jacket, hood and, I imagined, a shiny red ball gag.
I spent the next few hours with this hot man doing all sorts of unthinkable things to me and enjoying, mostly, every single thing. As the hours rolled past, the fog of the drink lifted, the sensations heightened and reason returned to my brain. Though very much still into the “scene”, I now started considering time, place, person, and my responsibilities to both my beloved Stella and the coming work week fast approaching.
Here’s the evil thing about alcohol and the fog of need and desire mixed together. That hot man, that so expertly straps you into the straightjacket, the hood and the, in my mind, shiny red ball gag, isn’t necessarily the same hot man that will release you from the bondage. Physically, it is the same man. However, the perception of that man has changed dramatically leaving you wondering how drunk you truly were just a few short hours before.
“They tried to make me to go to rehab…” I said. Ok, lets sit down and discuss what this means to me…
April 17, 2008
did you know?
That if you type my first and last name into a language translator and translate it from a certain language into English, that it translates to “Calf Butcher”?
