Tag Archives: existential crisis

Is it time to eat again?

Germ warfare continues at our half-packed hovel. Yesterday we managed to pack two whole boxes between coughing fits. Then we took a break to eat whatever was in the freezer and watch a movie featuring attractive people and improbable gunplay. Glamour, story glamour everywhere.

One church billboard has updated ahead of schedule. It reads “When doing heavy lifting, bend at the knees.” My first thought was that this was some sort of sex tip, but then I realized they were talking about praying. Oh. The other billboard rallied with something about casting your cares onto the Lord. Hang on, Lord, get ready to help me pack the spice drawer.

Potatoes, not politics

I had something to say, O Best Beloved, but I forgot. Surely the proper procedure is to stop typing, but when I get a notion to type, I can’t help myself. Idle hands take up the devil’s work. It’s either this or knitting the scarf I just can’t finish. I feel like Christo whenever I pick it up.

Have you called your senator to whimper about the Supreme Court yet today? I normally prefer to keep my whimpering to the comfort of my own duvet, but we do what we can. This is a remarkably angst-free January, all serotonin levels, wiretapping, construction projects, and parasites considered. I think I’ve discovered that eating every twelve minutes is the solution to my myriad personal shortcomings. Well, at least I feel better about them. Not saying it actually fixes them. Perhaps it was never existentialism: I just wasn’t eating enough oatmeal. This looks like it could be Dick Cheney’s problem as well. Fiber, mon petit robot.

A day late and a dollar short: 2005 by the numbers

Number of separate calendar days where vomiting occurred: 4

Number of times the washer and dryer were correctly delivered: 0
Number of duplicate West Elm catalogs received: 8
Amount of work billed: 3x 2004 billings
Amount actually received in 2005: ahahahahahaha
Number of gallons of non-returnable paint purchased: 9
Number of gallons actually needed: 4
Damn you: Glidden.com paint calculator that Mr. H made me use. I should have trusted my street math.
Weight gained: 6 pounds
Bad haircuts: 1
Dead hard drives: 1
Cracked windshields: 1
Amount the usage of “gift” as a verb annoyed me: immeasurable
Impulse real estate purchases: 1
Parasite infestations: 1
Albums purchased from iTunes Music Store: only 15!
Countries visited: France, illness Spain, click Baltimore
Existentialism: medium
Swearing: damn, a damn lot

**2006 Bonus Preview:**
Boxes of wine purchased: 1
Washers and dryers correctly delivered: 0
Boston terriers who live at my new hovel: 1
This is boring me: 72%

My snout is cold and wet like that of a basset hound

Current mood: EAT EAT EAT

Current music: something catchy from Aimee Mann about being a sad drunk at christmas
Current terror level: financial, existential

I am talking to a flooring company about doing something to some floors. Their slogan is “A walk in the woods brought home.” For some reason, I’m picturing something involving ticks or lice. I should just gnaw my own floors like a beaver.

Earlier, I was eating leftover lasagna, and I had to ask the question “Hey, are you gonna barf on the bed?” And the answer was a barf. Thanks, cat. Luckily I caught it in a bowl, but this meant I couldn’t finish the lasagna. Problems: we all have them. Why was I eating near a bed anyway? It was the office bed. Don’t you have one? There was a time when I had to sleep under my desk, like peasant. But no more! Sometimes I take calls on the floor, but that’s just because I can.

What else can I do? So far today, I’ve been offended by the internets, and I’ve thought it was Wednesday. The parasite is bumping into walls, so I’m guessing it is offended by the internets as well. Or maybe it just wants to hear “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” again. Several people have expressed trepidation that the name “parasite” might give the little bugger the idea that it’s unwanted. Not unwanted. Shocking, sure. So from now on, I guess I’ll call it Montecore. Name that parasite!

Clam Sandies

I whipped up a batch of my famous clam sandies last night. That’s what you’re all getting for xxxmasxxx! Actually, you’re not getting anything. Someone is getting Star Wars legos, someone is getting a sweater, and someone else is getting a wooden push toy that looks like a crocodile. In order to receive a present from me, you must be a child under ten. The rest of you bastards are on your own. Well, if I catch you using “gift” as a verb, you will receive a sound drubbing. That goes for you too, iTunes Music Store. You were not “gifted” with anything. Someone might have given you something though (Chlamydia, ooh, that’s a pretty name). I do hate to burst your bubble, but you are not gifted at all. You never were. I’m sorry, but nearly everyone eventually learns to count to ten. If you did it early, or in French, good for you and Muzzy, but where did that get you in the long run? You are average in every way, maybe above average if you live in Lake Wobegone.

I am just bitter because I am no longer “good for my age” at anything. I can’t even write a blog post without ripping off Garrison Keillor multiple times.

I was going to tell you about my parking problems, but my heart’s just not in it. I’m going to go eat this candied seafood and enable the power of the powerful internet for filthy money that can’t buy happiness, although it can buy Ralph Lauren paint in a shade called “Old Violin.” Or maybe not even that since bitches never pay on time. American Express has to buy the paint. I blame my foul mood on the lonely old lady who came around and gave us a plate of Christmas cookies. Random acts of kindness can be so depressing!

Area idiots meet, spontaneously form condo association

Dear, sweet, internets. Last night I met many of the people with whom I will share a haunted mill starting in October. At last I understand how the federal government could have abandoned all those people in the Gulf states. People are just plain stupid! They walk among us, holding down jobs and passing driver’s license tests and going to the grocery store, where they will most certainly crash the express lane with a full cart. Later they will back their SUV into you in the parking lot.

They say things like “You’ll have to check with the sales team on that one,” or “I don’t know what to do with these truckloads of bottled water.” And people say things like “I did, and they told me the opposite of what you just told me” or “How about you park them and hand out the water.” And then they say things like “My hands are tied, you’re really going to have to check with the sales team/Condoleeza Rice.” They also say “The documents have changed since you last saw them when you signed your purchase and sale agreements months ago, but you don’t get to see them until your closing day, but at that time it won’t matter because they will already be recorded with the state.” And they want us to confirm John Roberts without a fight.

So some people stay behind to eat frosted brownies and look at the discounted window treatments being pimped, and others form an angry mob and stand outside, muttering “Oh God, what have we done? Can you believe these people?” But secretly we, the angry people, want discount window treatments too. Then we hate ourselves so much that we go have mojitos. And we all drive our own cars to get those mojitos. And we hate ourselves more, so we come home and lie on the floor. We feel better when we wake up the next day, but not much.

Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty

No, I still don’t feel like setting up the voicemail service on our new phone line. People might leave messages. Ugh! People! Dropping their messages like so many errant pigeons. And I would have to record a greeting, and when do I feel like greeting anyone? Why do I have a phone at all?

I was out today, as is my custom, and I noticed that Lowell seems to have bus service. The bus doesn’t have a number. Instead, one is greated by a scrolling marquee that reads DOWNTOWN CIRCULATOR. Indeed. Take that, Baltimore.

I wonder if I can write in essay form ever again? Probably not. Blast you, internet! I have the attention span of Mr. H or that dog across the street. Now I am thinking about hash browns. I am remembering song lyrics. Hmmm, hashbrowns again. Am I hungry? Maybe I am. Should I buy a plane ticket to Hong Kong? Internal bad idea meter says Yes! Christ. The mortgage underwriter wants proof of my income for the last few years. Dur, don’t they know everyone lies on those applications? How much could I make selling a kidney in Hong Kong? This could be an investment in my future. Dear Lord, deliver.

Go to a lake of fire and fry

Content Challenge is not going well. This is Monday’s post, written in the future on Wednesday. No es bueno! I have zero inclination to get photos out of the camera. So I’m going to vamp for a paragraph and then churn out Tuesday’s entry. The internet is such a dang sweatshop. I’m saying yes, yes, yes when I should be saying no. But hey, if a six-year-old can make my shirt, surely I can — hey, why isn’t iTunes playing through the stereo correctly? WTF. Some of us have problems here. Well, not as bad as yours. Or yours. But you’ll never even understand you have a problem, so it’s all good. I’m going to put this cable into this hole and see what happens.

Supertanker

Internet, let’s talk about my hair and hard times. Normally I prefer to frequent a salon where they bring you espresso and dole out near-orgasmic scalp massages. It is the happiest place on earth. However, the repeated experience sets me back over a thousand dollars a year, and I’m not even including parking or gasoline mileage. And color is another several hundred at least. So I realized this all makes me a Bad Person, and here I sit with grown out layers and visible white hairs. I am going to the cheapo local salon to have a white stripe dyed down the middle of my head, like skunk. The savings are substantial.

Suffering from existentialism also costs money. Did you know I used to be crazy for free? I know, like peasant. Weekly therapy is fifteen bucks a whack, plus fifteen for the psych-pharm guy, plus thirty-five for assorted medications. If I went back to just lying on the floor and kicking when I felt extra anxious, I could save over $100 a month! I think I will get right on that. Poor decisions are my right as an American. Drink more potato wine, peasant.

My eyesight is terrible in my old age. I cover up by buying enormous sunglasses so no one can see me squint. This also saves on Botox. Also, I don’t eat unless someone makes or opens the food for me, so that cuts down on the food bill. I have a system here, people.

What do you do to save money? Expired can goods? Unlicensed plastic surgery? I want to know!