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� 04/22/2004 - 10:05 a.m. | there are many good reasons for drinking, one has just entered my head. It seems like it is going to be one awful busy old day - busy enough that instead of falling back into bed for another several hours, I am sitting here writing this for you. Bless me, damn it! Actually, I don't know if I quite have the energy for this yet, but I will give it a go. Maybe if you all believed in me once in a while! Clap! Clap your hands for me, or I am totally fucked, swear to God. You aren't even clapping, are you? Ingrate. Let's try to make this brief, OK? I can skip most of the early morning - the misery and dragging myself about and all that - and get straight to what has become the defining part of my life: THE BUCKLE! First, though, I must say that I am still very pleased with Spritz's Wonder Twins analogy for Kyle and Shelly. Now, pretty much any time either of them does something retarded (insert cretin joke about frequency here), I can yell out, "FORM OF ICE SURFBOARD!" And then, if the other responds in kind, "SHAPE OF SURFiNG GORILLA!" And if you don't get my cartoon references, just cry for yourself. Heather came in burning incense, but mixed with her gross, possibly fermented Caesar salad dressing, it was not a good time for everybody. We had to drive to the bank for reasons unknown to a lowly sales person like myself. Her cardoor doesn't work, though, so she had to lean out of it while trying to give the teller the money or forms or whatever one does at the bank, and she kept revving the accelerator accidentally. I'm just glad the thing was in park. Anyway, she flies through CDs one song at a time, which is fine by me, because we got to wail Radiohead, Blues Traveler, Sublime, and Weezer before we made it back. It was a pretty slow day as far as customers go, so mostly I was given those mundane projects that fill me with such spirit! Putting up shelves, trying to find spots to cram in even more pants (Good news, ladies! We know have the Silver Matrices in virginal white! Too bad none of you whores are fit to wear it!!!!), shifting around shirts, and folding, always folding. I was also given the task of replacing all the burned out lightbulbs in the story. Let me tell you, by the time I was done with that particular task, I was pretty burned out myself! HAHAHAHAHA Seriously, though, there were like 30 needing to be changed, and I had to climb Precarious the Ladder each time to do so. They just hired another new girl. She has the brains of an Abercrombie girl without all of the looks. (Damn) Which is why she got stuck with us. Despite all of our claims of high-quality denim and dedication to customer service and a vastly better soundtrack (I can sing 3 of 5 songs we play!) and shit, we are really just a freakshow poseur Abercrombie & Fitch. But, anyway, this new girl has really taken those little sales tips the managers crap out to heart, with hilarious results. "Heyguys! Didyouseethisnewtopwejustgotin! Itstotallycuteright!" The customers have no idea how to react. They've just walked in the store, and they're instantly mauled by this little pink ball of energy. "What the fuck?! Who are you? What in God's name are you stammering about?" And up on my ladder, I smile. The chores made the day go quickly, though. Having just made a rather small sum of money, I decided to instantly go and spend about twice of it. $45 on shirts (3, though! Which is almost like a normal store! Yay, discount! Boo, needing to have a discount to say that!). I was pretty tempted to get something from Eminem's clothing line (I believe I would be the first!), but my hands smell like Mexican food, so I have to go wash them and drop this thought. Bai. OK, that's better. But, when I went to pee, I noticed a stain on the edge of the toilet seat, which would not come over even with scraping! This better not be blood from someone's vagina, or there shall surely be hell to pay. Naw, Nate, it's probably vomit. Good one. Did you know they sell PEZ in bulk? No packages or bullshit, just pound after pound of pure, flavored sugar. Unfortunately, Heather was telling me about this really sweet, PEZ-addicted manager who used to work there, but who flipped out because the bulk PEZ didn't taste like PEZ at all? Anyway, on my break, I went over to the candy store to check. And man, she's right. It was so hard and tart and gross. I mean, I wasn't on the verge of stabbing anyone or calling my lawyer, but then, I didn't buy a pound of it either. I talked to Nessers for a little while on the phone after I got back. Apparently, she thought that my diary was boring when she first started reading it. Then why talk to me, Nessers?! Why talk to me?! I'll tell you why: To get in my PANTS. Well, I've got news for you, missy. These legs will never open for you! Never! She also asked if the little dots on my face in the animated GIF were freckles or acne. Twist the knife. Those are called GIF dots, I've decided, and it's because I am poor ass who can't afford a GIF program that can do more than 256 colors. Then, Lisa and I had a pregame trash talk session:
ennui up the ass: let's arm wrestle It went on from there, but I got disinterested and took a nap for a few hours :P It was sort of scary, though, because I had one of those dreams with some sort of time limit in it (like, "You've got until morning to rescue your brother blah blah blah!"), so when I woke up, I was all freaked out and confused about how long I had. But nevermind that! GE Barcrawl! While I was in the candy store, trying the fake PEZ, Shelly called and asked if I wanted to go on the barcrawl with them. Screw actually being in the major; apparently, all it takes is $5 for the bright yellow t-shirt (with the clever WordArt: "B IN GE!" Get it?), and you instantly earn all of the social benefits of being a general engineer. Although what those are precisely I've yet to determine. Anyway, we pregamed, took the bus to the bars, took the bus back home from the bars because Kyle forgot his ID ("FORM OF ICE BOOMERANG!"), and pregamed some more. We did eventually make it out, though. By popular request, I was doing the Scottish accent again, but this one GE ("Dana") in line was having nothing of it. "So, where in Scotland are you from then?" she asks. "Sutherland," says I. Trying to call my bluff, she says something like, "Well, for being from the southern part of Scotland, your accent certainly seems like northern Scottish." But, see, I'm a trickster because Sutherland is actually one of the northernmost counties in mainland Scotland - kind of a misnomer, huh? So, doing what Scots do best, I let loose a stream of profanities so foul that a) she would have no idea what I was talking about and b) that she would have to concede defeat. "Fuckin' what do you know about fuckin' Scotland anyway, you daft twat?" and so on. I think it worked because when she saw us again later, she was like, "Oh no..." YEAAAAH! Anyway, we were all pretty smashed, I think, but Spritz was the only real casualty. Well, also the left side of my ass if we're getting particular. (Which is strange because I don't remember it hurting at all when I slowly fell off the bike rack I was hanging upside down from last night.) But yes. Spritz puked and was kind of dazed and out of it all night long. Meanwhile, Shelly really wanted Kyle to dance, but Kyle, perhaps in a direct move to do the exact opposite of what she wanted, was very sit-y and lethargic, which only seems to happen exactly when she wants him to dance. So she's all jumpin' around and trying to get him to do stuff, and he just sits and spaces. I don't know why that pleases me. He and I had a talk, and neither sober nor inebriated Nate were very satisfied with any conclusions we came to. Take that as a bad sign. Not too much else to tell, really. Bar bar bar bar bar. I'll tell you what's strange, though. Any time a girl gives me the eye or comes up and shows interest in me, my immediate response is: flight. And trust me, I'm not saying that it happens a lot. But pretty much at each place, there were one or two girls who I could tell were definitely interested in the NateAss, and that is just plain weird. In fact, written on my hand this morning is a drunkenly scrawled, "Would you like to dance?" I actually sort of remember this. This one girl was trying to talk to me, but it was too loud to hear each other, and I'm a dork and happen to carry around two pens at all times, so I offered her one and we had a written conversation. I believe my response to her question was a skull and crossbones. Then I left to get a burrito. Then again, memory is pretty reconstructional, so I might have just pulled a Memento on myself last night. "Write this on your hand, Nate, and you'll have a great story to tell tomorrow!" 50% of everything I say is a lie. Which means only 25% then, doesn't it? I woke up on my own at 7 today. Fascist. On the way to work, I thought, if I were to ever need flowers (and I'm not saying I would because why the hell would I need any damn flowers), I'm pretty sure Oregon St. is going to be my florist. For whatever reason, everyone plants different tulips in their yards, and tulips are my favorite. Late night flower poaching debacle. I kept trying to sing "Tiptoe Through the Tulips," but it always gradually devolved into "Springtime for Hitler." And I know I shouldn't go with my instincts because they are so often wrong, but I really do not trust those last two people I always have to cross everyday. For whatever reason, I mentally refer to them as Israelites (not that I inherently have anything against Israel, of course). The dad is a second-rate Jeff Goldblum. Yes. Think about what I just said. And the kid is on his way to being a wannabe of his dad. And they both need a good talking to, but apparently my talking-to's never work the way they should. Seeeep! Today's title is from an Irish song about how good the Irish are. They are pretty cool like that.
I won't be soothed, |