I used to think that I was depressed.
Every day was spent lamenting some “catastrophic” event as if my world was coming to an end. I contemplated suicide on a daily basis, so much so that I actually wound up with a razor blade in hand wondering exactly which way I should open them. Should I slice along the vein ensuring my eminent death? Maybe I should slice across the vein, you know, give myself some chance of savior, maybe my roommate would find me, maybe Mrs. Katz from across the hall would knock on the door to borrow a cup of sugar and upon hearing no response she would kick in the door to find me on the floor and call 911 or maybe I would come to my senses and rush myself to a hospital. Should I run bathwater, cold or hot? Do I leave a note? What should I say? Do I blame people? Do I take the moral high ground and not blame anyone? Imagine yourself going through this process. It’s really not as terrifying as you think. A sense of calm encompassed me, a sort of disconnect from reality – as if in the long run you don’t really matter. Indulge me for a moment, there are close to seven billion people in the world. Look at this number 7,000,000,000; you are one person in this group. You are not a snow flake, there is someone out there in the world who acts like you, sounds like you, looks like you, fucks like you, and on the right day at the right moment could be confused for you. If you really think about it, and I mean take a moment here and contemplate it 1 in 7,000,000,000 – that should be enough to make any maniacal egotist feel insignificant.
Death is at the doorstep, knocking… two flicks and the door would magically open she would stroll in and escort me with her to where ever it is that you go when you die. She awaits me at every corner. She rides shotgun next to me every time I drive; she chuckles at those bumper stickers that read “Jesus is my co-pilot.” She wishes everyone realized that its not some hippie riding next to them, it is that slight chance that something could go wrong - that someone else can cause you to become a statistic. Every night when I lay down I can feel her breath on my neck, urging me to turn on the heat. I don’t have any problems sleeping, I simply acknowledge her the way I would a girlfriend.
Have a good night kiddo; maybe tomorrow you’ll catch me.
…
It took me a very long time to realize that I wasn’t depressed; I simply felt as if there was no forward progress in my life. I was my own stumbling block. I refused to progress. I showed up late to the same job every day, I did the same inventory count, I ate the same breakfast, and I went through the same routine. I wasn’t depressed, I was fucking bored. Life is about challenges
I arrived at work on time today; this is a very rare occurrence for me its not that I intend to show up to work late it’s just that this morning traffic seemed to be lighter than usual. Most people hate their jobs; most people go back to school just to prepare themselves for another job they’ll eventually grow to hate. Me, I love my job well at least in theory. I bartend and by definition providing people with alcohol and entertaining their qualms with society is fun. I hate where I work, stupid fucking fluffy mascots, cunty hostesses, and shitty servers. I hate the fact that I have to show up to this place in a uniform that gay federal prisoner would be proud to dawn before they walk onto the yard. Everyone here is an aspiring fuck-head.
“I am going to be the next Merrill Streep.” Say’s a waitress from fuck-off Oklahoma.
Little does she know, no one cares about Merrill Streep. No one cares about her tiny little delusion. No one really cares if she lives or dies. She is a server at a restaurant that requires her and me to wear suspenders and buttons. She is a server that moonlights as an actress. Just like I am a bartender that moonlights as one of the many things I moonlight as when I attempt to pick up chicks. We’re not going anywhere. We are right where we’ll be next year. I am doing exactly what I’ll be doing when I am 30. I might be in a different place but I will be in the same position. I have a job, not a career. I work a job because I never took time to invest time into anything. I simply allowed life to wash over me.
Mel will never ever change, she might change jobs (pray to the gods that she does) but she’ll continue to walk into work and vent to me, or Caleb or the ketchup bottle on 67 about how this new guy won’t return any of her calls. It’s always the exact same formula I like to call in a “Mel formula”
A: Mel meets cute guy
+
B: Mel fucks cute guy
+
C: Mel shows cute guy that she is a psycho by calling him 12 times after he fails to pick up the phone because he is busy writing a goddamned essay that will earn him $300 from a college student. Leaving him eight messages: three requesting his whereabouts, three using language I hadn’t heard since the night before, one apologizing for acting so weird, and another one condemning me to the deepest darkest pits of hell for not answering her.
=
D: Most sane men, including myself, never wanting talk to her again.
Yes, I got myself into this situation a year ago but I think that I was totally blind sided. I was always told never to dip my pen in the company ink (wait for it, I have a very witty pun coming up) but no one ever told me not to dip my cock into the restaurants house sauce. Bill Murray and I really should get together and work on some scripts…
She really just goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on.
“Simon is such a great guy...”
Simon is on the shortlist of men that can actually stomach her psycho-babble. She decided to marry him after three months and now she is cheating on him. Poor bastard is too caught up in his career to realize that his waitress of a wife is banging one of her regulars in parking lot on her fifteen minute breaks. He seems to simply gloss over the fact that at night Mel chooses not to have sex with him instead opting to fall asleep. I’m sure he can sense things are going wrong he just either doesn’t know what to do about it or he has come to the conclusion that Mel is crazy and is reviewing his legal options.
I can understand his predicament: Simon isn’t the most attractive of men in fact he is quite the opposite. He is a portly barrel-chested fellow with a penchant for ribs. I find him to be quite the slob. Mel on the other hand, (save her mental short-comings) is an extremely attractive girl. Please allow me to be honest, she’s damn near ascetically perfect. She is 5’7, weighs about a buck ten, works out like a professional athlete brown, has her hair cropped in one of those cute “Posh” bobs, she has these emerald eyes that are to die for. She has the build of a swimmer broad muscular shoulders and a tiny waist, with almost no fat to speak of on her body. I could never really understand why she would want to be with a guy like Simon until I she invited him to our weekly bar night. He treated her like a Goddess. Really, it made me want to vomit. He truly wanted her to feel the same as he did. It was an odd experience to see a man treat a woman, whom I had discarded as quickly as I had bedded her, in such a way. After my feelings of nausea wore off I started actually crushing on her again.
“ are you even listening to me? God you should be the one that has an answer for my predicament.”
The problem was she hadn’t supplied me with a question, or at the very least I wasn’t paying any attention to her when she posed her problem in the form of a question. See this is the problem with people after I have sex with them; I no longer have the desire to be around them. I simply feel as if they’re the teacher from peanuts I hear nothing but a trumpet.
...
No comments:
Post a Comment