Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Everyone's Right
I know that a lot of people write how they physically feel on their sites, and I've never quite understood that because feeling's so temporary and it doesn't seem worthwhile to catalog it. Nevertheless, I gotta say I am dripping tired right now.
I guess I don't care enough so I'll just say this to get it off my chest: I hate all the high school antics at work. I just don't have the patience. I'm having a very hard time bullshitting people. I'd much rather call an asshole an asshole. I don't want to beat around the bush and call him "overly tenacious" or "noticeably aggressive". He's just a fucking asshole. That's all.
And why, oh why, can't people listen anymore? Every time I open my fucking mouth someone cuts me off. That's it. I've got to take some stock. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep coming to the same places, eating the same food, reading the same websites, talking to the same people, writing the same pissed-off letters to the editor, pretending to care enough to have patience to put up with it all. It's time for some change. I can't keep agreeing with everyone. I can't keep agreeing with myself. I need to quit my job and start delivering expensive take-out. Play my drums more, but with the back heads off for more hollow volume. Read more Plato, less newsprint. Drink more applejuice and water. Listen to more acoustic punk. Imagine God's teeth to be right behind me like a great ship's spinning propeller.
I guess I don't care enough so I'll just say this to get it off my chest: I hate all the high school antics at work. I just don't have the patience. I'm having a very hard time bullshitting people. I'd much rather call an asshole an asshole. I don't want to beat around the bush and call him "overly tenacious" or "noticeably aggressive". He's just a fucking asshole. That's all.
And why, oh why, can't people listen anymore? Every time I open my fucking mouth someone cuts me off. That's it. I've got to take some stock. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep coming to the same places, eating the same food, reading the same websites, talking to the same people, writing the same pissed-off letters to the editor, pretending to care enough to have patience to put up with it all. It's time for some change. I can't keep agreeing with everyone. I can't keep agreeing with myself. I need to quit my job and start delivering expensive take-out. Play my drums more, but with the back heads off for more hollow volume. Read more Plato, less newsprint. Drink more applejuice and water. Listen to more acoustic punk. Imagine God's teeth to be right behind me like a great ship's spinning propeller.
Friday, November 04, 2005
On "Happily Ever After"
If I could state one thing I've learned about marriage, it's: expect less.
For example, when the wife and I were dating and I'd stay over at her place, she would give me one of her pillows. She had two. There were two of us. It was a nice -- but admittedly expected -- gesture. When we moved in and got married, I of course brought my pillow. What happened? You can already guess, I know you can: no second pillow for me.
That's right. Now that I was providing my own pillow, she kept both her pillows. So that extra pillow that had been mine when I slept in her bed was now off-limits . . . even though it was the same bed.
So, in short, what I'm stating is: Cinderella and the prince eventually get out of that carriage, plod their way up to the master bedroom, and fight over the pillows.
For example, when the wife and I were dating and I'd stay over at her place, she would give me one of her pillows. She had two. There were two of us. It was a nice -- but admittedly expected -- gesture. When we moved in and got married, I of course brought my pillow. What happened? You can already guess, I know you can: no second pillow for me.
That's right. Now that I was providing my own pillow, she kept both her pillows. So that extra pillow that had been mine when I slept in her bed was now off-limits . . . even though it was the same bed.
So, in short, what I'm stating is: Cinderella and the prince eventually get out of that carriage, plod their way up to the master bedroom, and fight over the pillows.
