Written a while ago, don't know why I didn't post, brought to you by my ipod

My existence has become mundane and I wish I could escape it but I seemingly cannot.
Today is a routine day almost with a few exceptions. I forgot to set the alarm but it had been set from before. I forgot to give myself ample wake up time so the xanax hangover I had would have 20 minutes to burn before I had to suffer through a shower and have enough time to absorb my muddy coffee. And that’s where the exceptions end. Oh great, the Faces are on my ipod.

I got to work and thought “Fuck, again? Already?” This is my office job, my desk job, my supposed real job. I spent the morning looking at web sites, downing coffee and feeling generally asleep in an otherwise wide awake world. I may have set a meeting or two, had a couple meaningful conversations with a couple of friends but otherwise, it’s a typical meandering Friday where I’ve done next to nothing and been paid handsomely for it. That’s the good news. The Lemonheads just came on my ipod.

Same shit, different day. Bosses wife forgot to pay the car lease. So the bank calls me and I have to call back pretending to be him threatening to beat my wife for not paying my bill. They then will fax me the car lease so I can log-on online and set up auto-pay so his dingbat doesn’t mess this one up again. Some girl just checked me out from afar. She was pretty far away but up close her skin looks like wet pavement. It’s how it usually goes. Oh boy, Hole. Courtney Love is the Yoko of this generation.

Most days I’m ok with being here. Not today. Today I just don’t feel like phoning it in. I normally phone it in, which appears to be working really hard to most people. To me, it’s a phony existence. I’m a shell. I pretend to say good morning to the people who say it first. I say fuck off to the people who say good morning to me just to antagonize me. “Good morning, how do you know that?” I will say and they laugh thinking I’m witty. But I’m really not. I mean it. Fucking Frankie Valli. I know I put this on to be ironic but it’s on and I have to keep listening. December. 1963.

The girl I want to sleep with is crying. I don’t know why. I will sleep with her eventually, if she ever stops wearing so much perfume. She has that babyish, innocent outer shell. The kind that sleeping with men like me ruins. Maybe I’m meant to ruin that luster, that glow that girls have before they’ve been introduced to enough penises to make them hate yet need one at all times. Beastie Boys, Check Your Head remixed. Favorite song.

Lunch was a bowl of soup. The kitchen lady makes a great vegetable soup that made our chairman drop a ton of weight. I should do that too. I won’t be satisfied or happy until I’m thin. I’m broken otherwise. At least in my head. I was still hungry after the bowl of soup, doused with Tapatio sauce to give it flavor and heat. So one of my colleagues and I decided to split a sandwich from the good place across the street. Pastrami, lettuce, tomato, mustard, mayo. On a roll. Typical. Got a Man by Positive-K. Shit, I miss the fucking 90’s.

I signed the credit card slip “Mr. Fuji” since my asian colleague laughs at all of the cultural references we make in regards to his slanty eyes. Using his credit card was a catalyst of sorts because it was about when I got up to put my colleague’s credit card in my wallet, I felt a discomfort underneath the stretched denim jeans that I’m wearing, above the left side of my ass. I reached and it felt tender, in a memorable way. In a gross way. Clearly, my absorption of the occasional Diet Pepsi has brought a problematic zit upon my ass. Drift away by Doby Gray. Quality.

Problematic for a multitude of reasons. Whenever I have a cough, a cut, an itch, anything out of the ordinary, I will deem it a “pet.” Because my apartment doesn’t allow dogs or cats, having a zit on my ass is as close as caring for something that needs me more than I need it. It will be loyal, sticking there to the absolute end and it will remind me that its there. Like a pet. Who invited Earth Wind and Fire into this shit?

Granted this is a self-inflicted annoyance, like a cat, but it’s also a labor of love, like a dog. However the labor of love is my desire to drink brown fizzy water that has chemicals in it known to cause cancer in rats. There goes that fucking love analogy. Sophie B Hawkins As I Lay Me Down. She once said she named her album tongues and tails because she wished she had a tail that could touch her tongue. My kinda gal.

The worst part about having this zit on my ass is I cannot do anything about it unless I literally get up and go the bathroom and handle it. But I can’t leave my sloth. I cannot get up and go. That would take effort and beyond. Milkshake, Kelis. Rock the fuck on.

So I’m here, listening to these stupid songs recognizing the idiocy that is involved in popping that zit. I will feel better for popping it. It just requires minimal effort. Minimal struggle. Like today, just minimal, but I don’t even want to do that. I just want to sit here. Wallowing. Wasting. Festering. Eventually, that zit will either pop on it’s own or go away. God I love the way it feels to pop a zit. I love how satisfying it is after it’s done. And then there’s nothing. Nothing left. It’s all gone. Quick clean-up and goodbye. Sort of like quitting a job. Smooth Criminal.

A self-inflicted annoyance. Problematic for a multitude of reasons. In a gross way. At least in my head. I don’t know why I’m a shell. It’s how it usually goes, that’s the good news. Today is a routine day, almost with a few exceptions. - my existence has become mundane and I wish I could escape it but I seemingly cannot. Set Adrift on Memory Bliss.

If only I could get that zit.