was like, “That’s what the cops want you to think so they can buy all their expensive cop crap. Have you seen that tank the police have now? A fucking tank. Why the hell do the police need a fucking tank? They don’t. But if they scare enough people, they can convince somebody to buy them one.”
I sneaked out of there pretty soon after that. Now I’m home.
And bored.
And sober.
One nice thing about the night, though, was that I finally talked to somebody who knows the Grab Bag is real. Every time I try to tell the guys at work about it, they’re all like, “Oh, yeah, L.J.’s got this magical bag of weed that’s better than anything anybody’s ever smoked.”
Then I’d say something like, “It’s not better than anything ever smoked, because it’s been smoked—that’s the whole point.”
But they’d always be like I totally made it up. Seeing Ernie tonight reminded me that it’s real, even though it’s lost now.
June 12
I did it. I have officially seen all of the internet. Every stupid joke. Every naked woman. Every episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.
I don’t know which hurts worse—my eyes, my ass or my wrist from clicking the mouse all day. My eyes hurt so bad they’re sore all the way up inside my head. So probably my eyes.
* * *
On days like today, I wish I was in a coma so I’d have an excuse for not accomplishing anything.
* * *
I saw this thing online called “Cubicles Suck” or something and so I thought, Hey, I should check this out. On his webpage, the guy is sitting there whining about working in his cubicle, but then he’s got pictures and it’s like this ginormous Taj Mahal of cubicles.
I always thought cubicles, by definition, were the tiny little three-sided boxes that we have at work with not even enough room to turn to the side without conking our knees—two feet wide and two feet deep. This guy online had shelves and filing cabinets and a whole bunch of other crap in there. He even took pictures of himself all stretched out, sleeping on his cubicle desk.
We can’t even put our feet up without getting PINed. If I could ever contort myself enough to lie down at work, they’d boot me out of there so fast I’d leave a vapor trail.
I feel totally cheated.
* * *
I also saw this thing about this Heaven’s Gate cult from however many years ago. Those people were freaks. Cutting off their junk and wrapping plastic bags around their heads so they could hitch a ride to heaven on some comet. That’s hardcore insane.
The thing is, though, I think I’m actually kind of jealous of them. I would love to believe in something—anything—so much that I’d happily cut off Sir Lancelot for it. Even if it is something totally batshit crazy like that. I mean, if you believe in something enough to chop your own balls off, you have to really believe in it. And I think that would be awesome. It just seems like life would be so much easier and making decisions would be so much easier and everything would be so much easier if you really really believed in something.
Instead of being constantly worried about money and worried about getting fired and wondering if I’ll ever get laid ever again, all I’d have to do is whatever the Great Comet wanted me to do. Every decision I make would be like, Is this what I should do, knowing that the earth is about to be recycled or whatever? And I’d actually have the willpower to follow through on it—that’d be awesome, too.
Still, I hope that whatever or whoever I believe in never wants me to chop off my junk. That would suck.
June 13
Resin:
The buzz is good.
The buzz is nice.
The buzz is great
at this low price.
* * *
All that talk the other day about the Grab Bag made me totally determined to find it, once and for all, or at least know for sure if some cockmunch actually did steal it.
I still can’t believe that somebody could’ve stolen it even if they wanted to, because I’m sure I would’ve hidden it someplace where it’d be almost impossible to find. But I can’t find it.
I remember one time I hid it in my box of books because I knew nobody would look in there. But it’s not in there. I kind of sort of remember hiding it someplace else, but I don’t remember where and I’ve looked everywhere and it’s not anywhere, so maybe some shit brained assface did steal it.
When I couldn’t find it, that just bummed me out and made me need to get stoned way more than I needed to before I started looking. So I scraped the resin out of every smoking device I could find in the apartment.
For a resin buzz, I’m pretty hi-i-i-i-i-i-igh.
* * *
Then I realized that all I wanted to do was eat some bacon and take a bath (preferably in that order). So now the tub is filling and the oven is heating up and it’s totally obvious that the tub will be ready wa-a-ay before the bacon, which is a total drag because right now it seems like the need for bacon is way more urgent than the need for a bath.
* * *
If anybody ever dies from eating too many Cheetos, tonight will be the night. My News of the Weird obituary will say, “An Athens, Ohio, man died of a heart attack after eating every last Cheeto he had in his apartment. Allegedly his last words were, “‘I was in the mood for something cheesy.’”
* * *
It’s not too late to take a bath is it? The water filling up is loud as hell. The landlady upstairs will be stomping on the floor in a couple minutes.
(Note to self: never rent a place where the landlady lives upstairs. You may think it’s a great place, the rent may be cheap, but you’ll never be able to listen to your stereo ever again. She’ll stomp on the floor first, so you’ll assume she dropped something, but then she’ll come down, all pissed, saying she just called the cops again, so you’ll get one of those headphone extensions, but it’ll always make those little crackly noises when you start dancing. Basically, if you want to really jam out to your music, you have to do it in the little six-foot half-circle in front of your stereo, so most of the music you hear is in your head. Or just make sure that your iPod is always charged; it seems like mine never is.)
* * *
I’ve got all these things in my head that need to bust out. It’s like my head is this tea kettle and the steam has just been building up inside.
I’m a little teapot, about to explode, there’s where my brains’ll be, and there, my toes.
*
