Tag Archives: squalor

Calling When I Say I Will

missed-call

I know I said I would call. You all but made me promise that I would. How could I say no? And it really isn’t work at all to pick up the phone and dial. I could do it while I walk home, or while I clean the dishes, or whenever. It is not a time thing. Anyone that says they don’t have time to call is either too poor to have a cell phone or completely full of shit. I just don’t want to talk to you. Sorry. I know how these things work. If I call, then invariably you will call me some other night, and I really do not want to hear about how your boss is a bitch, or how smart your cat is, or whatever else you think I would remotely care about.

And next time we run into each other, if you ask, I’ll say that it’s not you, that it’s me. This will be a lie. It is you. I just don’t want confrontation. I would rather things regress to awkwardness, than have to deal with them head on. Call me coward. Call me a caitiff. Call me a lying son-of-a-bitch. Just don’t call me. Please.

Jeff

St. Patrick’s Day

no-thanks

As a drinker St. Patrick’s Day fails completely as a holiday. What would have normally been an enjoyable night at my local pub has now been ruined by the influx of assholes wearing green that have swarmed seemingly every bar in the city.

When I think of the holiday now, my first thought is not of the Irish, but rather a plague of verdant locus, a green mob of drunken assholes destroying everything that it comes in contact with. My favorite bar? Now overrun with a bunch of animal-house types who have valiantly, yet with no signs of composer or skill, been imbibing since the morning. They crowd the counter and spill their drinks in a misbegotten orgy of high-fives and chest bumps. The sidewalks are splotched with lime tinged vomit. Cabs are impossible to get. That cute girl at my local that I have been slowly mustering the courage to talk is now being hit on by a dozen preppy looking douche bags wearing Guinness baseball hats and green polo shirts. The beer I liked? Now perverted with green food dye. The pub food I crave? Not tonight, they’re too busy. Everything that was sacred at my bar – my temple – unremorsefully stuprated and debauched. What should have been a joyous evening turned into a surreal nightmare of sacrilege.

St. Patrick may have succeeded in driving the snakes out of Ireland, but he also managed to drive all the pricks to the bars one night a year. If you want to find me next St. Patty’s Day I’ll be at home with a bottle of scotch and six-pack of Bass.

Jeff

The Middle Class

middle-class

I should like the middle class, right? What have they ever done to offend? They work hard and pay their bills (unless it’s their mortgage). They’re content and pleasant. And yet I can’t really stomach the vast lot them – they bore me to no end. If I want good conversation, I head to a dive bar or the University Club, and not the bar at Chili’s.

The way I see it, life exists at the ends. Feast or famine, binge or purge: beauty through conflict. And then there is the middle class, whish is just sort of there, entirely blasé and uninspired. They have few real struggles, and as a result, limited aspirations. Entirely safe, they have nothing to drive them, content to vicariously live through others.

But creativity demands distention and contraction; requires extremes and the internecine quirks of those with too much or not enough. The tragedy is that there are many things that are so destructive (and by extension inspiring) that only the very rich or the very poor can afford to indulge them. The middle classes have just enough to lose to convince themselves to live completely dull lives. Is it any wonder that they are shrinking: they are dying from boredom.

Jeff

New Year’s Resolutions

January 2nd

Dear Everyone,

Your New Year’s resolution is dumb. Please stop trying to improve yourself; it is making me nauseous. The problem isn’t that you’re unattractive (well, at least not the main problem), or stupid (though that isn’t helping), or your crippling lack self-confidence (wait, who are you again?). The problem is that you are painfully boring. Remember, it is quite possible to lead a completely upstanding life, and never live a single day.

Wake up early, jog, eat breakfast, floss, say hi, and die. Have a job, wear your seatbelt, wait until marriage, look both ways, call her back when you say you will, and die. Count calories, wash your hands, watch your manners, buy insurance, jazzercise, and die. Smoke, drink, binge, purge, snort, shoot, fuck, speed, fight, shout, spit, and live. Care less, don’t plan, close your eyes while driving, dart across eight lanes of traffic, hit back, sleep for days, don’t sleep for days, forget when you last showered, and live. Of course, the more you live the sooner you die. Oh well.

Anyhow, if you still think self-improvement is a swell idea, don’t rule out self-destruction as the best way to get there. You want a packed funeral, right?

With much love,

Jeff

P.S. If you figure out how to get washboard abs, let me know.