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� 04/07/2004 - 2:36 a.m. | the arm wrestling event? Even I feel like this is going to be a long entry, so you might as well just skip this one right now. Maybe there'll be a few with some pictures in a bit. Actually, maybe I'm wrong. I didn't really emerge from my room until 12:30. Besides the guard crossing, I mean, which is about as grounded in my memory as the dream about kittens I had. What a gay dream, incidentally. Also, what a strange day to decide to start running to work, but more on that later. I gave myself nearly four minutes to shower and get to class, showing the world that hard work and preparation is nothing compared to screaming "Barrytown" in your skivvies. So, I figured I would still have enough time to make it over to the psych building. Too bad Kyle's fucking bike was stolen. OK, I don't even know where to start with the mysteries here. I swear to God that yesterday after class I locked up Kyle's bike. I even remember because I couldn't find the key at first, and I was worried that I was gonna have to buy a new lock (yeah, God forbid - now it's just the matter of a new bike) and blah blah blah boring details. More than usual, I mean. And now there's no sign of bike or chain or anything. And it was a pretty decent chain. Thick and meaty. Another thing (did I even do a first thing?)! No offense to Kyle's bike at all - I was certainly glad to be using it - but it was a Mt. Fury Roadmaster (or a Roadmaster Mt. Fury). We're talkin' Wal-mart bike here. These things are fucking everything; they're like the Beretta of bicycles. So, who decides, "Man, I really need to steal this one particular Wal-mart bike from out of all these other, more expensive bikes and all the other bikes of the same model all over campus. This one in particular! No matter how much work it takes!"? I just don't understand. So, since I was already gonna be late and since I had pretty much already mentally committed myself to buying Kyle another bike, I started an outward spiral search of bike racks around Urbana. Obviously some Champaignites took it, but I did have to get to class in time to, uh, read and get marked down as present. Oh - and let's not forget to try and ignore the one redhead's GIANT BOOBS that I swear she was aiming in my direction. I'd occasionally glance up to watch a movie or to listen to someone talk, and she'd turn towards me like, "PLEASE BE AWARE I HAVE VERY LARGE MAMMARY GLANDS MEANING YOU CAN THEREFORE OVERLOOK MY FACE PROLLY" Sorry, babe. I'm a leg man. So, you might wonder why it is precisely that I decided to take on three jobs. The answer I give out to the press is all about money, and I guess that mostly makes sense. I keep adding jobs to try and keep in the black, but the general consensus is that I need to be a hobo and that paying me at regular intervals is silly and weak. It is my destiny. Each job I get is followed by an increase in incidentals (e.g. parking tickets, a required full Buckle wardrobe, new bikes, etc.) and once you include the fact that I need to, you know, eat and try to shake down Kyle and Spritz for bill money, I'm pretty much destined for destitution. But that's only the answer I gave the public. For all you insider people, know this: I'm only doing it so I have something to talk about. I mean, it's all well and good when I'm happy, but it does not make for good reading. "I watched some movies. They were good. Also I sat. Also good." And I'm really not up for being a psychotic again, so the only thing to do is pile on the hardships. I figure this job will be a fantastic resource of ever-rotating bizarre people and misery. And I do it all for you.
"Is he serious?" Three hours of training later, don't I feel like a better person? Working at a real company is weird. Let's compare training strategies, yes?
The factory: "fuck shit fuck shit fuckers (bend thusly) full load fuck fuck (repeat 10,000 times)" 3 early 90's videos, I might add. It's like the cast of "Saved by the Bell" came to life and told me not to steal from the Buckle. I kept cackling gleefully at the hipness. I really hate these first day things; it always reminds of right at the start of a class when they tell you how fucked you could potentially be. "If anyone is caught cheating, they will have their gentials removed and replaced that a pump that periodically sprays hydrochloric acid onto the still-gaping wounds!" All this mistrust. The manuals seemed to say the same things over and over in very polite, tricky language; I'm trying my very best to take them with a grain of salt. I mean, I'm aware that I'm going to have to be forward and push things on people that they probably will not want (For instance, while a person is trying on things in the dressing room, I am supposed to scurry around and gather elements of an entire outfit to pitch to them. You can't even imagine on how many levels this is wrong to me), but I hope to strike some sort of balance where I can do what they want and not hate myself in the morning. This is a job that requires no shame, and I've got that in spades. I'll just start screaming stuff about the weather and pants as soon as anyone even approaches. It's actually sort of weird; it's kind of like being in a club or something. You have to go up to a stranger and try to get them to like you and convince them to take what your offering. At least in this case what I have to offer is high quality denim and not, you know, myself. They said they hired me because of my quirkiness (e.g. "YOU NERD WHY NOT USE YOUR NERD POWERs TO SELL JEANS TO THE OTHER NERDS"), so they better know what's coming to them. I don't even fold shirts like they do. I'll probably get a memo or something. Must buy U of I advertising t-shirt. It, uh, advertises the fact that we have the Oldest Program in the Nation. Fuck being good at it; at least we've been around the longest! Oh - apparently we are also ranked #1 or #2 pretty much every year. Damn. As soon as I got home, I had to sprint over to ISR to bid on Lisa for some date auction thing she reluctantly volunteered for. Everyone needs a safety net, I think; I could never go into one of those on my charms (or, Jesus Christ, my looks!) alone. Anyway, the bidding was going pretty well. I got them up to $20, which was all I had on me, and then somebody raised it further, so I yelled to Lis and asked if I could borrow five bucks from her and then raised my bid to 25. Clever, no? Less clever is how stupid moron guy running the thing decided he would try to raise the bid further by bidding $26 himself. Now, see, I already had to borrow five bucks to get this high, and nobody else was bidding, so this was just hilariously ill-conceived of him. He won, but he had already bought a date and didn't want to spend more, and now everyone was fucked. Lis and I conferred for a few and then took off running. Went over to Dank's to watch "Scrubs" and then made a last minute decision to go see Walking Tall right after. There goes all my money again. Stupid little kid totally owned me at the boxing game while the concession stand chick judged me the whole time, I'm sure. I am sick of all this pressure!!! We were almost entirely alone in the theatre together, which doesn't make sense because Walking Tall was like 1000 times better than, say, Hellboy. It took all the stuff in a good movie like this - exposition, action, romance, whatever - and got rid of all the bullshit so that we had it in a perfect concentration of energy. There is no time for questions. The Aryan casino guy is pure evil, the ex-stripper is immediately in love with the Rock, Johnny Knoxville is adorable and should make more movies, and somehow the Rock as sheriff has the power to reopen mills and fix all messes once he hits the Aryan in the face with a club. I would have thought there was more paperwork involved, but all it takes is a 2x4 and a dream. Whenever anyone says anything stupid to me, I say something stupid right back. I guess they call it "communication," but I don't like to give it that much credit. Strange things to come.
I won't be soothed, |