Love you so much it makes me sick

Gather round the campfire, kids. Why? Cuz it’s damn dark everywhere else.

The Early Twenties Golden Era continues its holding pattern at 30000 feet, nowhere to land. The war for employment drags on, each day a flurry of applications and faxes and cover letters as I assault various companies, trying to convey my worth as a person in one miserable document. Hire me, I say, for I can contribute. The vice grows tighter, the need for escape and forward movement and change grows stronger. Try not to think about it, T. Chin up and fists tight, make that paper and keep that beeper chirpin. It’s a must.

Stagnation is the ultimate display of weakness. I need out. I need to be On My Own.

At this point I’ll do most near any old thing to get out. Best Buy. Homelessness. Arby’s. Anything. I’ve even gone so far as to apply for Technical Writing jobs, much to my own disgrace. Taming the frothing, epileptic stallion that is my verbal style, lashing it to a mill post where it walks in a circle cranking out data sheets and training documents eight hours a day is a god damn travesty. If I start writing in complete, organized sentences and arranging my thoughts in a methodical, hierarchical way… Blech. Disgust, abhorrence, these words are too weak. Bulleted lists and graphs and Roman numerals and pi charts, that’s not writing that’s god damn farm work.

I’d take that job like that in a second, though. At least it’d be something; all movement is good movement. Perhaps I have the discipline and dexterity to keep my work and my life separate, who knows. Maybe, it’ll swing the other way. Maybe every drop of formality will be spent at work, and when it comes time to write in this thing I’ll have no coherence left, just adjectives and italics.

BLAUAU terrible RAPSCALLION phosphorescent belligErAtin soup, busta. ;;;; Rinse.

No sir I don’t like it. A little too modernist.


The question is begged: Has there ever been a soul more tortured by the absence of tribulation?

Perhaps. If so, I’ll bet he was American. Only in this nation can a man be plagued by the absence of challenge.


I saw a job posting for a sports writer in Woodland. The ad brought two questions to the surface, the first being whether or not I have The Talent and The Drive and the Mad Flizoetry to actually be gainfully employed as a writer, rather than as a techmonkey. The second is where the fuck is Woodland. Turns out it’s a dive town north of Dixon, and Davis. I can only imagine what kind of sportswriting is needed by the Woodland Daily Birdcageliner or whatever the hell they call themselves…

“We’re here at the Lower Woodland Over-40 Women’s Tetherball Semi-final Match, between Midge “The Lunchlady” Hurfurrsen and Patty “Boombatty” Lerou. Tonight’s bout has drawn a record number of attendees: Me, Woodland’s newest sports writer. The game was set to begin at 3:30, but the start time was delayed when Mrs. Hurfurrsen (the aptly named Lunch Lady, since she is… you know… the lunch lady) helped one of her students dig through the dumpster for his lost retainer after school. Indeed, the entire match seemed ill-fated, for after a much too brief opening series, Mrs. Lerou’s Depends burst in what can only be described as the most horrific and terrible sports equipment malfunction this seasoned reporter has ever seen. Luckily, the number of spectators (including myself) could be counted on Lance Armstrong’s nuts, so witnesses to the atrocity were kept to a minimum. Seeing that old woman’s diaper burst right in mid swing, smattering and splattering all kind of unspeakability on the hot asphalt, well, that’s the kind of thing you can never unsee. I think I may go home and hang myself.

Be sure and check tomorrow’s Birdcageliner for the East County Conference Lawndart highlights, straight from Farmer Art’s lawn behind his garage.”

Yeah… fuck.


But A Job Is A Job, friends. Dollars dollars dollars, that’s all that matters. I don’t live to work, I work to live.

Obviously there are jobs, and there are jobs. I think about all the jobs I’d really like to have, but I can’t seem to find ads for them. does not list Pirate, Grave Robber, Mischief Maker, Gypsy, or Bon Jovi Impersonator as job titles, which is a load of horse shit. They don’t even have Samurai, or Hustler, or Playa. Cain’t they see? Hustlin’s in my blood. Sometimes, Internet, I think you just don’t understand who I am. Maybe we need some time apart.

Atrophying away my days in front of this idiot box is not the only terrible consequence of my monetary deficiency. Lo! The decay, it spreads!

Dutledu, dutledu, dutledu, dutledu
*Insert wavy arm motion they do in Wayne’s World here.*

Me: “Wassssup, girl. Lemme holla at you fo a minute”
Girl: “Wassup playa, what yo name?”
Me: “I’m just a jive turkey tellin it like it is, girl. Hoody hoo.”
Girl: “Why don’t you buy me a drink, hot pants?”
Me: “You in luck, girl, cuz I done seen some fool drive over a parkin meter bout a half hour ago, I’ma go get some money off the concrete and be right back.”
Girl: “You so crazy.”
Me: “True.”

Fifteen minutes later…

Me: “Here’s yo Cosmo, girl. Took me a bit to count out 1200 dimes, but you know, I’m a sweetheart like that.”
Girl: “I know, playa, I know.”
Me: “Let’s head back to my place. It’s nice, but my roommates is kinda old, good folks though.”
Girl: “Aight. Lemme say peace to my girls right quick.”
Me: “I’m just sayin don’t trip if they call me “Son” or whatever, it’s jus this big joke we got going. It’s complicated. Roommate stuff.”


Movement, movement is all that matters.

Girl you ain’t Spanish, that’s Hawaiian Silky.


Another reason I hate technical writing is that you have to use Word.

Can we talk about the most infuriating piece of filth software ever crafted by demonically-possessed human hands?
You don’t work Word, you coax it.

No, I don’t want those bullets to be indented five inches. No, I don’t want those graphs to realign outside the picture. No, I don’t want to fucking capitalize ‘internet’.


Like bonzai and chainsaw juggling, writing anything complex in Word is a subtle and dangerous endeavor. Word likes to do your formatting, your grammar, your thinking for you. Which is all well and good, if you want your document to come out looking like it was written, designed, and revised by a chimp, or a professional athlete. You want anything decent out of it though, you’re gonna have to fucking work at it. You have to wheedle, connive, convince, and cajole Microsoft’s Magical Horseshit Machine into not lining up your paragraphs.

Can you imagine doing that every day?

Perish the thought. Viva la notepad.

Now I am weary, and shall retire.

First, a few shout outs. You people listen to Wild 94.9, which is 95% Castro Valley High kids giving props to other Castro Valley High kids on the radio, so you can damn well sit through my shit.

Props to my main homegirl and soon to be roommate Ms. Sawyer for her new employment, make that money kid.
Props to C-Murder preemptively for being the first person ever to score a 100% on the MCATS this coming Saturday, what what.
Props to Pete for beating me out of the Living At Home Soulrotting Purgatory, that’s my dawg.
Props to whatever thieving internetoid spent the time to upload 24 (twenty four) Tupac albums for my listening pleasure. How Thug Life can you get.

Night, kids.

“It seems that the devil controls the business of my life.”
Simon Bolivar, August 4, 1823


p.s. You have no idea what kind of seizure this raving gave my spell-checker. It was glorious.


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