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I was never one to keep a diary. Nor did I ever keep a diary but call it a journal. Yet a casual glance shows that 99% of blogs are basically diaries of the minutiae of people’s lives and their overheated ruminations about said minutiae. Since I mostly write about abstract stuff I kind of feel like I’m missing out by not blessing the reading audience with the all-important trivialities of my daily life. So here’s a glimpse into my mental world from this past weekend:
At the pool there was an unfortunate couple with a kid. The woman suffered from advanced stages of what looked like multiple sclerosis or some similar gift from god, her back grotesquely misshapen and her arms bent in awkward positions. The man, husband I presumed, was inflated like a hot air balloon, at least 400 pounds. I thought, That guy is damned lucky she’s deformed or he’d get no pussy at all. Then I wondered if I was the only one thinking that. I pondered a bit more that he could lose his weight while she could do nothing about her affliction. In this way I was comfortable mentally blaming fatso for ruining my visual environment. Most of the time you don’t see people like this, the walking wretched, out in public. They generally stay holed up indoors with delivery services providing their needs. I think most people are happy with this arrangement, even if they would never admit it.
It was blazingly hot, so I went to Cold Stone Creamery for a delicious ice cream. The semi-retarded looking kid behind the counter took my order. When I got outside to sit and enjoy my hard-won kill, I realized the kid gave me not just the wrong ice cream flavor (cinnamon instead of coffee), but the wrong mix-in (butterfinger instead of heath bar), and the wrong size (small, not medium). So the semi-retarded look was more than just a look. I marveled how an order could be so magnificently fucked up — a trifecta! — when it was just me and my friend in the shop and no one else to create undue stress on the employees. I decided it must be an omen, so I didn’t bother returning it for the correct order.
There is only one public humiliation worse for a man than licking the sweaty balls of a tranny on the 50 yard line at halftime of the Superbowl on national TV, and that is having the barbell fall on him in the middle of a bench press rep — during the warm-up set. My buddy had walked away since I informed him it was my warm-up and I wouldn’t need him to spot yet. At rep number 9 (we guys remember the rep numbers like you girls remember anniversaries), I felt a sharp pain in my right shoulder and the bar started going backwards until it was sitting on my chest. A helpful gym rat lifted it up off me. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye after that. Luckily, it was uncrowded, so I think I’ll be safe to come back in a year or two.
My friend’s wife hates me. Oh yes, it’s so obvious. At the BBQ they threw on Saturday she exchanged a total of two words with me: Hi. Bye. And she was facing away from me when she spoke them. This is understandable. Every time I’ve been to their place, I’ve either gone swinging single or with a girl she hasn’t met before. I’ve known her husband much longer than she has. He and I have the OLD DAYS. The OLD DAYS are not to be trifled with. Things happen in the OLD DAYS, like late night carousing, lapdances, and alibi duty. A wife knows deep down that whatever memories she’s building with her husband pale in comparison to the knee deep in the mud memories he has with his lifelong buddies before mortgages and kids civilized him. So I’m that no-good reminder of his wild days, and my mere presence gets under her skin. Wives put a lot of effort into breaking the spirit of their husbands; the last thing they want is for that free-wheeling, carefree SOB to show up and piss all over their hard work in a single afternoon. The icing on the cake is that I suggested the bar for their first date which eventually led to marriage. She should be naming her next kid after me.
I hope this journey through the pages of my life was as good for you as it wasn’t for me.