The news story here was that a dude caught a record-breaking 21 pound, 1 ounce catfish using his granddaughter’s Barbie fishing pole. But really, wouldn’t a smaller fish have sufficed? Did they really have to be all stereotypical American and catch a supersized one:
Yes, at the ripe ol’ age of 26 and after eight years of living away, I have moved home. It is the sacrifice I had to make to finally get the fuck out of L.A. before my future journeys lead me out of San Jose (Sunnyvale, technically, because my parents sold their house two years ago thereby ruining my townie social life).
I have a feeling this is going to be an ongoing series of posts.
1. Ever since I moved home my fragrance allergies have been off the chart, leading me to complain of feeling headache-y and dehydrated. My mom’s natural reaction was to yell at me about not wearing a jacket and force me to take vitamin c. After debating with her about knowing why I felt decrepit her final solution was to…slip a raw onion into my room when she thought I wasn’t looking. I noticed, forgot about it, then found it again today when cleaning. Apparently she read somewhere that onions are natural air purifiers. So to breathe “clean” air or smell like B.O. that is the question.
2. I got to work from home today and before leaving for work, my mom was gracious enough to cook me lunch and then repeatedly call me until I finally picked up:
Mom: If you’re hungry, there’s spaghetti and falafel on the stove.
Me: Falafel? Did you mean to say falafel?
Mom: Yes, because you can’t eat meatballs so I used falafel balls.
Needless to say, I was not impressed, and complained later of being hungry leading my mom to say “Beggars can’t be choosy.” Which technically is true since I’m living rent free and getting free food. But still, spaghetti and falafel balls are enough to make any sane person finally get dressed and drive to Chipotle.
On a whim, I went back into our archives and looked up everything in the category ‘decrepit’.
From the post ‘Utterly, Disgustingly Decrepit’:
Then lo, this morning, I woke up by getting a Charlie horse in my right calf muscle. It was so fucking painful I wanted to die.
So now I’m limping on BOTH SIDES of my lower half. Nothing is healing and I have to walk the 1.5 miles into town today to get something signed by my dissertation advisor. It’s going to be a long, slow, painful penguin walk.
There were a multitude of these from 2006-2007. However, it appears that our physical calamity has evaporated and been replaced by ennui.
You guys. Boredom and melancholy are dull. Let’s hurt ourselves! Otherwise, we fail at finding the funny in the sad (read: broken extremities), even more than we fail at life in general.
…who were viping and vashing our office vindows. And I wasn’t really attacked, more like I was driving by and had just rolled down my windows in anticipation of swiping my parking access card, when I read a sign: Caution, men working above. And right at that moment, splat, water hit my windshield and my bare arm. Dirty window water from filthy squeegees.
It just led me to think, wouldn’t it be funny if I gained access to the window washing gear, and navigated it to the 10th floor where several key execs work in my company, and lingered outside their windows until they noticed me? Or, the alternative would be to do the same, and make a fast motion so as to startle the bejesus out of them. Either way, I’d have prime positioning outside their offices and their full attention. At that point, I would hold up a sign that reads “I Quit!” and based off their expression, all Bob Dylan like, I’d hold up another one that reads “Life!” and jump backwards out of the little window washing cart. Joke’s on you, buddy!
And, I would be on the next unfortunate person pulling into the lot. Dirty chinese body falling from above.
O. M. G. You guys. It’s hot as MURDER in New York.
Listen, I know what Californians consider hot, and let me tell you, being able to fry an egg on the sidewalk is nothing compared to being able to fry an egg on the sidewalk, and seasoning it with your own sweat. Or better yet, poaching an egg in a bowl of your sweat as collected by mischievous wood nymphs who only delight in your suffering. This is how hot it is.
Now, I’ve embraced my inner (and outer) sweaty beast. I realize that, even in the dead of February, I will work up a sweat climbing the 3 flights to my apartment. I wholeheartedly accept the fact that I will begin sweating bullets when put in front of a slew of corporate employees, or when eating Tabasco, or when forced to interact with senior citizens. However, when I begin sweating the moment I set foot outside, the moment I leave the climate controlled safety of my bedroom, I have no psychological defense. I become a puddle of the man I used to be, dissolved into component parts: sebaceous fluid, amino acids, an ironic t-shirt, and rage. It is no wonder that people like me devolve into this. I feel for the guy, I really do. If I’d walked 4 blocks in a 3 piece suit from the subway to the office, and arrived soaking wet by my own doing, only to have some office toady tell me that I wasn’t sorting my trash properly, there might be a chance that I went completely postal. I understand the idea of ‘Hot as Murder’.
I’ve also turned aside from the notion that when I sweat, I look something like this:
And realized that it’s really much more like this:
On a side note, when I was googling ‘sweaty’ and ‘sweat-soaked’ you can imagine the amount of gay porn that came up. On the site where I found that first image, I also found this:
Oh, Zacky. Really… only a matter of time, isn’t it?