Oh Man, This is Gonna Suck

Ok. I have to say that I have MAJOR apprehensions about posting this so-called "story" that I wrote 20+ years ago. I don't know how to even get the thing started. It doesn't even have a title let alone a good flow. Jeezus, what am I doing? Mira, please understand that I am absolutely not hunting for a compliment or phishing for sympathy by sharing this thing. I'm am simply holding myself to my own philosophy of "Full Disclosure" which is the idea of airing out the dumb/embarrassing/ridiculous things that a lot of people shove into a closet in their subconscious until it chews up their brains. I also know that None of This Shit Matters (N.O.T.S.M.) so what's the real harm here? There is no risk actually so let's get into it in its full, unedited glory shall we? I'm even going to resist the urge to comment in the middle of the text.

Oh man. Ok... here it is:

Unnamed Short Story, Part I

It was one of those amazingly cold days in February when Arthur Williamson's life collapsed like a beehive hairdo in a rain storm. Arthur, a thin, little man with a propensity towards blue shirts, never took shock well. He once had to be sedated and hauled off in restraints at a surprise birthday party his mother had thrown for him. So it wasn't unusual that Arthur lost his already weakened grip on reality that frigid winter morn when Lorraine, his wife of twelve years, informed him of her plans to leave him.

He met her, Lorraine that is, during his senior year at college. She worked in the campus store that Arthur frequented to purchase odds and ends. Often he would go in just to see her and buy something he didn't need just to feel her hand as they exchanged moneys. One day while buying a disposable douche, he found the nerve to ask her out in his slightly moist voice. She, much to his amazement and joy, accepted. Three months later they were engaged.

They were wedded on September 14th, 1979. Lorraine, a less than attractive woman with an incredible lack of style, wore a frightfully hideous green gown with lavender ruffles. Arthur was decked out in his best suit, a wide-lapeled skyblue number and sporting shiny white shoes. The preacher was struck blind by the tackiness and had to be replaced at the last minute by a tugboat captain with bad gums.

Their honeymoon was not a great success. Their cabin in northern Vermont, which was recommended by Arthur's cousin Sol, turned out to be a 10 x 20 foot room with no heat. Running water consisted of a river two miles north of the cabin through the woods. The bathroom was, of course, the nearest grove of trees. They did not enjoy themselves which is both unfortunate and understandable.

They bought a house in Malden, Massachusetts, a sad, sorry, little place (their house that is, not Malden. Malden is rather dull but it is irrelevant to this tale). A pathetic example of American architecture was the Williamson's abode. It did not so much assault the visual pallet as it left sort of an odd taste in the mouths of those unfortunate enough to view it. Lorraine and Arthur loved their home however and, apart from a little water damage and the occasional evil possession of their cats, the house loved them too.

Arthur, who at the time of their marriage was working part time as a assistant donut filler at the Red Jelly Flavor Cafe, finally landed a decent job in 1980. That illustrious position was none other than assistant to the assistant of the assistant of the head accountant at the firm of Dull, Dull, and Humdrum. Lorraine, who was quite proud of Arthur's accomplishment, only gained 10 pounds that year in appreciation.

For years they lived in uninhibited boredom, enjoying T.V. and the lack of any real communication. Arthur, who had had only one other lover apart from Lorraine (and she had threatened to kill him, his family, and then herself if anyone found out about it), was not very skilled in this area. Lorraine had by 1984 given up on sex with him completely and discovered cats as an alternative (not as lovers mind you but as a distraction from her unsatisfied needs). This was probably for the best anyway considering the possible outcome of their lovemaking. It makes one shudder.

She had a string of cats from 1984 - 1991 numbering near ten. The ones that didn't commit suicide either ran away or were taken by the house. The house killed a total of five cats over the years, usually luring them to the garbage disposal.  One would hear a humming, a startled "Meow!" and a sound like GGGGRRRRRUUUUNNNCCHHHH!! All was quiet after that, excepting the satisfied rumblings audible from the disposal. Another popular way with the house was a sudden, deadly blast of heat from a vent as the cat strolled over. This was less frequent as the house was leery of leaving tangible evidence. Lorraine wasn't particular about life span of the cats anyway. As long as they were cute for a while she was satisfied.

Lorraine started to get the "seven-year itch" around their fourth year of marriage, but didn't let on about it. She was content with being discontented and glad to have something to complain about to the women at the Big n' Hippy (a full-figured women's clothing outlet store just a mere waddle from her house). She spent many hours fantasizing about how she would tell Arthur she was leaving him. She planned to tell him at the breakfast table just as he was shoving a pop tart into his mouth. She originally thought of telling him as he dunked his pop tart into his coffee but thought better of it because often when Arthur was performing such a task, it would go awry. The most common mishap associated with the pastry baptism was when the pressure that Arthur exerted on the tart was far too much for it to take along with the weight of the liquid it was busy acquiring and therefore it would break apart leaving a goodly amount of itself in his coffee. This never failed to completely baffle Arthur and he would spend the next 10 to 15 minutes attempting to rescue the coffee-logged pop tart from drowning in his beverage. Usually, but not always, he would not succeed and end up just drinking the pop tart ladened coffee anyway.

Lorraine believed that if she told him before he could get to this point of his breakfast ritual she could save herself a lot of time. She would grin as she thought of Arthur's expression, with a soggy pop tart in his mouth as she told him. He would probably stare at her and maybe cry or something. The breakfast table was also a good choice to break the news she thought because of the lack of any sharp utensils within easy reach. She didn't believe that he would become violent, it wasn't like him, and even if he did, she outweighed him by a good hundred pounds. Surely there would be butter knives about but death by spreading seemed far-fetched at best. She wondered how he would deal with no more "Lorraine-bottom", as he sometimes called her, and if his mind would be able to grasp the sheer magnitude of it all. Usually she dismiss these thoughts at this point and head into the kitchen to eat with the refrigerator door open. This was a good time for Lorraine and her bottom too.

When the day finally came for her to tell him, he was not even eating a pop tart but had elected to have a waffle instead. He was munching the waffle and taking huge gulps of coffee at the same time (a habit that grosses many folks out but one which Arthur enjoyed as much a s a cheesy paperback science fiction novel. He usually carried one around in his hip pocket). Lorraine thought that this deviation from his normal routine might be a sign of some sort but, not being particularly bright, she ignored her instincts and went ahead as planned.

"Arthur," she began. He only grunted and took another gulp of coffee to get the waffle as soft and soupy as possible, the way he liked it. "Arthur, I want a divorce." she finished.

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Fuuuuuuuuck...wow. I have to end Part I here because I just can't take any more at this time. Ok, I'm going to post the next installment next week and I will continue until the original text just ends super abruptly. Jebus christmas that was ... well, y'know...just... it.. fuck me. OKTHXBYE.

Junk From My Brain

NOTE: Blogger had a meltdown last week and my post "Junk From My Brain" was lost in the shuffle. I'm re-posting it since it doesn't look like they will be recovering it themselves.

The Pony Tail.  I think that the Pony Tail might be one of the happiest hair-do's ever. Whenever I see a woman jogging or even just walking quickly with her hair in a pony tail, I always imagine that the pony tail is singing a little song in a high-pitched-happy-happy-sing-song voice as it swishes back and forth. "Pony-tail! Pony-tail! Pony-tail! Pony-tail!" I had thought about making a video with me doing the voice of the pony tail but the creep factor of me filming several women jogging or walking seemed too high. "No officer, I'm not some pervert. I'm just making a video of pony-tails for my blog. See, I'm going sing the voice of the pony-tail! ...Because it's funny? No! This is NOT a fetish. No wait!...please don't arrest me...I'll leave. I'm sorry." I just realized that the Pig Tail as a hair style is as happy if not happier than the Pony Tail. Hmmm...I betcha that filming someone with pig tails does involve a fetish of some sort though.

The Shirt Taco.  You know when you're  wearing a button-down shirt and you're a fat guy? No? Ok, so what about if you are wearing a button-down shirt and when you sit down a space opens up between two of the buttons? That's a Shirt Taco. Shirt tacos can happen from a shirt not fitting well causing it to bunch up when you sit or, in my case, you have exceeded the shirt's documented capacity limits. This is sometimes preceded by consuming a meal. Such as: "Ah crap...I shouldn't have had that big lunch. Now I have shirt tacos." The worst type of shirt tacos are usually seen on men where there is no undershirt behind the taco. This allows hairy flesh to poke out. That's nasty and no one wants to bear witness to such an exhibition. On the other side of the shirt taco spectrum is when a woman's ill-fitting shirt gives one a brief glimpse at the booby area. These particular shirt tacos can be fun. Yes, I know I'm ma dirty old man but don't even act like you haven't glanced inside a shirt taco, seen some lady's bra and giggled to yourself. You have and you know it. These are more dangerous though because one does run the risk of getting caught looking. What I have observed is that no matter where the shirt taco appears (man or woman), it is unwise to acknowledge its existence. Just give it a quick glance when you think the coast is clear and then chuckle to yourself later.

Apostrophes and Computer Forms.  As an Apostrophized American (apostrophied? apostrophed?), I am flabbergasted that in 2011 there are still computer forms out there that refuse to recognize the apostrophe as a legitimate character. What the frick computers? My name is "O'Malley" and your dumb form has forced me to revoke my own apostrophe in order to satisfy your out-dated and, dare I say, discriminatory computer code. I will now and forever be labeled as "Omalley" in your stupid database. Every time I have to deal with your company I will have to say "No, the name is O'Malley not Omalley. Yes, I know that's what you have in front of you but I'm telling you that's not how it is spelled. There's an apostrophe in the last name but your site wouldn't let me put it in. It just kept rejecting my application/order/whatever. Yes, I'm positive. I've had this name for as long as I can remember. Yes, I'll hold." It does help me sort the junk mail that comes to the house. If the last name is misspelled, chances are that particular piece of mail came from a company that I don't want to work with anymore. Here's the kicker: My own email address here at work does not include the apostrophe. Mother fuck.

Goddamn, I Lead a Dull Life

I haven't updated in a bit. You know why I haven't updated in a bit? It's cuz I don't actually DO anything worth mentioning on a weekly basis. You know what I did this weekend? I waited for a contractor to come to bid on our re-vamped pantry project, I watched TV, I probably farted a lot, and I sat in front of my computer trying desperately to think of something interesting to write about. But the thing is, I'm genuinely not that interesting. I get up, go to work, do work stuff, come home, think about the work stuff I forgot to do when I was at work, watch TV, go to bed and start the same shit over again the next day. The weekends are a variance on the same theme. All you have to do is add some more sleep time and considerably more TV watching and you have a typical weekend for me. Maybe I'll toss in a couple loads of laundry just to justify my existence. It's dull, people. Dull, dull, dull.

I'm not complaining that my life is dull, oh no. I actually kinda like it. I don't have kids so I don't have to be all that responsible or occupied when I'm at home. My job doesn't usually interfere with my off-work time (it will on occasion and I've been known to stress over work stuff but for the most part I'm able to separate the two), so I don't often have that problem. I don't really have much in the way of things I absolutely have to get done nor do I have any real hobbies. I do have a list of shit that I really SHOULD be doing and/or completing (painting the spare bedroom, organizing the attic, fixing this and that; boring shit really) but since I have no discernible deadline for said tasks, I'm apt to let them slide. I'm lazy at the core of my being I believe. No, seriously, I am.

But I have assigned myself the task of updating this blog right? What I try to do is update it at least once a week but I just looked at the number of posts and clearly I've slipped a few times. But sometimes I update a couple times a week so I figure that must even out eventually right? Ideally I'd like to post stuff that is interesting and hopefully funny or whatever but I'm telling you...nothing interesting or funny is going on right now. I sat in front of the computer on Saturday just staring at the screen with nothing to say. I thought about maybe talking about the whole why I didn't finish college thing but that just bummed me out a bit so I nixed that idea (I'll prolly still do it eventually though. It's too fucked up not to talk about). I downloaded some podcasts to see if maybe that would inspire me with a topic but all it did was make me sit there and play Snood for several hours. See? Lazy.

But I do have something planned for later this week (oooh, a potential 2-post week! How fucking amazing!). I asked some friends if they would submit their interpretation of this story where I ended up crying on the corner in Brookline. I've got a couple drawings so far and I've seen drafts of an animated gif that almost made me spit coffee all over my keyboard. So I'm hoping all of these will be ready by the end of this week. Oh, and today is the Wiff's birthday. I got her some PJ's (cuz she loves those kind of things) and a couple of pieces from The Enormous Tiny Art Show up in Portsmouth, NH. Other than that, there's not much to report. I'm just gonna go back to work now.