New Direction, New horizon, New Post

So I lost my job last week, and when I say lost my job I mean that my employers kept me on for the past few months out of pitty and they finally decided to cut the line and release me back into the wild. I’m not sure yet how I feel about this because on the one hand I am ecstatic about leaving one of the most soul sucking office jobs on the planet, but on the other hand it is going to be difficult to read-adjust back into society and not fall back into the slumps that had plagued me previously i.e. lots of pot, booze, and a lifetimes worth of masturbation. Keeping this in mind I am trying to figure out exactly what direction I want to take my life . do I fall back to my old ways in a devilish downward spiral of cheap porn, or do I decide to take a step into the darkness and attempt to see what could be.

At first, life without work seemed blissful. Thursday through Sunday was a non-stop glutton fest. I drank enough to make Henry Chinaski rise up out of his grave and say cheers. In the blink of an I Monday had arrived, the alarm in my play house of a room was set for 7:00 am, the same time I would crawl my way out of bed and continue the drone like routine that I had known for 2 years, but this morning was different.

I awoke with no purpose, no sense of responsibility, the drive was still burning in side of me but I had nothing to put it towards, no direction. The emptiness began to set in. I didn’t realize how lonely of a person I had become over these past few years, shutting out the people that care for me and the friends that would always be their no matter how much of there parent’s booze I consumed. What do I have to show for it, a few months of unemployment checks. I know for certain that the co-workers that I had grown close to in the past few years have already begun to think of me in past tense and soon i will no longer call them friends. So here i am sitting at this computer pouring my thoughts into this poor mans version of a social column.

What am I to do…the thought that has been dominating my mind these past few days like the Russian in rocky 4.
(By the way I hate to use this as a metaphor but you gotta do what you gotta do.)
Am I going to let myself go the way of Apollo Creed, or am I going to grab a fucking log and run through some god damn snow until those dirty commies are off my back….

Regardless of what I do with my life I can thank my previous job for one thing…that one thing I have not yet discovered , but when I do, I will make sure to share it with you.
What ever course of action I take I will be sure to chronicle it, because craziness just won’t leave me be.

Creepiness , Shame , and Violence.

Where to begin.

Thursday night began at sharkeez with my coworkers and I engaged in a vital flip cup tournament that I had managed to botch last time around. This victory would prove to them that I was not a failure and I could achieve victory in such a momentous tournament. Unfortunately for us, deep into the second round the taller of our teammates began to lose composure and proceeded to have a nervous breakdown whilst attempting to flip his cup to the upright position. We lost. The night wasnt all for not however when we stumbled upon a group of women that soon doubled in size. Before team “donkey show” knew it we were surrounded by 7 girls gleaming with overactive hormones.

“I have a butterfly, it’s the best friend a girl could have. But I do prefer the real thing of course.”

It wasn’t that simple however. The conversation began at a table with several friends and a pack of fresh deer waiting for the slaughter. The woman I quoted earlier was the wounded baby deer struggling to keep pace with the pack or heard or what ever the fuck you call a group of deer. We talked, we laughed, I stared at the ground in an attempt to not vomit and or fall over the tornado of dramatic screams and hand movements from my pal and his fresh ex girlfriend. It was getting late and I attempted to throw out the cliché -I live with my mom and I want to get laid comment -”so you want to go back to your place.” She responded to my shame filled statement by subtly letting me know she had a visitor staying with her over the weekend. Like the giant meatball that I am I said “who the fuck is this visitor and why can’t I come over.” She replied “ Martha is staying with me for a few days”… immediately I got the mental picture of a sweet old lady knitting blankets for her sleazy daughters 8 kids which she will no doubt have in 2 years (don’t ask me why). I had nowhere to take her and I was done like the Lawrence family toilette after thanksgiving dinner. if I were any good at getting laid I would have asked her to comeback to my buddies house and or bang it out in the car with me…but no , I waited for another opening. Maybe I could go with her to her friend’s house, maybe she had a really neat guest house that I didn’t even know about. Then like Medusa turning her victims to stone she laid it on me….”Martha is actually the name of my period.”……. what is a 22 year old man who is pissed out of his mind supposed to do in this situation . Like any gentleman would, I asked her when her wound was going to heal and I took down her number.

I stumbled into the office the next morning with bleeding eyes and scorched rectum from that mornings nauseating acid release that some call their morning glory.( I call it phase one or a fissure eruption). That week we were lacking in production at the office so we had a Friday “ pump up meeting” as a pathetic attempt to rally the fiends and degenerates that they call employees into getting 10 more deals in before the end of the day. To those of you who have never worked in the mortgage industry, and those of you who have but not in today’s market. This is like asking Michael Jackson to stop touching little Timmy in his naughty place. It’s not gunna happen. After a round of applause and a couple giggles the team was chained back to their cubicles and the pace drum started once again. Not only am I on the verge of soiling myself at this point, I am teetering on the brink of sanity. Somehow out of some divine strength I kept it together enough to make it through the rest of the day.

Friday night I decided that even though I was strickend by a powerful hang over and 4 hours of sleep I would venture out to The Hen with my friendly neighborhood ex professional baseball player. Although I had met another group of women and had a great time, the night eventually ended in failure with the ultimate goal unattained.

Although it was nice to sleep in my own bed friday night, I awoke Saturday morning with a bloated belly and an underlying feeling of nausea. I layed under my covers enveloped with an overpowering feeling of anxiety and dread for the bbq/going away party that was to begin at 5 o’clock. You might say to yourself what is this kid’s deal, every fat guy loves a bbq. Don’t get me wrong, I love free beer , dip, and carne asada. That is not what frightened me. Many moons back at a party thrown at my house I was essentially taken advantage of by one of my buddy’s girlfriend’s acquaintances. I remembered bits and pieces of the experience but it was like I was watching from outside my body and had no control over what was going on. The next day I had to hear the missing pieces of the story from my co workers. It ranks in the top three most embarrassing/shameful experiences of my life. The really aggravating aspect of it is that the girl who did this made it public knowledge the next day, and completely humiliated me. She then turned it around on me like I was the bad guy , telling my friends/employees that I had done all of these extreme things that I had no recollection of ect ect. It’s almost as if she was looking for a scapegoat for past relationships which had gone wrong and decided to posterize a reasonably good person to vent her anguish. Ok, apparently I gave her an incorrect number to call me on which was probably my subconscious acting at that point saying that you want no part of this women. Especially because she was completely sober and I could not walk let alone think. Any way , I knew that on Saturday by going to this bbq that I would inevitably have a run in with this woman where she would no doubt embarrass me to the point where I could not speak.

I arrived at the party at five o’clock giving a short glance and a hello to the previously mentioned. A short while passed and I was mingling, drinking, and schmoozing like a soccer mom hopped up on valium and a couple bottles of champagne. Little did I know that I was about to become the laughing stock of this bbq. I don’t want to go into details because I want to retain some dignity but I will tell you that at one point almost every person at this bbq had a witty comment or smart ass remark in response to any thing I had to say. In an effort to release the shame and prove that I could make fun of my self better than anyone else could I began picking up my cell phone and pretending to call my mom and ask her to pick me up. The shame…my self deprecation had reached a new low. At any other party with any other group of people I would have taken action and reacted in accordance with the humiliation that was being welded into my soul in these disastrous moments, but for some reason I could not. It was like I was a Vietnam War veteran in the midst of a terrible flash back. I became desperate, I began shoveling truck loads of whatever food I could find into my mouth in an effort to forget this devilish creature following and tormenting me at every turn. I was rescued from torment when Mario requested that I drive him home because he had a few too many gallons of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Thank god , the barbecue was over and I had made it out alive. On the way to Mario’s house we stopped at the class of 47 for a few Jager bombs and a quick laugh. We got back to his beach abode and immediately decided that because it was his good friend’s birthdays, we would get some beer and call over the usual suspects to pre-game before we meander our way to the bars later on that evening. The rest of the “ donkey show” showed up with 20 packs of Coors Light in hand and cigarette in mouth. I knew at that moment this night would soon resort to drunken godlessness and sub human debauchery.

The guests arrived and we continued to ingest an unhealthy amount of alcohol. Jon pulled his usual stunt and shoved a giant syringe in an almost primitive phallic ritual into several people’s mouths spraying J & B down their soon to be raw throats. After several beers and a few cartons of smokes we were headed to the Stag Bar, a breeding ground for bad haircuts, way too many tattoos, and male jewelry. “Drink that you fucking pussy” Graeme screamed as he ordered a round of Jager and beers. This repeated itself to the t at least 5 times . Following the last round of German oil I stepped outside and ran into an old friend from several years back. We chatted a while, yelled obscene things at married women and parted our ways with a handshake and a smile. A few minutes later the lovely celestial bartender handed me a mystery shot and pointed across the bar. I saw my old pal from outside give me a thumbs up from the other side of the bar. The shot smelled of gasoline. Like any good drunk however I could not turn down a free drink. I plugged my nose and dove in. At the immediate moment I slammed the glass to the ground I began to taste stomach acid and chili cheese dip. The first wave of vomit was repelled with the palm of my hand and a quick swallow. There was no time to think I had to act fast, Graeme slaps me and points to a clear line of site outside. As I barrel down on the door I am confronted with numerous drunkards who I have no choice but to run over, regardless of gender. I made it outside and unleash the violent fury of a thousand bowls of chili onto an innocent yellow cab. It seemed that everyone but the cab driver and the bouncers had seen my pathetic attempt as a human super soaker. No big deal I told my self, just walk it off, just walk it off. There is nothing like the taste of vomit and a cigarette. I regained my composure and made my way back in to the bar. When I reached my old position at the bar my friends had taken a turn for the worse. The evil began to build in my companions eyes when their attempts at picking up strange women ended in embarrassment and rejection. They were soon offering lewd comments and rapist like stares across the bar to any women deemed bang-able. An hour later the bar shut down but my friends and I did not. I found myself at the local donut shop paying for 6 ham and cheese croissants as my pals were feeding bums donuts, drinking vodka with the crazy banjo guy, and taking enormous bites out of every croissant that was carried out that front door whether the owner was a friend or just an innocent by standard. Our drunken side show soon made its way back to Mario and Jon’s house where we immediately began beating piss out of each other. At first I did not participate, all I heard was: “ get that cock you fucking pussy” “ you’re in bounty county now Focker,” “ you fucking bitch! You fucking bitch!”, and finally “ why are you doing this.” Soon the tornado of drunken fury came to me and I was in the middle of a drunken brawl. The brawl ended sometime around 330- 4 pm. I remembered going to sleep as someone was throwing up and screaming my fucking arm, I thought you were my friend. Apparently we as a group suffered from several injuries: 3 knock outs/concussions , sprained fingers, bloody hands, a hyper extended arm, and bleeding from the ear along with numerous cuts , scratches, and bruises.
I learned a valuable lesson last weekend. Do not involve yourself in situations that offer nothing but embarrassment , pet names for bodily functions, and head blood. Also watch out for drunken mad women with pace makers waving their cane’s around trying to club the guy who said she had a fat ass.

Delay

My new post will be up soon i was out of town for a week and my editor to a brick to the face ... new post will be up in a few days max.

Disclaimer:lifestyle may be hazerdous to ones' health

Today marked the end of another weekend stocked full of mild panic attacks, intolerable hangovers, and the inevitable shut down by countless women. Some of you reading this may think that the brief description I just gave you could only outline the awful weekend of a hopeless alcoholic/manic depressive burned out ex cop. Well, you might be correct if somewhere in that sentence I added "I'm getting to old for this shit." Unfortunately I am not a cliché 80's movie detective, I am a struggling college student/mortgage clown in the giant farce that is orange county only trying to make my way through life and stay on course with the rest of my overly ambitious colleges/peers who apparently are all going to have a "million dollars" within the next decade.

This blog is my attempt at showing the thoughts of an indecent degenerate through the overwhelming sea of fronts and lude conduct that an orange county native is forced to deal with on a day to day basis. Anyway, before I go into some inconsequential rant I should probably get back to the main point of this blog. Why do I feel it a necessary to drink and smoke my life into oblivion every weekend? The answer is....(drum roll).. I have no idea. Maybe it is the constant need to escape the charade that is my life at this very moment. In this repetitive act of self destruction itself I should find no solace because I am simply reproducing this cycle of self defecation that I inevitably throw myself through on a weekly basis, Right? I couldn’t be more wrong.. Let me break it down for you with the brief description of my own personal hell,

My average week consists of Monday through Friday -school and work. My classes are twice a week, which might seem easy to the average college graduate. The problem isn’t that it is too difficult, it is that in all actuality the course material seems as though it was composed for middle aged, life long victims of downs syndrome. Combine this frustrating lack of intellectual stimulation with the almost psychosis inducing job that I have (witch pretty much comes down to telemarketing to the scum of the United States), and you get five days of disillusion with a dash of an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. I'd like to keep this short so I’m not going to get into all of the details regarding my classes and job, I’ll save that for later posts.

After a week of loathing I am driven to the bars as soon as I can go to my shoe box size room located on the second story of my mothers house (which is in the heart of suburbia mind you) and change/"put my face on" . This past weekend was no exception to that; I began my night with a bloody bowel movement and a tall Coors light at my usual hang out Hennesseys. Henneseys is the local Irish pub where the ex community college students and aging hipsters like to assemble. Don’t get me wrong, I love this place because of the great staff and upscale dive bar scene that they've got goin on there, but there aren’t many "hotties" there on a nightly basis if you catch my drift. The night out began with several of my pals and I shoveling sliders, cigarettes, and cocktails down our throats. There was an unusual twist to this evening however. After a quick peep at the dance floor upstairs we proceded back down to my usual spot in the back corner of the patio where i normally suck down a pack and a half of Marlboro lights each Friday night. As we made our way down a women and her friend grabbed my arm and asked if they could share our table with us. Like any half drunk overweight college student would i agreed without hesitation. As time passed i discovered that the women who had reached for my arm was a 27 year old "PROSTITIST" from Michigan. I had gotten the impression that this conversation was going to cost a little bit of money, possibly my integrity. She soon cleared this "Prostitist" thing up however by telling me that she actually did not want to charge me 200 dollars for an over rated hand job. She casually let me know she made plaster molds for lamps (?). This made perfect sense to me because she was a mechanical engineer who graduated from Michigan State University. I felt that after a few conversations, some jokes, and a handfull of cocktails that she could be "the one". Of course i was shot down when she told me that her 7 foot 300 pound ex marine boyfriend was back at her apartment up the street. I mean, what was i supposed to do invite her to sleep with me under my star wars blanket at my mom’s cottage? The jig was up, and i had failed. We had a few more drinks together and called it a night.

Saturday consisted of similar aspects except i was about 10 times more plastered and I actually managed to complete a second pack of Marlboro lights compared to Friday’s 1.5 packs. I made one fatal flaw Saturday, i broke an ashtray.. Not just any ash trey, but a prized piece shaped like a life sized bowling pin. The consequences of breaking this timeless piece were that Jon (fellow degenerate) would make me drink a shot of what ever alcohol he wished, whenever he ordered a drink. I realized i was fucked when he came out onto the patio with a turkey baster sized plastic syringe filled to the brink with bottom shelf liquor. One press of the thumb later and i was shitting booze out of my mouth. That night i had some success conversing with women, but my body took a substantial beating and i ended up as lonely as the night before. Except this night i had my 6 foot 5" Abercrombie esque friend passed out spooning some college student on the couch next to me, and i had some sort of dead wildebeest Jon had given me as a blanket.

The next morning was Easter Sunday. That day ranked in the top ten worst hangovers of my life. I hugged the toilet half the day for fear of vomiting all over my mothers moderately priced rug and or making her realize her suspicions of me that i was going nowhere fast. I was no happier that day than when word hit the office that i had paid a hooker far too much in Vegas for an average bang.
I realized today (Monday) that this never ending cycle of self destruction certainly isn’t healthy in any sense of the word, but it is all i have to hold onto at this point of my life. Maybe that is why i do it, because it gives me some sense of hope. Perhaps i might meet a beautiful big breasted princess at the beach ball this weekend, only time will tell.