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| Ashley says I don't post enough. Problem is, I don't really have much to say.
Let's see...December...December. I got thrown out of a bar on Christmas Eve. All I wanted was a pen to give this girl my number. I just shouldn't have gone behind the bar to get it. There were only two bars in that town. One was closed for the holiday, and I got thrown out of the other. I sat outside for ten minutes, and my buddy Mikey came outside. He'd gotten thrown out for doing the exact same thing (for an ashtray). Then they threw Howie out, just for good measure, since his two moron friends got thrown out.
January...hmmm...I really don't recall anything.
February, I met a girl named Amy, and for a while it was good. I mean, yeah, she didn't have a job, so that was kind of disconcerting, but whatever. And sure, she was technically married at the time. But she was in the process of wrapping up her divorce. So it's all good, right?
Wrong. My first sign should have been when we were fooling around and she asked "Aren't you bothered by how many people I've slept with?" Well, no. I can't say I can put a number on it, for starters. Should I be? There were a multitude of things after that which were obvious warning signs that I immediately ignored. She was a cute girl, and so far as I could tell, she liked me. A lot. She even said so. A lot. I introduced her to my friends and told my mom about her. Life was good.
As it turns out, I was just a goddamn meal-ticket to her, and she was stringing me along so she could last a little longer with some free meals and drinks. I meant absolutely nothing to her. I wish there were some way I could put out a warning about her on okcupid.com, where we met, because she's just gonna do this again to some other chump. I call myself a chump because, at the onset of this whatever-it-was, we had a discussion on keeping things light, not too serious. As it turns out, to her, that meant she could lie through her teeth. "Not sleeping with anyone else" meant that when she flaked out on our plans, she was out with and underneath other guys. And I bought it blissfully, because she was so sweet to me when we were together. There was a post on her blog that had a picture of her smiling with a guy kissing her on the cheek. The caption read "The evil smirk on my face is because he thinks I'm in love with him, too."
Needless to say, I feel a little used.
I don't mean to make this sound all "woe is me," because something good did come out of it: my friendship with Amy's roommate, Kate. Kate, well, is absolutely nuts, and that's why we get along. We're both good, nice people who enjoy doing outlandish things to see how people will react. Her realm of outlandishness is just in an entirely different realm than mine. It's a good dynamic. She's the one who started making me realize what was going on in the other bedroom of their apartment. And I'm grateful for that.
Now before you start saying "Oh, there's goes Jeff falling for another girl," stop. This might be the most absurdly platonic relationship I've ever had with a girl (which isn't saying much, given my propensity for asking every girl I know out at some point). There's discussion on the table, actually, for us to be roommates after Amy moves out (a few months, but my lease isn't up until mid-July anyway). Like <insert corny relative> used to always say, there's a silver lining to every cloud. I'm making friends, and really, I'm quite happy about that. I still don't have a ton of friends here, mind you, but it's progressing. And I have a date on Friday with a cute girl red-head named Kelly.
There's a big part of me that longs to move back to the Midwest--I think I even have the resources to pull it off, if I want. The plant manager at our plant in northern Illinois, Ken, thinks the world of me. He's the guy who hired me, actually. But there's this stubborn streak in me that wants to prove that I can make work, wherever I am. It may not be the prettiest adjustment, or the fastest, but goddamnit I'm gonna make it work.
So anyway, there's the biggest part of February through early April.
I went to a concert last night with my buddy Neal from work. Ida Maria, whom I'm absolutely in love with, introduced by Southerly and Ruth. It. Was. Outstanding. I didn't really care for Southerly, but if you want some music to listen to, I'd suggest either Ida Maria or Ruth.
I got a tattoo a few weeks ago. "Play Like a Champion Today" on my right shoulder. An old friend from HS and I went to get them together when I was back in Indiana earlier this month. I like it.
Speaking of which, I was back in Indiana earlier this month. There's not really much to say beyond that.
I guess that's all the shit that's fit to print. In a few months, we'll pick this up where I left off.
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| As previously mentioned, I can't go home for Christmas this year. I don't have the money to buy a plane ticket thanks to the onset of student-loan repayment and me splurging on a nice gift for my parents this year to accompany the sweet TV that now rests above their fireplace. I also don't have the vacation time--the plant is closed until 2 Jan 2009, but I still have to be there to do, well, completely uninteresting things. I have the rest of this week off, and as great as that initially sounds, the combination of being effectively snowed in until Friday when it warms up again, and not really having anyone to hang out with makes the time off pretty depressing. I don't know how or when it happened, but I'm suddenly one of those people who's miserable, but slightly less miserable when he's working.
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What the fuck is wrong with me?
Don't get me wrong, I get to spend Christmas Eve with these folks from work. One of them's Howie, my aforementioned partner in the drunken ruination of people's lives, and the other two are his mom, Pat, and step-dad, Denny, both of whom work at the plant as well. I'm pretty thankful for this But Christmas Day...well, shit, Christmas Day. I'm gonna make the most of it. How, you ask? Well, for starters, I'm not putting on pants for at least a day. I'm also going to massacre some zombies in Left 4 Dead on my xbox. That's about the extent of my plans. I'm going to do absolutely nothing and it'll be everything I think it can be.
Like I said, I'm effectively snowed in. This city is tragically inept at dealing with snow. In a normal year, they/we only get 2-8" of snow, and most of it melts off pretty quickly. Over the weekend, we got over a foot of snow--with 6 more inches expected tonight. I haven't been able to get my truck out of the parking lot since I parked it there Friday night. I hadn't--and still haven't--gone to the store to get food. I had soup, oatmeal and beer in my fridge. I've been walking down to the 7-11 around the corner to get sustinence, which usually includes a few roller dogs along with whatever else looks tasty. What a terrible choice. My body hates me.
Well, that's enough depressing for one day.
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| I'm consistently impressed with my ability to screw things up something fierce.
Cutting myself down into pieces,
The way I see it, this is somewhat of a defining moment in my life. I can drown my sorrows with Bayside albums and bottles of bourbon like I always do, or I can try to build on how rough this weekend was.
Too hard on myself, it would seem.
For once, I'm gonna try the second option. So, in no particular order, here are things that I want to accomplish by this time next year:
That everyone could see my worth but me.
- Quit smoking. I know I've said it about 100 times in the last year. Maybe the 101st time is the trick.
- Lose 60 pounds--40 by the homecoming/Klein wedding clusterfuck in October. Like I told them, it's not about the first day of the rest of their lives--it's about me looking sexy as hell up there in a tuxedo.
- Find something to do on my weekends other than get liquored up and watch football/baseball/basketball.
- Prove to myself that I am who I want to be.
- Stop worrying about being alone and live my life.
I'll take a stand, devise plans and figure it out.
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| Per the request of Mr. Kenneth Eugene Cox, I’m gonna try to do “This Week in RAGE!” well, weekly. Lucky for you I’m ready to hand out more verbal ass-whoopin’s today. So without further ado, it’s time for This Week in RAGE!: Music Edition. Number 3: Preteen girls at concerts I attended a show at the Hawthorne Theater last night with my buddy Ross Uthoff. Hellogoodbye was headlining, with PlayRadioPlay, Ace Enders and Never Shout Never opening. While these acts were all quite entertaining, I only got to see the last two songs of the first act, Never Shout Never, because of these stupid preteen girls. Know why? Well, being in, naturally, the Hawthorne District, everyone had to get searched before they went into the show. The doors opened at 6, show started at 7. The inherent problem is that every single fucking one of these ‘tweens had an unnecessarily large purse which had to be dug through by security before they could enter. The result? I didn’t get inside until 7:45. The couple behind us in line didn’t get tickets ahead of time, and was just hoping there’d be a few left for them to snatch up. This was not the case. As we neared the front, they found this out and, having chatted with us for the hour-plus we’d been in line, they told us to “have fun with the 12-year-olds,” to which two of these ‘tween-queens said “Hey! 12-year-olds are fun!” …really? Are you fucking serious? You really think that the people who are old enough to drive, smoke and drink legally are going to think you’re fun? Fuck off. And then the screaming—sweet baby Jesus, the screaming. Just shut the fuck up, kids. Enjoy the show, bob your head, jump up and down, and don’t make my god damn eardrums rupture every time they play a song you like. Luckily for me, they were serving AMF’s in the 21+ section of the venue, so after two of those, a vodka-tonic and a few Bud Lights, it didn’t bother me as much as it had earlier. Number 2: Shitty covers of songs you shouldn’t be covering The second-to-last act last night, Ace Enders, opened with a cover of The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony.” When I first heard the drums I knew immediately what it was, and my excitement lasted approximately 0.001 seconds. Know why? Because they had NO, I repeat, NO strings. They had a recording of the violin/viola from that song, and that’s it. You know why you shouldn’t have covered that song, Ace Enders? Because you don’t have anyone playing the goddamned fiddle. You mean to tell me that out of the 20-ish people who were playing there that night, not one of them has ever screwed around with the violin enough to pull off the same five notes over and over again? Get the fuck off the stage. More importantly, do you think there were any more than 10 people in the crowd old enough to know “Bittersweet Symphony”? Absolutely not. Ross and I were belting it out, and we were the only people I saw doing so, because most of the people there were either two years old when that song came out, or too busy changing those kids’ diapers to have heard it when it came out. And as good as Hellogoodbye was, they too did a shitty cover that seemingly no one but Ross and I knew—Reel Big Fish’s “Beer” on the ukulele. Though entertaining, you think any little 12 year old shithead even knows what ska is, let alone Reel Big Fish? Hell no they don’t. In my head, I could hear conversation I would have had if I had a daughter there: “Daddy, what’s that weird music they’re playing?” “Something you’ll never appreciate, dear. Now pipe down, Daddy’s been reminded of something very important by this song.” <<commence boozing to help forget the musical inadequacies of my child>>. Number 1: That guy at the show You know exactly about whom I’m speaking. That guy who wears the shirt of the band he’s going to see, or buys some merch and then puts it on immediately. Really? We’re seeing Hellogoodbye and Ace Enders? No shit! I thought this was fucking SLAYER shredding some “Reign Blood” on us. Get the fuck out of the theatre, you’re an embarrassment to us all. Don’t be mistaken, I bought merch while I was there, but I did what you’re supposed to do: ball that shirt up, jam it in your pocket, and wear it the next day.
Raging Corrections: My apologies are extended to lovely Bridget Mayo for not including the city of Buffalo in the category of "Cities where there is at least one woman I like." Let the record show that I do, in fact, like Bridget. | | |
| I’m in the mood to pick a fight so it’s rants and ravings time, or, as Adam Carolla puts it on his morning radio show, it’s time for THIS WEEK IN RAGE! Number Three I saw this on indystar.com today. Here’s the gist of it: people want to reference their religion on their license plates, and the BMV is trying to save themselves an eventual lawsuit a la “One nation, under God” a few years ago in California. Completely understandable, and under this new policy, people who already had license plates which referenced their deity are allowed to keep their plates so long as they get their renewals in on time. Some lady didn’t get her renewal in, and now she’s suing on the assertion that over 2 million people in Indiana have the “In God We Trust” license plate which is available through the DMV and ergo she should be allowed to have her license plate which reads “BE GODS.” The only thing in common between these two plates is the word “God.” Do you know why we’re allowed to have plates which read “In God We Trust”? Because it’s the national motto of the United States of America as approved by Congress in 1956—it’s not just some shit somebody came up with on the fly. It dates back to Francis Scott Key and the origins of The Star-Spangled Banner. The Star-Spangled motherfucking Banner! So she thinks just because she thought of “BE GODS” on the fly that the motto of the greatest country on the face of the earth isn’t good enough for her? Fuck that and fuck her. What really bothers me about this is just how fucking pretentious and lazy she is for doing this. I mean, really, does she truly think that a license plate with two words on it is going to change someone’s life? Oh my God! I saw “BE GODS” on the back of someone’s car. It’s so clear to me now. God is like the muffler—there’s so much bad in the world, but if I filter it all through Him, everything seems to be much better, cleaner and clearer! If you want to make an impact in a stranger’s life, don’t depend on a $48 dollar vanity plate to do the work. Get your ass out of your car, find someone—anyone!—and ask if they’ve heard the Good News. You’re not doing your god’s will by driving your car around all day. Suck it up, get out and do what you’re supposed to do. Number Two You know what really grinds my gears? People who don’t find this funny. Seriously, try saying “DELETE COOKIES!? OM NOM NOM NOM!” in your head in the voice of Cookie Monster and not laugh. It’s impossible not to laugh if you’re a halfway respectable human being. Hell, I’m in most respects a terrible person, but I have that blown up and taped to my wall in my office, and I giggle every damn time I see it. Number One People getting married. As of Saturday, November 15, my best friend since HS, Cameron Klein, is getting married. What. The. Fuck. Not only that, but he’s dumb enough to have made me his best man. Man do I feel old. While he’s marrying the love of his life, I’m still getting drunk and being incredibly irresponsible. Swiss and I came to the conclusion that it’s just never going to happen—which, honestly, I’ve been told since I was about 15. More importantly, he told me I’m not allowed to get with any of the bridesmaids! What the fuck!? What the hell is the point of being the best man if you’re not allowed to have your selection of the women on the other side of the aisle? I want to be the best man because he’s my best friend and saved my life? Fuck that! I took a girl on a date on Tuesday, and she failed every possible test/thing that I look for. I mean, they’re not hard things. All I ask is that you have something interesting or at least original to say, that you be nice to the wait-staff at the restaurant, and then, well, there’s the car door test. If you don’t know what that is, ask me sometime. But she not only failed it, she failed it three times. If you ever move to some place where you know very few people, allow me to give you one piece of advice: don’t waste your money on match dot fucking com. I’ve spent five months on there, and you know what I’ve gotten? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Admittedly, husky guys who drink too much and write blog-columns entitled “THIS WEEK IN RAGE!” aren’t ideal candidates, but I should have been able to find some moderately attractive woman on there who’s just as fucked up as I am. Sadly, this is not the case. It seems to me the only women I connect with are the ones who live in excess of 2200 miles away, be it Terre Haute or Philadelphia. So in conclusion, here’s to you, here’s to me, and if you don’t like it, fuck you, here’s to me. | | |
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