01/10/2006 - 1:41 a.m. | well, there goes guilt again

And now, some briefest of facebook updates for you, the unenlightened. See, I do not have good friends on facebook; I have really stupid friends I care not to know about. And yet I do know about them. And so will you, now.

Vinny Puppala, of 12 year old IMSA fame, is too cool for school with his fashion sunglasses. And his stock continues to rise. I wish I was actually as facetious as I sounded. Kid is probably going to be done with med school by the IMSA five year reunion - not as some nerdy researcher, but this fucking high society plastic surgeon, gettin' all up on those hotties, wine and dine, big bucks, everything. I cannot stand to think of his success. It kills me. If he'd just stayed a nerd, I'd be OK with it, but he will be doing infinitely better than me now, and I can't even talk to a girl. The more time passes the more I feel like I will be merely a lesson for the others to behold. "See, that's what happens when you try the liberal arts." I feel the only option is a murder-suicide, my life for his. I think that seems fair. Ramble, ramble.

Edmundo, of Kyle-loving fame, has today posted a 22 item photo album... entirely of tigers. Tigers roaring, tigers reclining, tigers staring longingly. If this were anyone else, I would think it was a joke (and a fairly amusing one at that). But with Edmundo, my first thoughts are, "Great. So he's a furry now?" All traces must be eliminated from my life.

I woke up and had another job today. Shelly e-mailed, phoned, IM'd, asking me if I wanted the shit. At her lab place. Dusting desks, filing maybe, whatever else. The old employee disappeared, and the ambassador to Angora is on her way. No, seriously. The Angoran ambassador is touring their specific facility (I don't see what the place has to do with sweaters), so somebody had to dust behind desks. And I was made for this manner of grunt labor. One step closer to my inevitable lifetime of custodial service. Money's money, though, and the bossman was pleased with my frantic industriousness. Thank those meds sitting in a bottle in the medicine cabinet - and not coursing through my veins. It was about my first productive day in a month, though, leaving me absolutely drained, passing out in the middle of sentences. I finally called Missy and guess what I am visiting. In my mind I tell myself it is only an effort to get her shit cleaned out of my house, but we know how well we stick to our convictions.

Shelly and I shared a meal of the gainfully employed: Mediocre as shit root beer and hot wings from the hole-in-the-wall over by Schnucks (my choice) and various boiled boxed extravaganzas from Wal-mart (hers). Four cheese potatoes and broccoli soup apparently share the same flavor and consistency when they poured out from a box.

And when they pour out of my ass.