the it kids

Did you hear? South Carolina’s DMV is now offering customized license plates that allow drivers to profess their Christian faith. The state legislature passed the bill unanimously.

South Carolina’s plates are modeled after the prototypes from a similar bill in Florida whose plates depicted a cross and the words “I BELIEVE”. That bill was later struck down.

Many secular as well as religious groups are upset because they believe that the bill is an endorsement of Christianity over other faiths, and a blatant blurring of line between Church and State.

I say critics of the South Carolina bill are just representing the vast, left-wing, nutty fundamentalist non-Christian sect, who believe that for some reason people who aren’t Christians should run the world.

To show my support, I’ve developed additional templates for South Carolina to adopt in their quest for freedom from Christian religious persecution.

Ah, to live in San Francisco. The city of diversity, the city that shouts, “To each his own!” with unwavering fervor and perhaps the occasional lisp.

If pressed, I couldn’t think of a city wherein cultural diversity and a reverence for intellectualism were celebrated more than San Francisco.

Then why, God, why has San Francisco failed me again and again in my pursuit of finding its ostensibly socially, politically, and emotionally conscious denizens?

I think my sentiment would best be illustrated with a short anecdote. Shall we?

A couple Saturdays ago I went out with my good friend. My good friend’s name is Xander, and Xander incidentally, is gay. Xander suggests that we go to the renowned “Frisco Disco” night @ the Transfer, this seemingly counterculture bar – a lot of hipsters, a lot of gay kids, people wearing casually cool clothing.

I was admitted to the club only after being told by the bouncer that I was barred for being seen brown bagging alcohol within 100 feet of the entrance. After making the persuasive argument that I would be spending money inside the club, he acquiesced and I was happily on my way. So I thought.

Actually, between Dumbshit Bouncer and the dance floor of Frisco Disco is a woman collecting $5. I suppose cover charges have their place, but this wasn’t one of them. The brain dead woman taking money assured me that it was $5 well spent, and further assured me that the Transfer accepted credit cards. In both instances, she was wrong.

Already off on bad footing. I was surveying the area when a particularly smoking hot blonde caught my eye – not that beautiful kind of hot, but that I look like I’m made out of plastic and at some point my alcoholic step dad touched me kind of hot. In most circumstances, a woman of her physical stature would be well beyond the scope of my attainability, but given the rest of the Transfer’s clientele, it seemed like my ambitions were in good standing.

There are few things I’m good at doing. Honesty and communication can be counted among them. Dancing and impressing girls in a public forum cannot. But in an effort to conquer my fears, seize the day, and engage in other character building exercises, I decided that I would get my proverbial groove on, and do so amongst the city’s finest (see euphemism: gayest) dancers by climbing atop the Transfer’s stage.

After a good two hours of literally dancing around the subject, I decided to alter my approach, concluding that Ken must never have gotten Barbie through coy glances, but rather emboldened misogyny.

“Hey.” So far, things are going swimmingly, save for forgetting to call her a slut.
“Hey,” she says back, with somewhat alarmed eyes.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“Aren’t you gay?” she asks.

Aren’t you gay? AM I GAY??? I was genuinely torn at that moment between finding the male nearest me and promptly shoving my dick into his asshole (fiercely through the pants) and taking a frying pan – even if that meant a cab ride home to acquire it – and smashing this giggling stuck up cunt square in her money-shot ripened face.

“No.” I say.
“Well then what are you doing here?”
“What are YOU doing here?!”

I decide that my fists will suffice in lieu of the skillet.

“I’m here dancing with my friends” she says.
“Good. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

I walk away, order another drink, and return. But I don’t dance with Cum Dumpster, nay, nor do I offer her the drink. Instead I down it in a swift gulp, and proceed with newfound confidence and twice as much fervor to stomp my feet and baile! baile! baile! with Xander as if to say “You’ve made me what I am.”

Sweet justice.

As it turns out, the Transfer (unbeknownst to me and contrary to Xander’s assertions) IS A GAY BAR. But that said, it seems unduly presumptuous that a man offering to buy a woman a drink in a bar – one that she is in not because she’s gay, but because she’s dancing with friends – could not possibly be in the bar for her same reasons, but instead must be a homosexual who just loves to enjoy his Jack and Cokes in the company of attractive liquored up females he’s never met.

So at present, San Francisco becomes to me not a city of great nebulous and fleeting identities, but instead one where disparate cultural identities and the niches they occupy are steadfast, mutually exclusive, and rather fearful of those unlike their own.

As I left the Transfer that night, I looked back one last time at the object of my affection. A man who I had seen previously hitting on other women throughout the night, a man whose exposed arms were adorned with various tattoos, silver chains hanging from his neck, a man who seconds earlier approached this woman with his palm pressed into her bare upper thigh, was now engaged in locked lips with her, the woman who had nothing to offer me but that I desired so badly for her mistaken reciprocated sentiment. I wanted her, if only to show her that she should in fact want me.

It was then, and only then, that I truly understood what I had missed out on by not calling her a slut.

So the story “Speak Easy” may not happen. After about a year of writing whatever came to mind and ending up with a lot of great fragments but not much else, a few days ago I finally settled on a writing career path that I can live with. I’m going to focus my writing on music, the music industry, and what its role in our culture is.

Concert and album reviews; essays about music and politics, music and religion, music and sports, music and whatever else; articles about specific bands, their history and influences, etc etc. Hopefully, a whole music magazine’s worth of music coverage, basically. Maybe a music-related story here or there. Stay tuned.

On a slightly different note… you know how sometimes you’re kickin’ it with some friends, talking about some random thing and suddenly, a phrase that sounds like it would be a great band name? A few years back, I started writing all those “band names” down. Whoever said the phrase had to pick the genre that this fake band plays. A small sampling:

Showerhead - ’80s Sunset Strip hair metal

Being Lewd on a Fraughtful Afternoon - Ambient music

Attitudes & Longitudes - post-punk synth-pop

And the list goes on and on. Peace.

Just a few thoughts while I finish up the story based on the writing challenge generator, mentioned in my last post (check back for that story, titled “Speak Easy”, in the next few days)…

I’ve been a hardcore music junky since I was about 11 or so, when I began getting my first CDs. I have my share of vices, but they’re all mild compared to my obsession with music, which I’m sure could be called an addiction.

Until I moved to Berkeley in the fall of 2004, I resisted getting in on the digital music craze, telling everyone I preferred having a physical copy of the music w/booklet. Then I saw so many iPods on the UC Berkeley campus that it dawned on me how much I would benefit from this new way of collecting music. I had about 500 CDs at the time, all bought with my own hard-earned money, and often took huge CD books on vacation because I couldn’t bear to leave most of the music behind. What if, all of a sudden somewhere in Europe or New York or LA or wherever, I absolutely had to hear “Scary Monsters” by David Bowie, or “Punk in Drublic” by NOFX, or Led Zeppelin III? Leaving behind my music collection was always the worst part about leaving home, and after years of a tweaked back from carrying 350 CDs on my back it was possible to put it all in my pocket on a little white rectangle. Brilliant!

So now I download all my music and instead of buying CDs, spend all that money on vinyl at the local record stores and on concerts whenever any band I like is in town. Thanks to mp3s and digital music, I have a larger music collection than I ever could have dreamed of; the music connoisseur and musician in me have more tools to work with than ever before. It’s incredible: we’re living in a world that allows me to research and listen to new bands across the globe that, 10 years ago, would have had trouble spreading their music in their own hometown. I can record a track on my sampler, save it to my computer as an mp3, and for virtually no cost post it online where it can be heard by millions. I can write on this blog. It’s amazing; anyone who wants to create anything now has access to an absurdly huge audience.

But, at the same time, I really miss the “analog age” of my childhood, when we’d go to arcades to play the really cool video games and the internet meant a shoddy 14.4 connection and AOL 2.0. I know most of those things were digital, but compared to the world we live in, technology from 10-15 years ago seems analog, even ancient.

There are certain albums that, whenever I hear them, take me back to a very specific time and place. “Californication” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers came out the summer of 1999, when my family moved from Southern to Northern California, and when I hear any song off that album it takes me right back to that summer. Sublime reminds me of growing up in SoCal; “Raw Power” by The Stooges, my high school punk-rocker days; “Hail to the Thief” by Radiohead takes me to the last few days of high school and my last few months living in Burlingame, California. The first albums I ever got, all as presents, were “Big Ones” by Aerosmith, “Dark Side of the Moon” by Pink Floyd, and “Tragic Kingdom” by No Doubt (everyone and their mother and their second cousin had that one).

I recently realized that, since I got the iPod and sold off my CD collection, there isn’t a single new album I’ve discovered that I get nostalgic about. It’s not that I haven’t found any good music; on the contrary, my musical knowledge and tastes have expanded greatly since I went digital, and there are tons of albums I’ve gotten since ‘04 that are among my all-time favorites. Somehow, though, it feels like the music has lost some of its romanticism. As a teenager, I used to anxiously wait for a new album by a favorite band of mine to be released, and made a ritual out of going to the record store on release day and listening to the entire album while reading through the lyrics as soon as I got home. It was one of my favorite things to do. Now, I often end up hearing parts of or all of a new album leaked weeks, sometimes months before the album officially comes out.

I’m not complaining, because I get to hear music I still anxiously await sooner rather than later, but I no longer go to the record store the day an album comes out to buy the CD. I could, but it seems pointless when all I’m gonna do is import it to iTunes. Sometimes I’ll go out and buy an album on vinyl, but that feeling of ritual, and the satisfaction that came with it, is long gone.

And that’s ok. I’m only 22 and the world is already a very different place than the one I grew up in, but I think it’s a better one. I’m not sure, but I think it is. We’re more interconnected than we were a decade ago, and it seems to me like that has made everything a little less foreign to everyone. Sushi isn’t the oddity it used to be. Skin color seems to matter a little bit less each year. And new technology gets more and more integrated into our everyday lives and makes life easier… I’m just a bit nostalgic for a time when every American schoolchild was united by the cutting-edge experience of “The Oregon Trail” on 5 1/4 inch floppy disc, and “Terminator 2″ was about the coolest thing you had ever seen.

The escalator spits me out onto Market Street. The air is crisp, and this alone lets me know that today will be a good day.

It’s 7:12am. My stomach hurts. I am not accustomed to arriving early to work, and thus have not eaten. There is a McDonald’s across the street, and I review in my head a number of times the money which I do not have available to spend, and the calories I should not be consuming.

Underneath the golden arches is a man, he is homeless, and with his chin pressed into his chest he stands outside the door, opening it for anyone who passes his way. He wears a gold and blue wool hat, the kind with flaps to keep your ears warm. His face struggles and twitches, like he is the unsuspecting witness to an argument in his head. I wonder if he is retarded.

As I approach the doors, another man – he is black – walks from the opposite direction. He wears a dew rag, and looks like every image I have ever seen of Ice T. I think he too is hungry, and I hope I can look to him as a precedent for how to deal with our homeless man. I do not have any money, and I worry about benefiting from Homeless Man’s courteous gesture when I can do nothing to repay him.

Ice T raises his arm, pointing his finger @ Homeless Man. I wonder if they are friends, and if in fact Ice T is also homeless. I have not heard a record of his in a very long time.

“Don’t you dare open that fuckin’ door, you hear me?” The words are harsh and imbued with deep resentment.

Homeless Man quickly lets out another spasm, as if to let Ice T know that he will not be opening the door, but then fearing that this gesture will be perceived as the opposite. It is my turn next, and I decide that perhaps Homeless Man would appreciate a “thank you” just as much as a dollar bill.

“Thank you,” I say. He mumbles something incoherent, but the sentiment is one of relief.

The restaurant is empty, save for the staff and Ice T. My head scans the menu and I begin the negotiations of health and expense. I have a penchant for crispy chicken sandwiches. But it’s cold, and the thought of biting into a cow sandwiched between two pieces of cheese is irresistible. But what of my health? I can get a chicken sandwich with light mayonnaise. Less calories. And a double cheeseburger with no pickles. Also less calories.

Ice T turns to me, as if to defer his place in line.

“Hey brother, I need you to help me out. I’m not asking for money, I just want something to eat.”

I’m not sure how to respond. For a man who couldn’t afford to eat, he certainly looked well kempt, and his biceps seemed to be well fed.

“I’m sorry. I’m a student. I’m very deep in debt.”
“It’s cool man.”

And it was cool. He walks past me to the counter, to a demure looking Chinese man probably in his late 60’s. He is very fragile, and I worry that the golden “M” visor he wears might snap his neck.

I step forward to a much younger Chinese girl. Her skin is like porcelain, and her perky nipples are trying to escape through her burgundy polo shirt I can’t help but wonder about these people. How they are here. What are the hopes and dreams of this beautiful young girl? Maybe working @ McDonald’s is part of this dream. I cannot extend such optimism to Fragile Man.

“I’ll have a chicken sandwich, light mayonnaise, and a—”
“We don’t serve lunch yet.”

Oh.

“Can you help me out?” The question distracts me, and the menu becomes nothing more than a series of indiscernible pictures and words.

“You want me to help you out?”
“Yeah. I need something to eat.”
“What do you want?”
“No, I need you to help me out. I need you to buy me food.”
“I – you want to buy food?”
“No. I need YOU to buy me food.” I turn away from the Chinese girl to look to my right. It becomes apparent that Ice T is imploring Fragile Man to provide him with a free meal. Then without warning Ice T slams his hands down onto the counter.

“You don’t fucking talk to me like that. You hear me? I will come behind that counter and grab you by your neck and fucking LET LOOSE. You hear me? You hear me?”

Fragile Man’s mouth is open, unable to close to begin forming words. He is starting to shake, and so I start to shake. It seems like the only thing to do. I quickly dart my eyes around the restaurant. An old woman, probably a grandmother stands in line behind me. That’s it. I realize if Ice T decides to do anything violent, I am the sole individual even possibly capable of stopping him.

Ice T steps backwards, his arm raised outward again toward Fragile Man.

“This is my country. You do not talk to me like that. You hear me? MY COUNTRY. You get on a boat and go back to wherever the FUCK you came from.”

And with that he is gone. Just as abruptly as he came in, he has left. But for us, he is still very much here. I will be thinking about him for the next 20 minutes. And he will be with Fragile Man even longer, following behind every footstep, hiding behind closed eyelids.

There is silence. And then I see it. Creeping out from behind the counter, as if it’s relishing the actuality of the ground upon which it flows. It’s yellow, and it’s quiet, and it’s the saddest thing I have ever seen.

This man, this delicate man with pale and spotted skin that could tear like old paper, this man with hopes and dreams who is simply trying to survive in a foreign and frightening land finally closes his mouth, swallows, and then reopens, directing his words to the woman behind me.

“Good morning, can I help you?”

if you haven’t seen it in the news, a housemate of mine was brutally assaulted by the cal rugby team the night they won the national championship. broken jaw, fractured skull, air bubbles in the brain, multiple lacerations, and brain damage that has resulted in impaired mobility and an inability to read are what he was left with. and no health insurance. the rugby player’s lawyer can’t pronounce Rochon correctly.

i didn’t cut my hair for 9 months. then i didn’t shave for 10 weeks. then i did.

Nick Resnik here, posting for the first time as an “it kid”. I’m a writer and music producer/beatmaker, and like mostly everyone I know, am putting my U.C. Berkeley degree to good use by serving and bartending at a high-end yuppie restaurant. Yay, college!

I’ll be posting all kinds of stuff on this blog: short stories, essays, ideas and thoughts, poetry, music I’m digging, concert reviews, concert listings for the SF Bay Area, and hopefully, once I figure out how, links to beats and songs I’ve put together. The writing ranges into all genres, from detective stories to comedies to sci-fi to gonzo journalism and anything else that I come up with. I’m suffering from a bit of writer’s block though, so any suggestions/challenges (i.e. give me a topic and a few parameters and I’ll pump something out) would be highly appreciated.

I just used the writing challenge generator at Seventh Sanctum (http://seventhsanctum.com/generate.php?Genname=writechallenge)

for inspiration, and it gave me the following scenario:

“The story must have a lizard at the end. The story must involve a lance in it. A character buys a house, but it is done for different reasons than people would expect. A character is generous throughout most of the story. During the story, a character has someone make a meal for them.

A character lies. A character is sorry throughout most of the story. The story must have a frog at the beginning. The story must involve a bottle of wine in it. The story takes place ten years in the past.”

That should give me something to work with. Currently listening to “Fuzzy Logic” by the Super Furry Animals, a great Welsh psychedelia/pop/rock band worth checking out. They sing in English and Welsh and often dress like Bigfoot on stage. Awesome.

And with that, I’m off… check in later for some version of a story inspired by the two paragraphs above.

As I approach the crosswalk, I lift my head from Montgomery’s sullied pavement and the monotonous pacing of my own hand-me-down Rockports to see Mission Street panning from left to right. A crowd of my peers, people like me by virtue of the word “people”, some bald, some aspiring artists, some both anxiously await their alabaster signal to “go” from their cornered pavement of potential energy. Go I tell them. Go and chase your dreams. Go chase your live art classes you, with the cigarette and purple liberty spikes. Get your graphic design agency. Go and chase your investors, you with the tie and belt that’s hardly accommodating for a man of your corpulence. Get your stocks to rise. Go chase the man you’re chasing, you with chocolate skin and dirt for beard. Get your cocaine or something, anything for Christ’s sake from that bag that will make you happy.

Go, you of many faces, the one who takes her face and pastes it onto every fleeting glance. The one who takes every bit of denim and hides her legs inside of them. Shapes unfamiliar now, realities conforming to memories, or memories conforming to realities. GO. GO. GO! I plead. Go and do what you can, anything and everything and I know you will, but most important of all go, and leave my tracks unvisited, for to stray ahead in my very path, obstructing the view while all is clear in your eyes is a cruelty that is crippling beyond words’ repair.

But I am smarter than them. All of them. Because from my vantage I know. I know not when we will be revisited by our alabaster savior, but I do know when those whose whirling cages of glass and metal will be forced to stop. STOP! What a magnificently profound word, imbued with so much potential. Beseechment, imperative, and everything in between. But I am a commander of my world, and I say STOP!

And so I tread ahead, and as I pass my peers a smile runs over my face, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t use some of that time to confirm the identities of all around, checking to see if they were that of my numinous vixen, and I feel the pavement under each step and it is glorious, but none of that matters now, because I am ahead and I am alive, and while I know others are stopped I am go go going and all @ once I’m overwhelmed because never – not once have I had it all figured out, has everything been so clear and not only could I foresee how to get ahead, no – we don’t stop there – here I am, ACTUALLY ahead and now I am the object of envy and valor – even if we are just talking about making it to work 8 seconds sooner – no fuck it, we’re not – we’re talking about going – I AM HERE, I AM NOW, AND I AM GOING.

And I stop myself and face the oncoming traffic, and I let out a laugh so exuberant that you must see it, feel it, smell it, laugh out loud yourself right goddamnfuckingnow and have it run through your veins and over your face to know what I mean, as I see her, actually her, not some nightmare, not some delusion, not some arbitrary literary device or metaphor, but the face that has been a foreign denizen of my thoughts, in the flesh, coming toward me with celestial fervor, in a 1993 blue Honda Civic. She does not stop, but I do.

apparently the whole art theatre, who i’ve been in contact with now for nearly two years, is producing my play dark horse, indiana. this is seemingly good news, and the prospects of producing my play have been presented to me numerous times - the problem is that nothing has ever been signed or made official. that means no contracts, which means no rights given, which means no royalties. and even this wasn’t really a problem until i got the latest issue of the WAT’s newsletter, whose relevant content can be viewed here.

apparently, someone has decided to hold auditions, and have performances, and put marketing efforts into a play that shares both the name of a play i’ve written, as well as its author’s name with mine. apparently someone forgot to tell me.

nick resnik will officially become an “it kid” in the next few days. you should be looking forward to his work as much as i am.

we’ve seen an awesome response in registration, and we’d like to welcome all of you. and i can’t express my excitement enough to those who have posted in the forum. we just need to get all the rest of you in there!

this is called an exercise in improvisation:

quote of the day, chris nordman during our tour of AT&T park: “Also, the Wiggles concert was here… I guess I was the only one who caught that one.”

the last few days have found me suffocated by a depression that has been both stupefying as well as depressing. i was determined to alleviate my connectivity to my own harrowing consciousness by drinking, but i found the notion of burying my problems in fermentation too debilitating and opted out, which just depressed me more.

i don’t intend to dwell on the issue, or sanctify it any more by committing its makings to writing.

the following is a list of my grievances:

* Acne - i’ve only been able to conclude that the vagaries of terrain of both my chest and back have been caused by depression.

* Balding - my hair is so thin, Nicole Ritchie is jealous.

* Money - i’ve been losing money working @ my new job. this is largely a result of the impossible parking situation @ BART, which has consequently led to me receiving more parking tickets than i have pay stubs.

* Artistic fulfillment - i can’t do anything creative.

I need panacea for self-fulfillment, but something more glamorous than therapy. In conclusion, I need to marry up.

On the positive side of things, I’ve re-committed myself to my last summer’s weight loss program.

I ran the Bay to Breakers last weekend. After blazing ahead of Mike and Dave, I was struck with an awful case of tendonitis @ about mile 4, which resulted in the effusive outpourings of old people all around me as they passed me to the finish line.

i think a moth just flew out of my beard:

Seriously. Gumballs lose their flavor way too quickly.

it’s less than 7 hours before i will be on a bus on my way to the bay to breakers. the last 6 days have seen me incredibly sick with what was a sore throat, but quickly developed into the flu, which unfortunately was in fact meningitis, but thank god the free clinic was able to convince me it was really only a severe viral throat infection, @ which point i decided that a minor sore throat was just as good.

in the midst of my illness i had glorious delusions of muscle spasms and stretches, their occult capabilities unknown. they would lead to lucrative analyses and sky rocket my new place of employment to revenues unheard of, placing their name in mouths heard ’round breakfast tables and water coolers sea to sea. it was pretty fucked up.

i woke up in a bed of conversely hot and cold sweat. dave checked my temperature which read 101, but i never trust those crappy paper thermometers anyway. the next morning i called in sick to work.

while i was sick i received some new photos to be used for the future the it kids website when it relaunches. they’re kinda artsy, kinda funny. like if james dean fucked zach galifianakis.

two days later i found myself in my car pulling away from the curb of prospect (street) to go to san francisco, but after i pulled into the memorial stadium parking lot to turn around in the right direction, the driver of a car in the opposing lane (who was previously behind me) yelled out “LEARN HOW TO DRIVE!” and then sped away. i signaled, i obeyed the traffic law, and how else was i supposed to turn around goddammit? i mean, really, i felt like my execution was now only legally abiding, but also demonstrated my superior driving aptitude. i nearly turned around again just to follow the guy and yell “learn how to communicate better with human beings!”

despite my sickness, and despite having missed two days of work, i went in to san francisco to do standup @ the brainwash. the audience there is always full of uneducated homeless people with severe learning disabilities. and scott.

this is what resulted:

with a minor sore throat, an upcoming 12k run, and unresolved love in the air, summer once again promises to be full of excitement. and acid.

it’s an unofficial launch party in my pants. hooray.

i decided i wanted a site where i could post work i’ve created and share it with others in order to get their feedback, while giving them an opportunity to do the same. welcome.

in order to post or comment, you have to be registered by clicking here.

i know the site looks sloppy now, but if you can deal with this for a little while i promise you a cupcake.

to start, i’ll keep things simple. for example, i’m growing a beard:

also, i made this movie.

i was recently “let go” from a contract i had with google due to a blog that i wrote on their Blogger in Google system. the blog complied with all of their terms of service (which specifically addresses any potentially inflammatory language), and the concept was actually suggested by a number of business professionals i know. despite my coworkers finding it hilarious, despite it spreading through google @ a breakneck pace, despite having strangers walk up to me and thank me for providing them with some comic relief for the day, my boss did not understand its humor but rather found it to be “disturbing”.

i thought it only appropriate that my first post on theitkids include my first and only post @ google. some of the humor contains references that would only be understood by google employees, but all in all you’ll get the gist. without further adieu, i leave you with this:

Temporary Happiness
Temping here @ Google? It’s okay, we know how you feel. (Contrary to popular belief, temps do have feelings. Additional feelings like befuddlement and love will be made accessible upon conversion to employee status.)

A place for narccistic, maudlin, introspective, fastidious, ephemerally happy blather in the life of a temp worker. And farting.

Friday, January 05, 2007
thegreatestfirstpostevermadebyme

i successfully find myself in the BiG systm. i’m not sure if someone made a mistake, but it appears my red badge of shame has not precluded me from blogging. then again, there is a tgif happening downstairs, so maybe someone important left their desk.

Welcome! my name is eric, and i am an alcoholic. i’m also a temp worker here @ Google. given the distinct “Google Lifestyle” replete with amenities (i will never get over having to pay the contractor rate for my shiatzu table massage), i’ve considered that perhaps people are interested in seeing exactly what goes on in the mind of a company member with no formal eminence or secured stature. also, i’m terribly vain.

i don’t know where the bounds of good taste lie, but i hope that i will soon find out by sufficiently tripping over them.

if you have no sense of humor you should probably stop reading now. if you’re a higher up of mine, you should probably start firing me now. (that was a joke. if it was necessary that i point out that the preceding comment was a joke, you clearly didn’t follow my first admonition, which makes me question your attention to detail and managerial aptitude all together.)

highlights of my day:

3:09pm i felt like taking a shit

3:15pm i started taking a shit

3:22pm i felt a little gay for 20 seconds (in my defense it was in the name of perianal hygiene, which really - no. no, that doesn’t help my defense @ all.)

word on the street is that thursday is the new friday , mysterious is the new confident, and rape is the new endearment. for example:

* last night (thursday) i went out drinking
* i don’t talk to people and i bottle my emotions up, and i’ve never felt better
* “Hey, Timmy! Did you play the new Mario Strikers?” “Yeah, it’s totally rape!”

i think friday is really the best night for a first date. if you wait till saturday too much suspense builds up and affords her the entire night of friday to hook up with someone else or varify that your myspace account toby1992 may have been somewhat misleading. and sunday all together is depressing. because sunday begets monday. who can enjoy going out on a saturday night when really all you’re thinking is ‘who the fuck invited monday here?’

god i need a shower. i’ve been two days without a shower, and i’m worried everyone else can smell my balls without running their fingers underneath them and sniffing the way i normally do.

i recently got botox in my forehead. don’t tell anyone. i was really irate when my friend told me i looked different, and then i felt embarrassed, and then i just wanted to cry. thankfully no one could tell.

i think i just saw eric schmidt walk by for the first time. all i need is to be officially employed by Google, and then a successive 6 managerial promotions, and i am so there.

i’m technically on overtime now. is this what they’re paying me for? no. should it be?

fuck. who invited monday here?