And dad? Can you tell mom to get off my back for not calling? Just because I don't return her calls doesn't mean I've died a horrible drunken death(but it does sound rather romantic, huh?), it just means I know she'll ask me to clean her computer mouse for her again, and it's about time she learns to do that by herself. That's what she gets for not going optical. And having an ashtray for a mousepad.
Begin rambly-pambly bullshit.
To drown out the inane chatter of my coworkers, I have two options during my work day; put on my headphones and listen to music, or jam toilet paper balls so far into my ear canals that I have smell the ghost of Mr. Whipple in my nasal cavity.
As appealing as the latter may be, I'd rather listen to music. I'm so different, such a refreshing breath of fresh air, that I could probably fart lilacs if I tried hard enough. And I'm consistently and without fail redundant.
But there's still a problem with that. Since I'm totally against buying those new-fangled compact discs, and my off-brand MP3 player has a battery life akin to that of the staying power of a 19 year old, my only option is to listen to internet radio. All two stations that are able spooge through our company firewall.
I just listened Relient K "rock out", followed by New Found Glory "ripping shit up". Hellogoodbye is currently raping my ears--in a less than ideal way-- and threating to make my penis turn into an innie.
Still, it's better than the jejune office cacophony, even if it does threaten my manhood.
Fuck you, perspective. Honestly, balls deep, right in the ass.
For the past week or so I've been battling a severe (read: mild) case of achy back. (Not to be confused with acne back). The pain comes and goes--or ebbs and flows, if you swing like that--but it's definitely worse when I'm sitting at my desk, or in my car. It starts on the left side of my lower back, makes a beef jerky and Jolt pit-stop in my left ass cheek, then continues down the highway of nerves in my left leg.
If I sit just so it's barely even noticeable. I'm sure it's nothing more than years worth of bad posture and poor sleeping position--on my stomach, arms and legs akimbo, like a swastika-- coming back to fuck with me, but that doesn't mean I've not done my fair share of bitching about it. I've referenced getting a backyotomy more than once, and I'm sure the girlfriend has done all that she can to refrain from telling me to put a stitch in my gash, God bless her little heart.
But after last night, I highly doubt I'll be bitching much more about my relative problems.
While sitting at my 2nd job with Rachel, I was mentally debating that the reason behind an obese America is because people valet their cars(it's amazing how jaded one can get while doing nothing more than parking cars for money, it really is), when we got our first car of the night. The guy couldn't have been more than 40 years old, thin, a little graying near the temples, but he definitely wasn't what one would considered healthy. The cane, that he had to lift his left leg out of the car to plant it on the ground, and that it took him 5 minutes to get to the front door all drive that point home.
We didn't know what he was suffering from, and we weren't drunk enough to ask*, but whatever it was, it made him downright miserable. But he still smiled when he pulled up, and again when we brought his car around.
And it made me want to kick myself in the balls for prickishly lacking any of perspective in regards to my back ache. Pansy.
As my mom would say "There are children starving in Africa..."
* That reminds me of a story about my buddy, Jon. One night we were all out at the bar(back when that was the cool thing to do--8 years ago), and we came across a group of girls, one of which that had an upper arm that was much, much thinner than the other.
Jon, being ever-so-smooth, (and drunk, not that I had to tell you that) pointed to her from across our group to get her attention, pointed to his arm and made the "your arm, it's so teeny" gesture with his thumb and forefinger. I've never seen an entire group of girls get so disgusted, so quickly, and this coming from a guy that knows a thing or two about turning women off.
It wasn't until a few minutes later that he found out that she'd had cancer in that arm a few years back, and not because the anorexia had aggresively whittled the muscle away to nothing, like he'd previously suspected.