This will be the last post regarding that pathetic whale-beast, not only because devoting so much attention to her self-abuse is making me sick, but mostly because yesterday was my last day. That's right I quit. Not just because of her, or that horrible, vile, troll-manatee lovechild with the nebulizer, but because all of them together (including the fat whore that yelled at me for coughing, that woman with the moustache that wears silk, pirate blouses and always says "ding-dang," and the condescending office administrators).

In any case, I only want to share what I think is an occurrence of note. Last Thursday, some of the folks in the office ordered out for lunch. After Cynthia (that's her name) begged and screamed for a few minutes, the group acquiesced to her request and decided to go to Don Pedro's, a shitty Mexican place on 82nd Avenue. She got fish tacos. On Friday, the same thing happened. She got fish tacos. On Monday, it happened again. She got fish tacos. In case you don't know, a fish taco is merely a wad of fried fish (read: fish sticks) stuck in a tortilla. It was Tuesday, when she was eating her third fish taco, that I asked, "Cynthia, since last Thursday, how many fish tacos had you eaten?"

She paused.

She began to count on her fingers; both hands.

She looked me in the eye and said, "eighteen."

Apparently, I hadn't taken into account that she had some over the weekend. I turns out that on the previous Saturday, she had taken her breakfast, lunch, and dinner at Don Pedro's, and then dinner on Sunday. She eats four tacos in a sitting, the errant two were devoured Saturday at lunch.

Once again (says the circus ringleader) this is all entirely true, to the best of my knowledge.

On Wednesday, my last day, she got fish tacos again.

“Why are you depressed, Alvy?” asked the doctor. “Tell Dr. Flicker. It’s something he read.” said his mother. Alvy’s head lolled depressingly around his shoulders. “The Blogosphere is expanding.” “The Blogosphere is expanding?” asked the doctor, somewhat skeptically. “Well,” said Alvy, ”the Blogosphere is everything, and if it’s expanding, someday it will break apart and that would be the end of everything!” Alvy’s mother began to scream and gesture excitedly, “What’s the Blogosphere got to do with it? You’re here in Brooklyn! Brooklyn is not expanding!”


My friend publishes a website, pontificating into the howling void of the Blogosphere about his life and interests. It’s a sad hobby, but if it gets him though the day, it’s fine with me. He has this neat site tracker that allows him to track, not just site hits, daily averages and from what IP addresses the hits come from, but keeps a running tab of the internet search terms that punt people to his site. His site somewhat revolves around movies (as does his sad, pathetic life), so it was no surprise to me to see on this last many, many search queries including the terms “nude,” “naked,” “ or “xxx.” Jennifer Aniston, Blanchard Ryan, Matt Damon, these names made appearances again and again.

Frankie Muniz?

That’s right, someone, somewhere, probably typing one-handed, wanted, for whatever reason, to see “Malcolm in the Middle” naked. This disturbing fact begs several questions:

1. What kind of twisted sex maniac wants to see a 19-year-old, male, television sitcom actor naked. We’re not talking about David Duchovny (of whom nude images do exist; actually quasi-nude, his naughty bits are covered with a teacup). We’re talking about Cody Banks, here.
2. What makes this fiend think that these images might actually exist? Does Frankie Muniz really seem like the kind of guy that is regularly approached by publication begging him to strip for the enjoyment of their readers? Does he seem like the sort of actor who would agree to have such photos taken?
3. The randomness of Frankie Muniz is strange. Sure, Jessica Beil posed for Playboy, but she’s HOT! Is it really worth the precious seconds required to search for existence of naked photos of “Boner” from Growing Pains?
4. Who the fuck is this person and what happened to you as a child? If you happen to be reading this, please contact me as soon as possible. Please, show me on the doll where they touched you.

Show of hands....Who wants to see my wedding tackle?

Lately, I've been feeling as if blogging, in and of itself, has become a detriment. I seem more occupied about the subject of the next blog than the subject of my next story. The reason I began this blog was simply to have an outlet, a bulletin board in the void of the world. It's purpose was to have an external "inbox" to store ideas and force me to work them out into cohesive tales. I never intended for anyone to actually read it, and thankfully that much has held true. However, blogging is fun, even if (perhaps especially if) no one ever reads this crap.

In an effort to kick myself in the pants, I been poring over virtually everything I've written since 1995. This is the first time I've ever undertaken this task, and it proved far more laborious, embarrassing and contemplative than I ever imagined. Frankly, I don't know what the hell was wrong with me. I had it all; a nice house, a semi-cohesive family, a car, a hot girlfriend (who, I might add, is now my hot wife), tons of great drinking buddies, and few great friends. Why the hell was I so depressed all the time!? Seriously, some of the stuff I came across sounded like Edgar Allen Poe's death hymn as read by Emily Dickinson. I must admit, however, while I was rather obsessed with science fiction, some of that stuff was pretty original. I'm not sure I could even duplicate that kind of originality now. Turns out drugs do make you more creative!

But then it occurred to me; the reason I began writing was because I was depressed, and writing made me feel better. Obviously, most of the stuff I put on paper would be dismal because, at that time, I only wrote that shitty, shitty poetry when I was feeling dismal.

I would simply like to take this opportunity to thank my parents (thought they'll never read this...) for doing well by me. You were both incredible, if slightly overly concerned, caregivers and I thank you for all that you sacrificed to ensure that myself and my brothers always had everything we needed, and most of the stuff we really wanted.

I love you both, and really miss you right now.

That being said, I wanted to share something I found. I had (and still have) a huge problem of finishing stories. Sometimes there is a neat phrase, or collection of words, or a feeling I just have to convey, bouncing around in my head and I have to put it on paper just to exorcise the demon. The result is a Herculean pile of paper (scraps, sheets, wads and otherwise) with which to contend. They never get fleshed out into stories, not just because I always get sidetracked by another, equally catchy phrase or idea, but because I'm a lazy piece of shit.

If anyone would like to help me with this massive problem of tree-killing clutter (this is directed to all my terrifically wealthy family members that don't read this blog, or even exist), you can get me the one thing I asked for, but didn't get for Christmas. I want it so bad I wanna throw up. The Dana.

This bit is juvenile, but I like the feeling because it's common and identifiable. To all the folks that don't read this blog, I thank you for your non-patronage. Your lack of support is what's really gotten me through these last few months.

The music faded and stopped. The DJ came on the microphone and announced the end of the evening. A muffled groan came from the dance floor as people began to clear off to collect their jackets, handbags and dates. Debts were paid off, and dance floor romances ended as they had begun; wordless stares into slightly bloodshot eyes.
One-night stands began and all night binges ended with a call for a cab or a suicidal fumble for the car keys. The last bit of alcohol was consumed, and, in the back alley, those who overestimated their own strength spilled more onto the concrete. This crowd of people, packed into a small, dingy room for one night of self-defiance and deprecation, finally began to quiet. As they began to disperse, like a single cell breaking apart from the inside in an effort to grow, the noise settled and the lights began to shine brighter than ever before.
The bartenders poured the last drinks, and the dealers moved into the parking lot to make their last sales. Hookers hooked and users used, but now they would have to go elsewhere. The night, the creature that it is, had been fed and was now bloated and lethargic. The true identity of those who survived, fishing in their pockets for their last cigarettes, or other fixes, seemed to hit them hard in the face with that first blast of cold air, the scent of fresh sunlight doing battle with the smoke and sweat.
The night itself was bedding down for its’ daily rest and it’s followers, the order of the night, the church of after hours, rescinded to their alternate selves, their mild-mannered identities, just to get some sleep. Their bones will still cry out for release, though. They cry to be set free, into the underbelly of the weekend.

Okay, this just isn't funny anymore. This began as an amusing way to fill the gaps in my work day. Now, I'm just depressed. This study is officalliy over, not just because I just quit my job, but because I'm beginning to feel a bit like P.T. Barnum. Please keep the "Jumbo" refernces to yourself.

However, for posterity, I would like to make a final analysis.

RAMEN IN NOT A FOOD, YOU FAT, IGNORANT SLUT!

I feel much better.

This poor dear has lost her battle with weight, depression and that giant Twix bar that runs her down in her dreams. I pity this woman. I feel guilty for pitying a woman whom I've seen eat sunflower seeds off the carpet. I'm really fucked on this one.

I've decided to include a few notations of the things she says during the course of the day. I feel they would provide a unique insight into her anthropoidal eating habits.

I remind you, these notations are in no way exaggerated or imbellished to make them funnier. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.


January,12 2005

8:06 AM ***Her husband packed her lunch today. She opened the plastic grocery sack to find a package of pork Top Ramen and a Ziploc FULL of hard candy.***
8:09 AM ***“I’m hungry” ***
8:14 AM Coffee with Swiss Miss cocoa powder
8:17 AM ***”I’m starving!”***
9:02 AM Pork flavor Top Ramen with Taco Bell hot sauce
9:26 AM Reese’s peanut butter cup
9:50 AM ***”I don’t feel so good. I ate too much.”***
10:08 AM Watermelon flavor Jolly Rancher
10:25 AM Grape flavor Jolly Rancher
10:49 AM ***went home complaining of a stomach ache***

January, 13 2005

8:03 AM Small coffee with both “French Vanilla” and “Mocha Java” flavored non-dairy creamer, chocolate chip muffin (I don’t know the serving size, but the muffin is about the size of a softball.)
9:47 AM Pork flavor Top Ramen with hot sauce, handful of peanuts in the shell
11:09 AM Banana (first fruit!!)
12:23 PM Unidentified candy, “Tropical Fruit” flavor
2:42 PM Twix candy bar(s)
2:43 PM 2 day old doughnut (I’m not kidding, it was wrapped in a tissue in her desk.)
2:46 PM Cheetos (1.2 oz. package)

January 14, 2005

8:48 AM Coffee with Swiss Miss hot cocoa powder.
9:18 AM Nestle Crunch with caramel, handful of “Cream Smoothie” Skittles (eew.)
11:57 AM Pork flavor Top Ramen with Taco Bell hot sauce and MAYONNAISE!!
12:12 AM Diet Pepsi
2:16 PM Twix candy bar(s)

January 17, 2005

9:18 AM Coffee with Swiss Miss cocoa powder
10:54AM Pork flavor Top Ramen with Sriracha
11:56 AM Baloney and mayonnaise on white bread (okay, she bragged about this one: bread, mayo, baloney, kraft cheez, baloney, cheez, mayo, baloney, cheez, mayo, bread. The sandwich is about two inches thick. This is not a joke.)

I declared this study over when, after pestering everyone in the office for hours about where lunch was coming from, I actually saw her devour FOUR fried fish tacos, smeared with mayonnaise she brought herself. She then began to pontificate on the many uses of this fine condiment, divulging that her absolute favorite is corn on the cob dripping with mayo.

I don't know what disturbs me more; the fact this woman seeks ways toincorporate mayonnaise into virtually every meal she takes, or, upon review, discovering that, over the course of this laborious study, she comsumed two non-processed food items, and that assumes you would count Iceberg Lettuce as a serving of vegetables.