How the mighty have fallen

I was in a bad way last night, and it all started last week. Last Wednesday, I think it was, I got a slip in my apartment door demanding I pay my water bill of $76 within 10 days or they would be shutting my shit off. Naturally, I laughed and laughed. Turn my fucking water off? Who the fuck do these people think they are? So last night around 11 I decided to hop in the biscuit and watch '25th Hour'. Like every night I needed to shower before going to bed. The thought of rolling around in my sheets, rubbing the dirt and oil into them is repulsive to me. What can I say, I'm fucking crazy. Anyway, I go to turn on the shower and get nothing. I instantly knew what happened, they called my bluff. Undeterred, I began searching my apartment for anything that I could use to bathe with. I wasn't too keen on bathing in Diet Vanilla Coke so I beat myself around the head and neck for not storing gallons of water under my kitchen sink. Then I found the ice maker. I pulled out a pot, filled it with ice, and turned on the stove. 30 minutes later I've got a piping hot sponge bath headed my way! In retrospect, the oven would have been a significantly faster option. All the 30 minute wait afforded me was time to realize how repugnant my life is, not just that I was standing around naked in my kitchen for half an hour but also that I'm too fucking lazy to pay my water bill because it's not offered online. Last night I was dead set on changing my ways, it was going to be a new beginning, 3 full meals a day of responsibility. Then at 1am or so I woke up to a noise, it was the sound of water filling the toilet bowel again. I was overjoyed and slept like the beautiful baby that I am. It turns out that the water main in the street outside my apartment busted and maintenance crews didn't get it fixed until 1 in the morning. Glory day to me! Go back to the hole from which you crept responsibility, I'll see you in hell!

I just walked into the shitter and as I opened the door some poor bastard in the stall dropped his toilet paper and it rolled out under the door. I heard him looking for another role, but his whispered "shit" let me know he was out of luck. I stood at the stall willing myself to piss faster to try and avoid the "Uh, hello? Could you..." that I knew was coming. But the man remained silent. I finished up, tucked in, and washed up, still no pleading request from the man in the stall. I was very proud of him. It takes a real man to refuse asking another man for help, certainly when he's faced with using his own hands to wipe his ass or walking around the rest of the day with shit coated drawers. A real man indeed.

So I'm bored at work again. Big fuckin' surprise right? Anyway, I was fucking around in the office supplies room, there's generally something there I can fuck with that makes me look busy, and I found a roll of "Fill-Air" Inflatable Packaging from the Sealed Air Corporation. This stuff is like a roll of paper towels except that instead of paper sheets it has 8"X10" sealed and inflated balloons. It's bubblewrap for big objects. Initially, I was trying to pop them so as to produce that really pleasurable bubblewrap pop on a much larger scale. I was unable to pop one with my hands with blowing a gasket and the 'pop' would certainly advertise that I was fucking around and not doing work. My immediate next thought was, "what is in this bag?" and then "will it fuck me up?" Nothing on the bag itself displayed the contents, I assumed it was just regular air (whatever that is), but maybe it contained CO2 or something. The warning cartoons say/show don't use the Fill-Air as a floatation device, don't use the Fill-Air as a childrens play toy, and don't put the Fill-Air over a baby's head. The thought that there are fuckers running around who need the 'don't put the Fill-Air over a baby's head' warning is alarming. So I grabbed a paper clip, sliced a hole in one of the Fill-Airs, put my mouth over said hole, and inhaled. Unfortunately, the Fill-Air was filled with air. I guess the bright side is that I wasn't caught trying to get fucked up at work, and not even good fucked up (like throwing back on a flask) but more of a bad sniffing glue kind of fucked up. The whole point of this is to say that don't go to your local head shop looking to score some Fill-Air, it won't get you where you need to be.

I think porn has raised my standards to near unatainable levels. Like the scene in Eminem's 8 Mile where Eminem's character "Jack Rabbit" asks how you know when "you gotta stop living up here...and start livin' down here" I wonder when I'll have to drop the porn ideal. Only the thought of one day throwing some Jenna-Jameson-esque hottie into the fabled piledriver keep me moving forward with the standard. Oh well, fuck it.

I hate Sundays. I hate Sunday only a little less than Monday. At least on Monday I know what kind of shit I have to do the rest of the week and there's only 4 more days till the next weekend. On Sunday I'm always hungover and scared of what the week has in store. Oh yea, and Chic-fil-a isn't open on Sunday which may be what I hate most.

I love the fucking internet. I can download music and porn. I can order pizza and clothes. I can talk to friends and talk shit to strangers. In fact, that's what America's all about: porn and talking shit to strangers all without getting your hands cut off. Booya.