I was unable to sleep for seven days. A week, from one Tuesday to the next, with less than fourteen total hours of sleep; why is what you are probably wondering. Well, it’s a simple word with an insane number of connotations.
Death.
Just as my eyes would close, I would speculate about the end of life, which I cannot avoid and live in utter and total fear of. As a man who believes in God (I will go no further, because what else I believe in is none of your damned business), I have faith in an afterlife, a place with all the answers to my questions, and a sense of peace that I have felt on Earth in only a few spare moments.
But for the last week, I have wondered if I may be wrong. What if it’s just pain and then nothing? That thought is so terrifying that I am shaking, nearly crying, just thinking about it.
And it is totally, completely unavoidable. I will find out if I am right or wrong.
I would rather live forever. “But Zeep, what about all the loved ones who will die around you?” Well, I will miss them, but I am pretty good at making friends, so I suppose I will have new ones to love. It sounds cold, but it’s not like I will get a chance to find out if I am right or not.
I will not live forever. I will die.
My brother Bob passed away when he was 35, three years after he cleaned up from years of cocaine abuse. With a natural arrhythmia to his heart, the abuse caught up with him and he died. I am the same age as my brother when he sobered up. Like others who have lost siblings, death has a sense of immediacy with me. When grandparents die, they are fulfilling their role. They’re supposed to die; they’re old and therefore the perfect first lesson in mortality. But siblings are supposed to be as immortal as trees. They aren’t supposed to die until you’re going to die.
When you lose a brother or sister, your whole timetable on death gets skewed to a much earlier wake-up call.
There were other reasons for me not sleeping: I usually have a bout of insomnia at least twice a year, but not to this extreme; I am feeling really lonely and currently have teetering prospects for a date, and I am wondering if I should even bother since student teaching is just around the corner; my body is trying to get used to the weather and the blankets on the bed. But it’s the fear of nothing that keeps me up.
I’ve been taking Tylenol PM, which is definitely doing the trick. I am trying not to become dependent upon it, but the certainty that I will sleep, and have some really awesome dreams, is too much for me to stop just yet. It keeps the ghosts in the closet, which is all I want right now.
Well, a milkshake and a backrub would be nice, too.
-Zeepdoggie
Showing posts with label Fucking Crybaby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fucking Crybaby. Show all posts
03 November 2007
24 October 2007
Not a Kitty, but a ...
While discussing Act II Scene 4 of Romeo and Juliet, I referred to Romeo as “a pussy.” This upset a woman in my class, and she told me so during our break. She began to tell me all about the strengths of the pussy and how I was wrong to use it like I did, and that I was degrading women.
I don’t use the word “pussy” to describe the vagina. Ask any lover of mine; they will tell you that I never referred to the vagina as a pussy. I cannot remember saying to any of my friends that I needed some pussy. It’s a fucking disgusting, weak, damp word that is totally unfit for the description of the vagina. Vaginas are the most important things in my life. Without them, I would have no motivation to do anything. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here without a vagina; I wore it like a hat at my very first birthday. I can’t disrespect that with a word like “pussy.” For that most wonderful of human anatomical structures, I use two words: the public word vagina, and a private term that I share only with those who have a vagina that I am taking a vested interest in. In my lexicon, whenever someone is being weak-willed, callow and foolish, they are being a pussy. A man or a woman can be a pussy, just like someone being stupidly stubborn and over-sensitive is being a dick, regardless of the position of the toilet seat in their bathroom. The woman in my class and her inability to understand that I mean no disrespect to women or their vaginas was a total dick tonight.
I tried to explain this, and I wasn’t getting through. Some of it was her inability to accept my reasoning, and some of it was my fault. To get my attention at break, the young woman hit me on the shoulder before I saw her coming. If someone touches me uninvited, I adrenalize; I get ready to fight or run (and the way things have been going lately, you can tell the predilection). So I was definitely shorter with her than I should have been. And in the process of defending myself, I snapped at the prof. I apologized later, but i doubt it made a difference.
So I got the class thinking I am a chauvinist, I shot myself in the foot with Professor Hottie, and now I am worked up and I cannot sleep.
I am such a fucking pussy.
-Zeepdoggie
I don’t use the word “pussy” to describe the vagina. Ask any lover of mine; they will tell you that I never referred to the vagina as a pussy. I cannot remember saying to any of my friends that I needed some pussy. It’s a fucking disgusting, weak, damp word that is totally unfit for the description of the vagina. Vaginas are the most important things in my life. Without them, I would have no motivation to do anything. Hell, I wouldn’t even be here without a vagina; I wore it like a hat at my very first birthday. I can’t disrespect that with a word like “pussy.” For that most wonderful of human anatomical structures, I use two words: the public word vagina, and a private term that I share only with those who have a vagina that I am taking a vested interest in. In my lexicon, whenever someone is being weak-willed, callow and foolish, they are being a pussy. A man or a woman can be a pussy, just like someone being stupidly stubborn and over-sensitive is being a dick, regardless of the position of the toilet seat in their bathroom. The woman in my class and her inability to understand that I mean no disrespect to women or their vaginas was a total dick tonight.
I tried to explain this, and I wasn’t getting through. Some of it was her inability to accept my reasoning, and some of it was my fault. To get my attention at break, the young woman hit me on the shoulder before I saw her coming. If someone touches me uninvited, I adrenalize; I get ready to fight or run (and the way things have been going lately, you can tell the predilection). So I was definitely shorter with her than I should have been. And in the process of defending myself, I snapped at the prof. I apologized later, but i doubt it made a difference.
So I got the class thinking I am a chauvinist, I shot myself in the foot with Professor Hottie, and now I am worked up and I cannot sleep.
I am such a fucking pussy.
-Zeepdoggie
01 October 2007
Today, and how it was...
...bad:
-Zeepdoggie
- I was awakened by another phone call for the student Steven Durell from his concerned schoolmasters; so concerned are they that they refuse to change the contact number for young Mr. Durell, who I can tell has a bright future in being a total drain on society, despite my repeated calls to inform them of the faulty intelligence. Perhaps the faulty intelligence is not with the information, but with those who utilize said information. Seriously, if anyone knows this taint's parents, let them know that he is not attending any classes, and that I think that is probably in his teachers' best interests. Get that boy a shirt with his name on it, cuz he's gonna need it.
- I got a letter saying I will not be receiving one of my grants, since the school lost my online FAFSA application, forcing me to reapply, making me ineligible due to the time constraints of funding the grant.
- I had to disclose to my professor why my placement at Clemente for observations would be a bad thing. Nothing like telling your professor that you feel that you couldn’t get any kind of work done knowing that at any moment you might just bump into the last woman you loved, and are probably still not totally over.
- My rent got raised after a two-hour long conversation with my landlord that got pretty heated pretty quickly, and didn’t die down until I was able to convince him that, should he raise the rent I may just die of malnourishment. After the scurvy incident, it’s a pretty fair card to play.
- I headed to UIC to print up class material, and the printers in the main lab for the East campus still cannot print from any one of the twelve Macs on the floor. The IT dude tells me I should use a PC. I yell, “Don’t tell me what to do, Poindexter! I don’t want to use a fucking PC, I want to use a Mac! There have been problems with the fucking Macs since the beginning of the fucking semester! What the fuck good does it do to have all of you fucking nerds working here if you can’t get even one of these fucking Macs to print?” Security was called, but they arrived well after I left.
- My hottie professor had to take today off because she wrenched her back. I knew this going into class, but it did not make it any easier to know that the one thing I can look forward to on Tuesdays isn’t going to happen. What happens when Zeepdoggie hopes for a surprise? He gets a disappointment.
- The five dogs downstairs have done nothing but bark loudly since I got home three hours ago; nobody is home down there, so there's no one to tell them to shut the fuck up. Every time I do it, they just bark louder.
- I got some new trade collections of some great comics in the mail, one of which, "Maintenance," I had never read before and it surprised me pleasantly.
- For dessert at lunch, I had cookies and milk.
- My rent did not get raised as much as was in the original plan.
- The looks on the kids faces in the computer lab as I completely wigged out were more than worth the potential arrest.
- I got to say "fuck" a lot in public in a loud voice, which is really its own reward.
-Zeepdoggie
13 September 2007
Peda-philia
I just had lunch with The World’s Biggest Asshole, and now I am feeling quite queasy, so I am not going to class today, which is all right, I guess. I’m taking two good pedagogy courses right now. They are the last steps to student teaching, and are required for this semester; today’s is the least fun of the two, mainly because the professor for the one on Tuesday is quite attractive, and Tuesdays are the days where I have maybe four hours of sleep before I have to work from 0600-1230, and then attend class. By that point, my internal editor is just gone, and I pretty much say whatever falls out of my mouth. I'm sure that I'll write about Tuesdays a lot more as the semester goes on.
I’ve said it before, and I will say it again; I enjoy pedagogy. It makes me feel good that there are very intelligent people out there thinking about bettering the education process; how we teach is one of the more important considerations a society can debate. I like subjects that give me a chance to think, argue and grow; educational theory classes do that more than any others.
I should go to class; attendance is important, and I have some questions concerning the week's readings. But I have a funny feeling my questions won't get answered, and this is why.
I have been lucky enough to have some of the people writing this stuff come and talk to, and in one case teach, my classes. I always get excited, because here is the person who wrote this stuff, and I have questions and issues with it. If there is anyone who can resolve this stuff it is the author/architect/designer, right? It’s like bumping into God on the street and getting the chance to ask, “Paris Hilton; what did we do to deserve that?”
On Monday, one of the people responsible for a new method of teaching held a session of “process drama” (a fancier way of saying role playing) for the two sections of the English pedagogy class. We acted out a scene that was supposed to generate in us an interest in a particular book (The Summer of My German Soldier, for those who care), as well as stimulate the class into a thought-provoking mood. I went along, and really tried to get into it, but fell short simply because for me role playing isn’t any fun unless it is totally unreal and I’m slaying dragons with a laser sword, or some shit along those lines. Basically, the high school student in me found it dull and a little dumb; it didn’t do what it was supposed to do. That, and I had some issues concerning the whole process, and I was eager to ask my questions.
We finally got around to a Q&A session. She said that she had been defending this topic for twelve years now and was sure we had some questions about it. Great! My hand was the first one up, and I asked my question. She said, “Okay, let’s think about that,” and started showing some charts on the projector that had nothing to do with my question, but they had everything to do with the article she wrote that I read the week previous.
She then says, “But that’s not answering your question,” to which I replied, “No.” She then says, “Okay, let’s consider the stance I took,” and breaks out more things to show on the overhead projector. I am getting a rereading of what I read by the author, like I’m at a bookstore for an appearance or something. This material is something I already understood. My question isn’t based on ignorance of the material, but that I didn’t agree with some of the ideas being introduced. Ignoring my question and retelling me what I already know is not going to help me. I am not your fucking prompt; I am not pretending to be a part of the crowd to give you an excuse to shuck your jive to the masses. Answer my question!
She then asked if that answered my question, and I again said no, it had not. And she asked me what I meant by my question; so I tried to break it down to simpler terms, and she seemed to get it. She then tried to explain some of the background of my question to the class in case they weren’t aware (and they should be, since they have all taken THE SAME ED PSYCH CLASSES I HAVE), and finally said that she didn’t consider that particular thing when she was crafting this method, nor that she knew much about it, and that I should read someone else’s writing in the subject.
So, what did I learn? I learned that you can defend something for twelve years and still be stumped by a smartass in a classroom; that I think differently than every single one of my classmates AND the two professors teaching the course; I don’t like being the intro to your presentation, especially if it has nothing whatsoever to do with what I was asking or saying; that the pros whose job is to defend this stuff don’t really do their homework; and that passing the buck is a total dick move if you’re a teacher.
To make it elemental, I learned that pedagogy has much in common with politics; no one wants to explain what they mean, they just want you to believe it. I still love it, and like most things I love, I will have to come up with my own answers for the questions it will generate.
-Zeepdoggie
I’ve said it before, and I will say it again; I enjoy pedagogy. It makes me feel good that there are very intelligent people out there thinking about bettering the education process; how we teach is one of the more important considerations a society can debate. I like subjects that give me a chance to think, argue and grow; educational theory classes do that more than any others.
I should go to class; attendance is important, and I have some questions concerning the week's readings. But I have a funny feeling my questions won't get answered, and this is why.
I have been lucky enough to have some of the people writing this stuff come and talk to, and in one case teach, my classes. I always get excited, because here is the person who wrote this stuff, and I have questions and issues with it. If there is anyone who can resolve this stuff it is the author/architect/designer, right? It’s like bumping into God on the street and getting the chance to ask, “Paris Hilton; what did we do to deserve that?”
On Monday, one of the people responsible for a new method of teaching held a session of “process drama” (a fancier way of saying role playing) for the two sections of the English pedagogy class. We acted out a scene that was supposed to generate in us an interest in a particular book (The Summer of My German Soldier, for those who care), as well as stimulate the class into a thought-provoking mood. I went along, and really tried to get into it, but fell short simply because for me role playing isn’t any fun unless it is totally unreal and I’m slaying dragons with a laser sword, or some shit along those lines. Basically, the high school student in me found it dull and a little dumb; it didn’t do what it was supposed to do. That, and I had some issues concerning the whole process, and I was eager to ask my questions.
We finally got around to a Q&A session. She said that she had been defending this topic for twelve years now and was sure we had some questions about it. Great! My hand was the first one up, and I asked my question. She said, “Okay, let’s think about that,” and started showing some charts on the projector that had nothing to do with my question, but they had everything to do with the article she wrote that I read the week previous.
She then says, “But that’s not answering your question,” to which I replied, “No.” She then says, “Okay, let’s consider the stance I took,” and breaks out more things to show on the overhead projector. I am getting a rereading of what I read by the author, like I’m at a bookstore for an appearance or something. This material is something I already understood. My question isn’t based on ignorance of the material, but that I didn’t agree with some of the ideas being introduced. Ignoring my question and retelling me what I already know is not going to help me. I am not your fucking prompt; I am not pretending to be a part of the crowd to give you an excuse to shuck your jive to the masses. Answer my question!
She then asked if that answered my question, and I again said no, it had not. And she asked me what I meant by my question; so I tried to break it down to simpler terms, and she seemed to get it. She then tried to explain some of the background of my question to the class in case they weren’t aware (and they should be, since they have all taken THE SAME ED PSYCH CLASSES I HAVE), and finally said that she didn’t consider that particular thing when she was crafting this method, nor that she knew much about it, and that I should read someone else’s writing in the subject.
So, what did I learn? I learned that you can defend something for twelve years and still be stumped by a smartass in a classroom; that I think differently than every single one of my classmates AND the two professors teaching the course; I don’t like being the intro to your presentation, especially if it has nothing whatsoever to do with what I was asking or saying; that the pros whose job is to defend this stuff don’t really do their homework; and that passing the buck is a total dick move if you’re a teacher.
To make it elemental, I learned that pedagogy has much in common with politics; no one wants to explain what they mean, they just want you to believe it. I still love it, and like most things I love, I will have to come up with my own answers for the questions it will generate.
-Zeepdoggie
07 August 2007
In Seven Days...
I lost my job, which was created for me, at the library. My DSL went down. My relationship ended, in case you couldn't tell by the comment. My uncle went into a coma. My DSL was fixed. COLLEGE is claiming that I owe them money, even though they owe me money. I went for a bike ride in the deserted streets of downtown Chicago, and watched the sunrise in a new favorite spot. I got a new job. My uncle died.
I think I have a right to be a little negative.
Thanks to the anonymous poster who said my blog is "interesting." On the behalf of The GringO, I will take that as a compliment. Next time, let us know who you are, so we can say, "Thanks for kudos, ______!" Then you'd be on the web, which is just like being famous, except without the recognition or money.
-zeepdoggie
I think I have a right to be a little negative.
Thanks to the anonymous poster who said my blog is "interesting." On the behalf of The GringO, I will take that as a compliment. Next time, let us know who you are, so we can say, "Thanks for kudos, ______!" Then you'd be on the web, which is just like being famous, except without the recognition or money.
-zeepdoggie
31 July 2007
Down to One
I lost the job with the library. I can understand that my availability isn’t enough; I am only available three days a week. There was a possible compromise, and it had been discussed previously (“discussed” being defined as “you said it, but we decided your ideas are poo-poo pants before you walked in here”), but they would rather not continue with me in the library. There is a “new direction” the temporary directors want to take the program, and it is not compatible with how I think the program should go. They want to “challenge the children” with tasks and activities, “to better serve the needs of the children.”
Interesting, since these two weren’t ever even in the room with the children, have never spoken to them, or even generated a survey to find out what they need. These are the people who disliked the idea of my calling the children “my kids.” I guess being enthusiastic and proud of my job weren’t in their definition of a good coordinator.
Without observing the program, without talking to the kids, without any experience whatsoever concerning the program, they have decided that it isn’t good enough. So, what I gather from this is that W. and his current administration will have a future in the library arts and sciences, should they escape prison charges.
Fuck, now I have to update the bio information.
The job in Hell is my only employment. How I am keeping a noose from around my neck is beyond me.
-Zeepdoggie
Interesting, since these two weren’t ever even in the room with the children, have never spoken to them, or even generated a survey to find out what they need. These are the people who disliked the idea of my calling the children “my kids.” I guess being enthusiastic and proud of my job weren’t in their definition of a good coordinator.
Without observing the program, without talking to the kids, without any experience whatsoever concerning the program, they have decided that it isn’t good enough. So, what I gather from this is that W. and his current administration will have a future in the library arts and sciences, should they escape prison charges.
Fuck, now I have to update the bio information.
The job in Hell is my only employment. How I am keeping a noose from around my neck is beyond me.
-Zeepdoggie
24 July 2007
I'm Working Something Out
Fuck the library. Fuck the new boss. Fuck the old boss for being so cool and setting me up for disappointment. Fuck passive aggression and cowardice; just tell me if I have a job or not. Fuck the first job I had a positive emotional attachment to. Fuck working with women. Fuck working for women. Fuck my former co-workers. Better yet, don't. May the men avoid them as though their twats had teeth. Fuck them for wanting to fuck over MY kids. Fuck the people who think lying to kids is better than being honest with them. Fuck them for not listening to kids. Fuck that community, overripe with stagnation; a perfect example of a cold death universe; frozen in social entropy; the town that time forgot. Fuck my kids for being so great that I will miss them every day I am not working with them.
Fuck you if you think I am talking about you; if you think that, ask yourself why.
Fuck me for thinking that it would be all right. Fuck me for caring about my job. Fuck me for believing that those working there would want to do better by the kids. Fuck the pride I felt helping my kids with homework, with video games, with whatever I could help them with. Fuck me for remembering their birthdays when their parents forgot. Fuck me for trying to make a difference; fuck me for succeeding.
Fuck hope.
-Fuck Zeepdoggie
Fuck you if you think I am talking about you; if you think that, ask yourself why.
Fuck me for thinking that it would be all right. Fuck me for caring about my job. Fuck me for believing that those working there would want to do better by the kids. Fuck the pride I felt helping my kids with homework, with video games, with whatever I could help them with. Fuck me for remembering their birthdays when their parents forgot. Fuck me for trying to make a difference; fuck me for succeeding.
Fuck hope.
-Fuck Zeepdoggie
10 July 2007
I am so tired, I can't feel my teeth. I did a floor set at Hell, which was fun, but it has to be done when the store is closed. We worked from 1800-0300, and I didn't get home until 0430, and barely fell asleep at five. I haven't actually recovered yet; I played hooky, didn't go to class, and basically sat around, tuning some little things on Sylvie, researching a new bike for the winter, and fighting hard to not take a nap or fall asleep. Now, I am at the point where I am overtired. I keep missing the shift key, which makes me want to go at this all e. e. cummings style. no caps, just let the writing flow.
i've been trying to help someone buy a bike recently, and that's going like pulling teeth. maybe she doesn't really want a bike.
a lot of people i know have babies. i always wanted a big family, lots of sons, a few daughters. i haven't been with a woman who i would inflict my kid on in a long time. i don't think i could be a dad anyway; i am a 32 year old boy who only has examples of what not to do as a dad to go by.
this entry really sucks. i'll post it anyway, but it still blows. i hope you didn't get this far with the reading and all. i really hope you quit right after the teeth thing.
i just want to quit.
-zeepdoggie
i've been trying to help someone buy a bike recently, and that's going like pulling teeth. maybe she doesn't really want a bike.
a lot of people i know have babies. i always wanted a big family, lots of sons, a few daughters. i haven't been with a woman who i would inflict my kid on in a long time. i don't think i could be a dad anyway; i am a 32 year old boy who only has examples of what not to do as a dad to go by.
this entry really sucks. i'll post it anyway, but it still blows. i hope you didn't get this far with the reading and all. i really hope you quit right after the teeth thing.
i just want to quit.
-zeepdoggie
19 March 2007
Job Desciption
The other week one of the managers of Hell was walking around asking employees what they were going to do to help the store that day. I suppose discussing the various stages of drying paint or whatever it is the managers talk about all day had run its course. My answer was honest, which is never a good thing at work:
"I'm going to focus on ringing."
She looked at me like I had just smeared shit on her chest or something. Suffice it to say, she didn't seem too satisfied with my answer. After reviewing her clipboard (she literally had one, Zeepdoggie) I noticed other associates saying the programmed responses of adding clothes or credit and such.
Nestled in that list of bullshit my answer looked like it came from a mentally subnormal rat. The manager (she of the head that whistles as she walks due to absence of matter between the ears) implied that my answer was not satisfactory.
I internally turned the red switch to MOTHER FUCKING ENRAGED.
"What am I going to do to help the company?! I'll do my fucking job you useless bag of overly tanned skin! I mean to say, what is my job description? I'm a ringer. What do ringers do? They fucking ring. What kind of fucking idiotic quiz were you giving out, you with the intellect of a shriveled monkey testicle? I get paid to perform a specific task within the boundaries set by a guidebook, and perform that task excellently; so don't judge me as being lazy or stupid just because I couldn't care less about this job as it isn't my career. Loosen the pigtails because they are obviously too tight and cutting off circulation to the dried and blackened husk of a gerbil on a rusted wheel that is your brain!"
Instead I did what I said I would do, I rang. I really have not point other than it feels good to feel the rage sometimes. Its like a shot of good coffee. Mmm...good.
::GringO::
"I'm going to focus on ringing."
She looked at me like I had just smeared shit on her chest or something. Suffice it to say, she didn't seem too satisfied with my answer. After reviewing her clipboard (she literally had one, Zeepdoggie) I noticed other associates saying the programmed responses of adding clothes or credit and such.
Nestled in that list of bullshit my answer looked like it came from a mentally subnormal rat. The manager (she of the head that whistles as she walks due to absence of matter between the ears) implied that my answer was not satisfactory.
I internally turned the red switch to MOTHER FUCKING ENRAGED.
"What am I going to do to help the company?! I'll do my fucking job you useless bag of overly tanned skin! I mean to say, what is my job description? I'm a ringer. What do ringers do? They fucking ring. What kind of fucking idiotic quiz were you giving out, you with the intellect of a shriveled monkey testicle? I get paid to perform a specific task within the boundaries set by a guidebook, and perform that task excellently; so don't judge me as being lazy or stupid just because I couldn't care less about this job as it isn't my career. Loosen the pigtails because they are obviously too tight and cutting off circulation to the dried and blackened husk of a gerbil on a rusted wheel that is your brain!"
Instead I did what I said I would do, I rang. I really have not point other than it feels good to feel the rage sometimes. Its like a shot of good coffee. Mmm...good.
::GringO::
03 February 2007
Heart Burn
Just recently, Wendy posted a blog that really hit home with me. You should read it, because it deals with a phenomenon that we all know, and that I fear and enjoy just a little bit.
I fear it because it makes me feel weak. It makes me think that there is something broken (unlike my normal broken) and I get frustrated because I can’t fix it. After a while, I do get weak physically, like I’ve just been exposed to my own personal Kryptonite. And I don’t like things being unexplained. Why did she come up today, right now? I wasn’t listening to our song, I didn’t go to any of our places; hell, I wasn’t even daydreaming about any of the stuff that I daydreamed about when we were what we were. But there she is, a phoenix rising from the dead fires that she burned me in.
And I think about calling her. I still have her number; I never delete numbers from my phone, since the only thing that ever encourages me to throw anything away is there’s no room for it. Or it smells funny, or doesn’t fit anymore; but that doesn’t apply to phone numbers. Anyone I have ever called, I have their number somewhere. So you better believe that I have her number. Especially if she’s a her.
Maybe I’m thinking about her for a reason. I forget how much bullshit I think fate is and maybe that this sudden intrusion in my life is actually some kind of intervention, an inspiration to act, to call. Maybe…
But I am not going to, because it’s wrong on too many levels. It’s stalker-creepy for one. And it’s wrong for all the reasons that she and I are no longer we.
And do I really want to risk hearing a guy answer her phone?
But I also like it when it happens, a little bit. It brings me back to those times when things were good with us, and I was making her happy. When we had our thing that only we did. Before acrimony, before defeat: when everything was warm and red-gold; and sunrises were sweet because of the promise of a day with her in it; and sunsets were even sweeter for the new memories we created and the promise of another sunrise bringing a tomorrow that may be even better than this perfect day.
It’s a reminder of just how awesome and real and powerful that particular happiness is, and that nothing else matters but loving and being loved. It reminds me that you can live a dream.
It also reminds me that you have to wake up.
-Zeepdoggie
I fear it because it makes me feel weak. It makes me think that there is something broken (unlike my normal broken) and I get frustrated because I can’t fix it. After a while, I do get weak physically, like I’ve just been exposed to my own personal Kryptonite. And I don’t like things being unexplained. Why did she come up today, right now? I wasn’t listening to our song, I didn’t go to any of our places; hell, I wasn’t even daydreaming about any of the stuff that I daydreamed about when we were what we were. But there she is, a phoenix rising from the dead fires that she burned me in.
And I think about calling her. I still have her number; I never delete numbers from my phone, since the only thing that ever encourages me to throw anything away is there’s no room for it. Or it smells funny, or doesn’t fit anymore; but that doesn’t apply to phone numbers. Anyone I have ever called, I have their number somewhere. So you better believe that I have her number. Especially if she’s a her.
Maybe I’m thinking about her for a reason. I forget how much bullshit I think fate is and maybe that this sudden intrusion in my life is actually some kind of intervention, an inspiration to act, to call. Maybe…
But I am not going to, because it’s wrong on too many levels. It’s stalker-creepy for one. And it’s wrong for all the reasons that she and I are no longer we.
And do I really want to risk hearing a guy answer her phone?
*
But I also like it when it happens, a little bit. It brings me back to those times when things were good with us, and I was making her happy. When we had our thing that only we did. Before acrimony, before defeat: when everything was warm and red-gold; and sunrises were sweet because of the promise of a day with her in it; and sunsets were even sweeter for the new memories we created and the promise of another sunrise bringing a tomorrow that may be even better than this perfect day.
It’s a reminder of just how awesome and real and powerful that particular happiness is, and that nothing else matters but loving and being loved. It reminds me that you can live a dream.
It also reminds me that you have to wake up.
-Zeepdoggie
22 January 2007
What I Can vs. Who I Am
I can be a jerk. I can be an asshole. I can do horrible things. I can say things and can do things that upset and frustrate people. I can be rude and selfish. I can tell lies to get myself out of trouble. I can be crude and crass and can be very opinionated. I can yell and scream and pout to get my way. I have hurt people’s feelings, and will likely do so in the future.
But that’s not what I do all the time. And it is not who I am.
If you know me, then you know that. If you don’t, then you probably won’t stick around long enough to find out. I wish you would, because I like having friends and I like knowing new people and making them happy; but if my bad behavior is too much for you, then it’s best that you don’t stick around. Some folks don’t think I am worth the time and effort that it may take to get to know me. That makes me sad, even though it’s happened a hundred times if it has happened once. It makes me sad because no one thinks they’re a son of a bitch, even in the face of apparently overwhelming evidence. Eichmann thought he was an all right guy; I’m sure Custer thought he was the bee’s knees. I’d like to think of myself as being better than those two, at least on a karmic level, but like them my bad behavior is often unnoticed by me, until I have had some time for introspection.
And I can be a son of a bitch (with all respect to Zeepmomma, of course). But I am not a son of a bitch. In the great consideration of my personality, I’m not even an asshole. I am more than what I do; I am better than what I share with most people.
For those that jump ship, I’ll miss you. For those that stay with me, I thank you, and apologize in advance, for doing what I can, and not always being who I am.
-Zeepdoggie
But that’s not what I do all the time. And it is not who I am.
If you know me, then you know that. If you don’t, then you probably won’t stick around long enough to find out. I wish you would, because I like having friends and I like knowing new people and making them happy; but if my bad behavior is too much for you, then it’s best that you don’t stick around. Some folks don’t think I am worth the time and effort that it may take to get to know me. That makes me sad, even though it’s happened a hundred times if it has happened once. It makes me sad because no one thinks they’re a son of a bitch, even in the face of apparently overwhelming evidence. Eichmann thought he was an all right guy; I’m sure Custer thought he was the bee’s knees. I’d like to think of myself as being better than those two, at least on a karmic level, but like them my bad behavior is often unnoticed by me, until I have had some time for introspection.
And I can be a son of a bitch (with all respect to Zeepmomma, of course). But I am not a son of a bitch. In the great consideration of my personality, I’m not even an asshole. I am more than what I do; I am better than what I share with most people.
For those that jump ship, I’ll miss you. For those that stay with me, I thank you, and apologize in advance, for doing what I can, and not always being who I am.
-Zeepdoggie
09 January 2007
My Dishes
Lately I have not been able to muster up the drive to wash dirty dishes. Possibly it is due to this idea that slithers around in the back of my mind: what is the point?
You can try to clean dishes so well. Soak, scour, rinse, dry, polish, everything it takes to make them ready for the next meal even though afterward your hands are chapped, cracked and bleeding. Then comes the inherent problem. The next meal just makes the dishes dirty again.
If you don't wash the dishes they pile up. Some bits harden and cling to the dishes, solid and almost a part of the dish. Sometimes the dishes become stained from use, besmirched by a powerful and thick hue in the meal. As they stay there, untouched, unwashed, bacteria cultures, organic elements decay and rot, creating a foul odor about your dishes.
What is the alternative? Disposable plates? But then your old dishes still stay dirty and what you have now is not really yours. It does not require responsibility and ownership for one's dishes. Out of the package, used for a single meal, then thrown away.
Maybe we need someone to wash our dishes for us if we cannot do it ourselves. Someone who does not mind cleaning up after the last snack, meal or feast. This would be ideal if we could find that person and actually allow them to wash our dishes. But ultimately it would be an unfulfillable and one sided arrangement. All giving on one side, consuming and discarding, with only receiving on the other, endlessly cleaning up another person's mess.
I think the answer is to look for someone who's dishes you would not mind cleaning, in exchange for them washing yours. Though my dishes are now still sitting in the sink, untouched by me, I can only hope that one day they will be clean again.
::GringO::
You can try to clean dishes so well. Soak, scour, rinse, dry, polish, everything it takes to make them ready for the next meal even though afterward your hands are chapped, cracked and bleeding. Then comes the inherent problem. The next meal just makes the dishes dirty again.
If you don't wash the dishes they pile up. Some bits harden and cling to the dishes, solid and almost a part of the dish. Sometimes the dishes become stained from use, besmirched by a powerful and thick hue in the meal. As they stay there, untouched, unwashed, bacteria cultures, organic elements decay and rot, creating a foul odor about your dishes.
What is the alternative? Disposable plates? But then your old dishes still stay dirty and what you have now is not really yours. It does not require responsibility and ownership for one's dishes. Out of the package, used for a single meal, then thrown away.
Maybe we need someone to wash our dishes for us if we cannot do it ourselves. Someone who does not mind cleaning up after the last snack, meal or feast. This would be ideal if we could find that person and actually allow them to wash our dishes. But ultimately it would be an unfulfillable and one sided arrangement. All giving on one side, consuming and discarding, with only receiving on the other, endlessly cleaning up another person's mess.
I think the answer is to look for someone who's dishes you would not mind cleaning, in exchange for them washing yours. Though my dishes are now still sitting in the sink, untouched by me, I can only hope that one day they will be clean again.
::GringO::
05 December 2006
Mike Ness and the Story of My Day
So, who here has heard of Social Distortion? C'mon, put yer hands up!
Now put 'em down! What's the matter with you, putting your hands up when you're sitting at the computer? You look like a crazy person!
So I'm listening to "White Light, White Heat, White Trash" on my way home from work. I'm feeling a little conflicted. Mom's out of the hospital and I have a brandy-new, shiny grand-nephew. But I'm still feeling down, because it's the holidays and I don't take to the lonelies well whenever it's just another boring day on the calendar. But this is the time of year where it just sucks. I've actually not spent a Christmas alone (as in without a girlfriend/wife/significant other) since I've been dating. For those not in the know, that is a long goddamned time. This year, the streak will, in all likelihood, be broken. I am not jazzed about that. My sub needs to dock. Sailors need liberty in some port other than home.
Have I pushed the metaphor far enough? Good.
So, yeah, and I got into a conversation at work that ended with me quoting Tyler Durden, so you know that must have been a very cheerful way to leave the jobsite. The conversation before that was about divorce, and it went downhill from there.
I put on SoD, because, hey, why not? Is it going to get worse? It could, I know, but SoD won't be the ones responsible, and I'm leaving the job after my second bad day at work (which sucks because it's Tuesday), so I just decide to listen to some really depressing lyrics sung to a nice upbeat punk vibe.
I'm listening to "Down on the World Again" and I am so right there with Ness, man.
Well, I feel so alone in this crowd, my thoughts of despair
Are getting loud
I'm disrespected
And I'm down on the world again
Love and tolerance have abandoned me and I feel the gloom hovering over me
I'm resentful
And I'm down on the world again
Fuck the world; all of humanity is nothing more than the skidmarks in the geological-time toilet bowl; the experiment is over and mankind just won't do what all the other useless species had the decency to do and just die off already! Burn the whole thing down to the core. Not "Feelin' Groovy," that's for sure.
I get on the train, sit down in all of my foulness and angst and whatever else you want to call it just don't call it emo, and across from me is this cute little baby. And he starts talking to me in that individual baby-speak that you can't understand unless you spend a full month straight with the little bugger, but he's laughing and talking to me. I talk back, mostly saying "Really?" and "Yeah!" just encouraging him to keep going. And he has a cool hat, and he shows it to me, and he loves his Scooby-Doo blanket ( and I ask, who wouldn't?) and he is just so damned adorable that I completely forget about me and am so jazzed on his coolness that I'm still smiling about it.
As I get off the train, I listen to the song that's now playing.
The sins
Of the world
And it's cold on the streets
And you're all alone
And the tears
They start to fall
When it all comes down
Hear the angels sing
Thanks, little dude, for helping me hear the angels sing.
-Zeepdoggie
Now put 'em down! What's the matter with you, putting your hands up when you're sitting at the computer? You look like a crazy person!
So I'm listening to "White Light, White Heat, White Trash" on my way home from work. I'm feeling a little conflicted. Mom's out of the hospital and I have a brandy-new, shiny grand-nephew. But I'm still feeling down, because it's the holidays and I don't take to the lonelies well whenever it's just another boring day on the calendar. But this is the time of year where it just sucks. I've actually not spent a Christmas alone (as in without a girlfriend/wife/significant other) since I've been dating. For those not in the know, that is a long goddamned time. This year, the streak will, in all likelihood, be broken. I am not jazzed about that. My sub needs to dock. Sailors need liberty in some port other than home.
Have I pushed the metaphor far enough? Good.
So, yeah, and I got into a conversation at work that ended with me quoting Tyler Durden, so you know that must have been a very cheerful way to leave the jobsite. The conversation before that was about divorce, and it went downhill from there.
I put on SoD, because, hey, why not? Is it going to get worse? It could, I know, but SoD won't be the ones responsible, and I'm leaving the job after my second bad day at work (which sucks because it's Tuesday), so I just decide to listen to some really depressing lyrics sung to a nice upbeat punk vibe.
I'm listening to "Down on the World Again" and I am so right there with Ness, man.
Well, I feel so alone in this crowd, my thoughts of despair
Are getting loud
I'm disrespected
And I'm down on the world again
Love and tolerance have abandoned me and I feel the gloom hovering over me
I'm resentful
And I'm down on the world again
Fuck the world; all of humanity is nothing more than the skidmarks in the geological-time toilet bowl; the experiment is over and mankind just won't do what all the other useless species had the decency to do and just die off already! Burn the whole thing down to the core. Not "Feelin' Groovy," that's for sure.
I get on the train, sit down in all of my foulness and angst and whatever else you want to call it just don't call it emo, and across from me is this cute little baby. And he starts talking to me in that individual baby-speak that you can't understand unless you spend a full month straight with the little bugger, but he's laughing and talking to me. I talk back, mostly saying "Really?" and "Yeah!" just encouraging him to keep going. And he has a cool hat, and he shows it to me, and he loves his Scooby-Doo blanket ( and I ask, who wouldn't?) and he is just so damned adorable that I completely forget about me and am so jazzed on his coolness that I'm still smiling about it.
As I get off the train, I listen to the song that's now playing.
The sins
Of the world
And it's cold on the streets
And you're all alone
And the tears
They start to fall
When it all comes down
Hear the angels sing
Thanks, little dude, for helping me hear the angels sing.
-Zeepdoggie
28 November 2006
Don't Ever Ask That Question
So, Zeepmomma is in the hospital, again. This time the docs are 95% sure it's pneumonia. Good for them; something they can diagnose and treat. But it's a pretty bad case, and since they still don't know exactly why she lost use of her legs for a few days, they are taking her case as "exceptional."
This is what I get for asking, "What next?"
They aren't sure when she'll be home, since this is her fifth bout with pneumonia in four years. I remember trying to explain to her that she has all of these lung-related issues, and that there is most likely a link to her smoking for roughly fifty years of her life. She thinks it's coincidence. Yeah, just like all those times she'd come home to me, eyebrows smoldering, holding a scorched screwdriver in one very twitchy hand, giggling idiotically and big burn marks on the wall above the socket and me being able to hold a lightbulb in my mouth and make it glow are just coincidences.
But her being in a hosopital affords me many opportunities to flirt with nurses, doctors, orderlies and candy-stripers; life hands me a lemon, I'll see if it can get me laid.
-Zeepdoggie
This is what I get for asking, "What next?"
They aren't sure when she'll be home, since this is her fifth bout with pneumonia in four years. I remember trying to explain to her that she has all of these lung-related issues, and that there is most likely a link to her smoking for roughly fifty years of her life. She thinks it's coincidence. Yeah, just like all those times she'd come home to me, eyebrows smoldering, holding a scorched screwdriver in one very twitchy hand, giggling idiotically and big burn marks on the wall above the socket and me being able to hold a lightbulb in my mouth and make it glow are just coincidences.
But her being in a hosopital affords me many opportunities to flirt with nurses, doctors, orderlies and candy-stripers; life hands me a lemon, I'll see if it can get me laid.
-Zeepdoggie
23 October 2006
Depression, Uninterrupted
I needed an awesome weekend. Wednesday is when justice failed me; Friday was a double whammy in that Derek Fucking Bastard’s insurance company said that they would not pay for the damage done to my bike, or to me. On the way home from work, on a brand new route that I hadn’t ridden before, I ran over some piece of accident shrapnel and got a flat on my rear wheel. Front wheel flats I can fix in five minutes, but rear wheel flats take at least an hour. Fucking deraileurs. Anyway, so my week was a good small window onto my month, which reflected the year to date; it was pure poo.
But there was a wedding or this weekend! Friends united in matrimony! Good food! Open bar! Let the healing begin!
Of course, there is the fact that I don’t really know the groom that well, and had met the bride once before, and that it was going to be hotel food, and that I had just gotten into all that broo-ha-ha with my brother about his alcoholism (when I find it funny, I’ll tell you about it), so I wasn’t in the mood to drink. Honestly, the only thing that sounded like a good idea was to step in front of at least one of the Metra trains taking me to the wedding. Painless, messy and loud; what can I say, it’s how I want to go out.
But I reined in those thoughts and proceeded. And you know what? It was…okay. I like it when a couple is enthused about getting married, and these two were. I attended the ceremony because my ride/host & hostess attended, and it was a quick and painless little thing. Had a cute moment where the groom and bride weren’t too sure about who should give a flower to the groom’s mom. It got a chuckle.
Then there was a brief hotel drinking fest, where I had two glasses of vino and started to feel a little queasy.
The reception was not at all like “Wedding Crashers,” which was disappointing because I really wanted to take advantage of a drunken bridesmaid. But no woman there was single that was also not someone I have known for ten years or more, or not what I would go running for. So I tried to be wingman for a young fella, a promising rookie with a lot of potential, but won’t step his game up to the big leagues. Kinda like Ryan Leaf, but without the petulant whining. Which would make him better than Ryan Leaf.
Then I find out that I can’t go home because the info on train schedules was misconstrued. So I crash at the home of Ren and co. and wind up feeling as intrusive as prison rape. No Benner, either. But Cash and I wound up being cuddle-buddies on the floor, so that was pretty sweet. Seriously, the highlight of my week was getting the chance to cuddle with something alive on a friend’s basement floor.
I thank Dave and Ren for putting me up, and I feel like shit that I forced myself into their house while she’s not feeling well and he was exhausted from being best man. It might be time for me to get a car.
What stopped me from stepping in front of the Metra at 0835 on Sunday? Several things: a long-standing fear of death; inside knowledge of how much that fucks with train conductors; leaving my mom with the two excuses she has for sons; a curiosity as to what the future holds; and that I was not about to waste the $3.80 cup of whatever fancy-schmancy cinnamon-flavored beverage I purchased from Caribou Coffee.
-Zeepdoggie
But there was a wedding or this weekend! Friends united in matrimony! Good food! Open bar! Let the healing begin!
Of course, there is the fact that I don’t really know the groom that well, and had met the bride once before, and that it was going to be hotel food, and that I had just gotten into all that broo-ha-ha with my brother about his alcoholism (when I find it funny, I’ll tell you about it), so I wasn’t in the mood to drink. Honestly, the only thing that sounded like a good idea was to step in front of at least one of the Metra trains taking me to the wedding. Painless, messy and loud; what can I say, it’s how I want to go out.
But I reined in those thoughts and proceeded. And you know what? It was…okay. I like it when a couple is enthused about getting married, and these two were. I attended the ceremony because my ride/host & hostess attended, and it was a quick and painless little thing. Had a cute moment where the groom and bride weren’t too sure about who should give a flower to the groom’s mom. It got a chuckle.
Then there was a brief hotel drinking fest, where I had two glasses of vino and started to feel a little queasy.
The reception was not at all like “Wedding Crashers,” which was disappointing because I really wanted to take advantage of a drunken bridesmaid. But no woman there was single that was also not someone I have known for ten years or more, or not what I would go running for. So I tried to be wingman for a young fella, a promising rookie with a lot of potential, but won’t step his game up to the big leagues. Kinda like Ryan Leaf, but without the petulant whining. Which would make him better than Ryan Leaf.
Then I find out that I can’t go home because the info on train schedules was misconstrued. So I crash at the home of Ren and co. and wind up feeling as intrusive as prison rape. No Benner, either. But Cash and I wound up being cuddle-buddies on the floor, so that was pretty sweet. Seriously, the highlight of my week was getting the chance to cuddle with something alive on a friend’s basement floor.
I thank Dave and Ren for putting me up, and I feel like shit that I forced myself into their house while she’s not feeling well and he was exhausted from being best man. It might be time for me to get a car.
What stopped me from stepping in front of the Metra at 0835 on Sunday? Several things: a long-standing fear of death; inside knowledge of how much that fucks with train conductors; leaving my mom with the two excuses she has for sons; a curiosity as to what the future holds; and that I was not about to waste the $3.80 cup of whatever fancy-schmancy cinnamon-flavored beverage I purchased from Caribou Coffee.
-Zeepdoggie
20 October 2006
Loser
I cannot win. A guy hits me with his car as I am riding my bicycle, and he gets out of a ticket and his insurance won't pay, because he lied in his statement and I told the truth. I get dumped by the best girl I've ever been with because, instead of going with my plan about lying concerning my former marriage, I told her the truth. She wanted to be the first and not the best, so she split.
The number of times telling the truth has bitten me in the ass is starting to slide into the range of numbers we call "astronomical."
Everything about this American "culture" promotes lying. If you lie in court, you win. If you lie while running for office, you win. If you lie about anything, people are more apt to believe it because the truth doesn't sell shit. The Great Gatsby is considered one of the greatest works of American literature and it's about a man who lies about who he is to get money and fame to get the girl. He may have gotten killed in the end, but that was because of someone else's lie. And he still got laid, remember. Ben Franklin is thought of as the greatest American, and he was all about putting on a front for people, so that they will see you in a certain light, regardless of whether that view is true or not. Jefferson was a slave-owning, philandering hypocrite.
If there was a contest for huge suckass loser, I would lose that. I am tired of my honesty being what holds me back. The way I see it, if I followed the examples set by our American predecessors and current statesmen and powerful people, then lying is the only thing to do to get ahead. If I lied to the cops and the judge, Derek Fucking Bastard would have a ticket, his insurance company would be paying my rent for the next three months and I wouldn't feel so FUCKING IMPOTENT thanks to this shit. It's time to lie.
But since fucking up is the only thing I do better than losing, I would just screw it up too. And lying would take a lot of work; I'd have to remember everything I ever said to anyone. And since my memory is as faulty as that little strip of land outsie San Andreas, I'd have to take notes on my conversations. That just smacks of effort, and keeping myself in some state of upright already takes up way too much energy for me to devote to any other pursuit.
So fuck it, I just lose. Maybe I should just go the way of abject self-destruction. Utter ruin. See how that goes. Maybe, since I suck so badly, I might just improve myself.
Right now, I can't scream loud enough.
-Zeepdoggie
The number of times telling the truth has bitten me in the ass is starting to slide into the range of numbers we call "astronomical."
Everything about this American "culture" promotes lying. If you lie in court, you win. If you lie while running for office, you win. If you lie about anything, people are more apt to believe it because the truth doesn't sell shit. The Great Gatsby is considered one of the greatest works of American literature and it's about a man who lies about who he is to get money and fame to get the girl. He may have gotten killed in the end, but that was because of someone else's lie. And he still got laid, remember. Ben Franklin is thought of as the greatest American, and he was all about putting on a front for people, so that they will see you in a certain light, regardless of whether that view is true or not. Jefferson was a slave-owning, philandering hypocrite.
If there was a contest for huge suckass loser, I would lose that. I am tired of my honesty being what holds me back. The way I see it, if I followed the examples set by our American predecessors and current statesmen and powerful people, then lying is the only thing to do to get ahead. If I lied to the cops and the judge, Derek Fucking Bastard would have a ticket, his insurance company would be paying my rent for the next three months and I wouldn't feel so FUCKING IMPOTENT thanks to this shit. It's time to lie.
But since fucking up is the only thing I do better than losing, I would just screw it up too. And lying would take a lot of work; I'd have to remember everything I ever said to anyone. And since my memory is as faulty as that little strip of land outsie San Andreas, I'd have to take notes on my conversations. That just smacks of effort, and keeping myself in some state of upright already takes up way too much energy for me to devote to any other pursuit.
So fuck it, I just lose. Maybe I should just go the way of abject self-destruction. Utter ruin. See how that goes. Maybe, since I suck so badly, I might just improve myself.
Right now, I can't scream loud enough.
-Zeepdoggie
03 October 2006
Outnumbered and Outgunned
All right, I gotta bitch. Sorry guys, but funny isn’t really in my skull right now. I need to get this out, and I figure that we all know each other (and if we don’t then I don’t care) then I can just dump this out. If I don’t talk about it I will make the Earth blow up. But not before we send Ren’s new bundle of joy off in a ship so that s/he may become a superhero on a planet orbiting a blue sun.
At work I am the man. I don’t mean this in a good way. I am the sole “guy” on the job. Sure, there’s M, but he’s a real librarian for God’s sake. He can’t do the “boy work.” That is for me. I’m the fuckin’ lackey. I pick up the heavy stuff and put it down somewhere. I arrange the furniture whenever it is required. I put the crap together that needs to be built. I change the light bulbs. I replace the toilet paper; I clean the vomit up from the bathrooms. I take care of any dead birds or other post-life animals around the building. I occasionally refill the tampon machines. How did that become boy work?
I learned today that Zeepdoggie has a new task. I am now responsible for the leaves that may clog our drain and cause the library to flood. At the time the drain was installed out back by the garbage cans, all the builders did was dig a shallow hole to take the rain in. It doesn’t drain to shit. And some leaves gummed it up, and somehow a garbage can was on top of it. So the meeting room and the Children’s section got quite damp. So now, from what I understand, I am to “check the status of the drain.” I was too upset to ask as to when I should do this. Once a month? Daily? Or should I just wait until it’s raining, ride my bike over, and clear it then? Surely, this is something anybody in the library can do? It starts to rain, and one of the librarians pops her head out the door and takes a status check on the drain. Why is it on me?
Old Zeepdoggie has to do all the boy work on a job that is staffed 99% by women, and not a one of them is single. God may find this funny, but I sure don't.
I learned something very important on this job; polygamists are idiots. I don’t care how good the sex is; putting up with more than one woman’s bullshit is masochistic.
-Zeepdoggie
At work I am the man. I don’t mean this in a good way. I am the sole “guy” on the job. Sure, there’s M, but he’s a real librarian for God’s sake. He can’t do the “boy work.” That is for me. I’m the fuckin’ lackey. I pick up the heavy stuff and put it down somewhere. I arrange the furniture whenever it is required. I put the crap together that needs to be built. I change the light bulbs. I replace the toilet paper; I clean the vomit up from the bathrooms. I take care of any dead birds or other post-life animals around the building. I occasionally refill the tampon machines. How did that become boy work?
I learned today that Zeepdoggie has a new task. I am now responsible for the leaves that may clog our drain and cause the library to flood. At the time the drain was installed out back by the garbage cans, all the builders did was dig a shallow hole to take the rain in. It doesn’t drain to shit. And some leaves gummed it up, and somehow a garbage can was on top of it. So the meeting room and the Children’s section got quite damp. So now, from what I understand, I am to “check the status of the drain.” I was too upset to ask as to when I should do this. Once a month? Daily? Or should I just wait until it’s raining, ride my bike over, and clear it then? Surely, this is something anybody in the library can do? It starts to rain, and one of the librarians pops her head out the door and takes a status check on the drain. Why is it on me?
Old Zeepdoggie has to do all the boy work on a job that is staffed 99% by women, and not a one of them is single. God may find this funny, but I sure don't.
I learned something very important on this job; polygamists are idiots. I don’t care how good the sex is; putting up with more than one woman’s bullshit is masochistic.
-Zeepdoggie
22 September 2006
Feelin' Like a Skidmark
So I’m down one less brother. Joe lost his fucking mind and is not a member of the family anymore. I don’t know if it sucks that it happened, or that it didn’t happen sooner. Since I was the official Boot In The Ass, I guess I could just say that the time had come.
I am trying to tell myself that it’s okay that I don’t have Joe as a brother anymore, and in a lot of ways it’s really good. I don’t have to worry about him stopping by drunk and asking me for more money. I don’t have to answer phone calls from Barb or Mom about how Joe is at it again. My dad and I have lost a subject to talk about, but it’s not a subject either of us liked to talk about anyway, so no big deal there.
But that means I’m down to Larry. And that is as bad as it sounds.
The asshole that hit me got out of getting a ticket. Thank you, smug bastard judge that won’t receive my vote. I hope he chokes on his fucking gavel. Or a dick. Or, even better, he’s just killed a bicyclist with his car, and he gets to enjoy daily anal rape from King Dong Bundy for the next five to ten.
I tacked on an extra semester to my scholarly career, because the concept of finishing on time from an educational institution is just a bit too tough for me.
Barring unforeseen miracles, the next relationship I will be in won’t happen until I’m 33. Alexander the Great had conquered all of the known people on the planet by that age, and I am hoping for the possibility of a woman finding me decent enough to waste a year of two of her life with me, only to be unceremoniously dumped on the Ides of March. Oh, wait, that’s already happened. But no worries, I am sure I can be humiliated in love in some other soul-drowning way. We’ll just have to wait and see! Stay tuned!
I hate both of my jobs. The kids are terrifyingly spoiled, the retail thing blows in every direction but up, and I have both jobs because of Mary, so I never get a real chance to get away from her. Awesome.
And hey, how about this weather?
Family sucks. School sucks. Love life sucks. Work sucks.
I haven’t had more than five hours of sleep on any night in the last four weeks.
I’m begging you all to give me something to be happy about. It’s getting bad here in the Zeepdoggie Den. Cute Overload didn’t cheer me up today; it’s getting critical. C’mon, somebody cheer me up!
Please?
-Zeepdoggie
I am trying to tell myself that it’s okay that I don’t have Joe as a brother anymore, and in a lot of ways it’s really good. I don’t have to worry about him stopping by drunk and asking me for more money. I don’t have to answer phone calls from Barb or Mom about how Joe is at it again. My dad and I have lost a subject to talk about, but it’s not a subject either of us liked to talk about anyway, so no big deal there.
But that means I’m down to Larry. And that is as bad as it sounds.
The asshole that hit me got out of getting a ticket. Thank you, smug bastard judge that won’t receive my vote. I hope he chokes on his fucking gavel. Or a dick. Or, even better, he’s just killed a bicyclist with his car, and he gets to enjoy daily anal rape from King Dong Bundy for the next five to ten.
I tacked on an extra semester to my scholarly career, because the concept of finishing on time from an educational institution is just a bit too tough for me.
Barring unforeseen miracles, the next relationship I will be in won’t happen until I’m 33. Alexander the Great had conquered all of the known people on the planet by that age, and I am hoping for the possibility of a woman finding me decent enough to waste a year of two of her life with me, only to be unceremoniously dumped on the Ides of March. Oh, wait, that’s already happened. But no worries, I am sure I can be humiliated in love in some other soul-drowning way. We’ll just have to wait and see! Stay tuned!
I hate both of my jobs. The kids are terrifyingly spoiled, the retail thing blows in every direction but up, and I have both jobs because of Mary, so I never get a real chance to get away from her. Awesome.
And hey, how about this weather?
Family sucks. School sucks. Love life sucks. Work sucks.
I haven’t had more than five hours of sleep on any night in the last four weeks.
I’m begging you all to give me something to be happy about. It’s getting bad here in the Zeepdoggie Den. Cute Overload didn’t cheer me up today; it’s getting critical. C’mon, somebody cheer me up!
Please?
-Zeepdoggie
21 September 2006
Ten Things To Not Do
Don't get hit by a car.
Don't read The Great Gatsby.
Don't operate the hand-sprayer-thingy on the sink.
Don't work where you're the only guy.
Don't waste a hard-on.
Don't put off grocery shopping for a month or more.
Don't drink alone.
Don't listen to "Simple Together."
Don't trust a fart.
Don't believe anything is what it says it is, or "supposed to be" (whatever that means), or what it looks/sounds/feels like, or that it can last in any way. The Pyramids are losing against time. Fuckin' Mona Lisa's falling apart...
-Zeepdoggie
Don't read The Great Gatsby.
Don't operate the hand-sprayer-thingy on the sink.
Don't work where you're the only guy.
Don't waste a hard-on.
Don't put off grocery shopping for a month or more.
Don't drink alone.
Don't listen to "Simple Together."
Don't trust a fart.
Don't believe anything is what it says it is, or "supposed to be" (whatever that means), or what it looks/sounds/feels like, or that it can last in any way. The Pyramids are losing against time. Fuckin' Mona Lisa's falling apart...
-Zeepdoggie
14 September 2006
Long Time, No... whatever
I haven't posted in a while, and for that I am not sorry, because I have spared you, my faithful, beautiful, loyal readers the agony of me going from sad to diarrhea-inducing pathetic, with occasional bouts of “burn the whole FUCKING world” angry. Usually there was little transition between the two, but if there was, it was slack-muscled boredom. Wow, I am the master of adjectives today!
Back when I was stupid (read: high school) I thought it would be awesome to have nothing but language classes. I really enjoyed my German class, and English was my favorite subject. I figured if all you had to do was really cool stuff like English and German, life would be ultra-mega super keen.
We’ve all heard the expression that one should be careful what one wishes for, and it is true. While I am enjoying my classes so far, I am dreading the appearance of the many-headed hydra of several papers due at once. Granted, one of the classes is the writing fiction class, for which I have all the homework done already. But the other three are going to be rough; I can just feel it in my water.
More good stuff followed when I went to my counselor for English Ed. She’s S, and she’s new. So we had the discussion I had with Wendy about why I am rushing through the EngEd program, and S was quite adamant about me having an extra semester tacked onto my college career. I call it a career because it’s starting to feel like one, one I regret being interviewed for. I know that last statement is in direct contrast to the well-documented fact that I love school; I don’t care. I want it over so I can have a REAL job with a REAL paycheck and REAL vacation and REAL insurance and potentially REAL women to date. But S may have a point, one that I am reluctant to admit, but it’s still there. So I am considering tacking on an extra semester to my schooling. Just like in high school. Shit.
Being single is starting to take its toll as well. I won’t get into it beyond that the dates that I went on with one woman felt like dates, smelled like dates, looked like dates and were, in fact, not dates as she saw it. We still talk, because I am a fucking sucker for dark hair and light eyes, and also because she is really cool and may have hot friends. And who knows, she may change her mind. Fool that I am, I actually believe that.
I jerk off so much I think I’m developing a callous.
I went karaoke-ing again, and developed another crush or three; one really sticks in my head. She is C, and she is just adorable. She was super-excited about art, and told me her #1 favorite painting. She has a lisp, which I find just too cute. Zeepdoggie used to stutter (and sometimes still does), so speech impediments are a sign of cutesy to me. Yeah yeah yeah all fucked up, I don’t care. But nothing will come of it, because I have only seen her once, will most likely never see her again, and if I should, I would be too chicken-shit to ask for her number or anything.
Let’s talk about work shall we? I started the new position at the other job, and it’s going well, with the exception that I have to work with Mary’s mom and her sister now. Yeah, that’s a lot of fun. Her mom I have no problem with, but her sister…well, she told Mary it would be a great idea for her to be single and be rid of me. Is there more to it than that? Yeah, there always is. But the “more to it” just makes it worse, and I am not into going that room painted with boiling rage right now.
The other job is still Hell, and I don’t get to work with GringO or Japes or the other really fun folks as much as I used to. I feel like now would be the opportune time for the place to just blow the fuck up. If I'm in it when it happens, that's not sounding like it would be too unfortunate right now.
So, you are now all caught up without all the despair and depression, and a little of the anger. I really, truly hope that your time has been spent doing better and more meaningful things, enjoyable things that make you as happy as a bunny that has escaped the clutches of an evil five-year old girl.
Until inspiration hits me squarely, have a good time.
-Zeepdoggie
Back when I was stupid (read: high school) I thought it would be awesome to have nothing but language classes. I really enjoyed my German class, and English was my favorite subject. I figured if all you had to do was really cool stuff like English and German, life would be ultra-mega super keen.
We’ve all heard the expression that one should be careful what one wishes for, and it is true. While I am enjoying my classes so far, I am dreading the appearance of the many-headed hydra of several papers due at once. Granted, one of the classes is the writing fiction class, for which I have all the homework done already. But the other three are going to be rough; I can just feel it in my water.
More good stuff followed when I went to my counselor for English Ed. She’s S, and she’s new. So we had the discussion I had with Wendy about why I am rushing through the EngEd program, and S was quite adamant about me having an extra semester tacked onto my college career. I call it a career because it’s starting to feel like one, one I regret being interviewed for. I know that last statement is in direct contrast to the well-documented fact that I love school; I don’t care. I want it over so I can have a REAL job with a REAL paycheck and REAL vacation and REAL insurance and potentially REAL women to date. But S may have a point, one that I am reluctant to admit, but it’s still there. So I am considering tacking on an extra semester to my schooling. Just like in high school. Shit.
Being single is starting to take its toll as well. I won’t get into it beyond that the dates that I went on with one woman felt like dates, smelled like dates, looked like dates and were, in fact, not dates as she saw it. We still talk, because I am a fucking sucker for dark hair and light eyes, and also because she is really cool and may have hot friends. And who knows, she may change her mind. Fool that I am, I actually believe that.
I jerk off so much I think I’m developing a callous.
I went karaoke-ing again, and developed another crush or three; one really sticks in my head. She is C, and she is just adorable. She was super-excited about art, and told me her #1 favorite painting. She has a lisp, which I find just too cute. Zeepdoggie used to stutter (and sometimes still does), so speech impediments are a sign of cutesy to me. Yeah yeah yeah all fucked up, I don’t care. But nothing will come of it, because I have only seen her once, will most likely never see her again, and if I should, I would be too chicken-shit to ask for her number or anything.
Let’s talk about work shall we? I started the new position at the other job, and it’s going well, with the exception that I have to work with Mary’s mom and her sister now. Yeah, that’s a lot of fun. Her mom I have no problem with, but her sister…well, she told Mary it would be a great idea for her to be single and be rid of me. Is there more to it than that? Yeah, there always is. But the “more to it” just makes it worse, and I am not into going that room painted with boiling rage right now.
The other job is still Hell, and I don’t get to work with GringO or Japes or the other really fun folks as much as I used to. I feel like now would be the opportune time for the place to just blow the fuck up. If I'm in it when it happens, that's not sounding like it would be too unfortunate right now.
So, you are now all caught up without all the despair and depression, and a little of the anger. I really, truly hope that your time has been spent doing better and more meaningful things, enjoyable things that make you as happy as a bunny that has escaped the clutches of an evil five-year old girl.
Until inspiration hits me squarely, have a good time.
-Zeepdoggie
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
