Wednesday, August 27, 2008


I had a date with another nice young lady yesterday, or, rather, I should say that I had a date scheduled. She texted me an hour-and-a-half before the date to tell me that her temp agency had called her for a job.

I have no reason to believe she was lying, and to do so would not make me any less disappointed. Assuming that she needed the money more than a date with me makes me feel better than if simply came up with an excuse to get out of it. In one scenario she's just poor (like me) and is subject to regrettable timing, and in the other I'm so unattractive that women regret going on a date with me before it even occurs. For the sake of my fragile psyche -- that construct of ego, daddy issues, and low self-esteem, barely held together with defense mechanisms and duct tape -- I'll stick with the scenario in which she needed some quick cash.

So, I went on the date to the Museum of Contemporary Art by myself. It actually wasn't too bad, though I wish the museum was bigger. Afterward, I wandered around downtown for a while. It was nice to get out of the suburbs.

I suppose this is just another life lesson in disappointment. And I guess I could feel pretty sorry for myself (which I did for a few hours yesterday). But after some careful deliberation, I've decided that instead of sorrow or disappointment, I should go with my old standby: apathetic indifference. As I'm sure I've mentioned before, emotions are dumb and it's best if one doesn't have them.

Monday, August 18, 2008

What the Future Holds

The other day the powers that be at Piggly Wiggly asked me if I wanted to start training to be a customer service supervisor, working at the service desk. It speaks to the poor customer service of the Pig if they chose me -- Mr. McBastard, a guy who would more likely curse at you than give you correct change -- to be their liaison with customers. I said yes, in hopes that they'll give me more money.

The moment they asked me, though, my life flashed before my eyes. Not my life leading up this point, mind you, but a possible path my life could head down: I start working at the service desk, eventually give up on finding a job in the city, at age 30 knock up a 17-year-old bagger, move into her parents' basement, have a couple more kids that suspiciously look like the black guy that works in the deli, and drink myself to sleep every night on a broken La-Z-Boy watching monster truck rallies on pay-per-view.

I don't even like monster truck rallies.

Needless to say, I've become a little daunted with trying to find a job in the city. And the thing that worries me is that I've always been better at complacency and laziness than patience and diligence. That's why this possible future, despite how ridiculous it seems, rings somewhat true. I imagine, though, that Stellar and Happy Time won't let me give up on looking for a job, mostly because I'm sure they'll want me to stop living in their house way before I'm 30.

Sunday, August 17, 2008


Chicago is definitely a Miller town. Probably half of all the beer I sell at the Piggly Wiggly is a Miller product. Budweiser is in a distant dead-heat for second with Milwaukee's Best and some shitty local brew called Old Style. (This is vastly different from Missouri where Budweiser is definitely the "King of Beers" and The Beast is what the poor kids who can't afford Natty buy.) None of this is too disturbing; I do prefer Bud Light to Miller Lite, but I haven't yet passed up drinking Happy Time's beer. I really don't mind Miller products, and I do get a hankering for High Life every now and then.

What is disturbing, though, is the near absence of Coors products. I don't like Coors Original anyway, but living with Jaysix had gotten me used to drinking Silver Bullets. However, the most upsetting of all is the lack of the most delicious of crappy beers, my mother's milk, a veritable ambrosia: Keystone Light!

So, when I saw that Piggly Wiggly had some 'Stones in stock and that it was on sale, I grabbed the only case there was, hauled it on my shoulder for the 20-minute walk back home, and immediately popped open one of those slender blue and silver cans. It tasted like home.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Like the Deserts Miss the Rain

Stellar recently asked me if I would miss her while she and Happy Time Harry were gone to a family reunion for three days. I mustered up all of the politeness hiding inside of me, and I believe my reply was "Um, sure, I guess," or something similar.

I've never understood women's obsession with being missed. Not one of my dude friends has ever asked me if I missed them, no matter how deep our brolationship* ran. And even if a person (not likely me) did happen to miss a woman, why would she need to know about it, especially before hand? What benefit does this knowledge give her? Does knowing that somewhere out there there's a person desperately wishing he was in her company give her solace? If so, that's a little bit sadistic and a lot bit narcissistic. But me not understanding how women's minds work is probably not a surprise to you, dear reader.

To me, missing someone has little to do with how long we'll be out of contact or how far apart we'll be. I miss someone not because I know I won't see them for a specified period of time, but because I don't know when or if I'll see them again. Time is bearable, but uncertainty makes me uneasy. I miss people I might not see again.

* Brolationship - A totally hetero relationship between two totally hetero bros.

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