So, About Cute Girl Downstairs

Man, is she cute. Oh, and dudes? Yesterday, in the morning, it was cold out. Nice and cold. Did I mention that she smokes?

She's pretty awesome, but, as I was explaining today at work, she's awesome because I don't know her. I don't know anything about her. Well, that's not true. I know she lives up North, and she's from back East, and she's a member of the Ashkenazi tribe. And she's cute. Like a button. Where the fuck did that phrase come from, anyway? When is the last fucking time you saw a button, and thought to yourself, "awwww, lookatthatbutton"? Never, that's when. Whatevs. I digress.

But the main reason she's so awesome is because the relationship is perfect right now; it doesn't exist. From this point on, any change will only bring inevitable disaster. I ask her out, and she says no? Rejection! Hooray for rejection! My coworkers are right, and she likes me back? Sooner or later, I'll find her annoying. Or she'll find me annoying. Or we'll both find each other annoying. Or she'll change her mind. It happens! Believe me, I've seen it. Or don't, and learn it on your own, sucka. The truth is, no matter how much you think you know someone, you can never really know them. So, with the current situation being that Cute Girl Downstairs and My Relationship is as follows:

1. I see Cute Girl Downstairs
2. Cute Girl Downstairs sees me and smiles
3. My core temperature rises, and my stomach does a little roller coaster hill-crest thingy
4. I proceed with my day

This is a manageable work flow. This, however, is not:

1. My phone rings, Cute Girl Downstairs wants to know what I want to have for dinner
2. I want lamb, because it's delicious
3. She won't eat lambs because they're cute
4. I explain that's the exact reason you eat lambs
5. She calls me a Nazi, and reports me to HR
6. I end up sleeping in a van, down by the river.

She just might not like lamb. You never know. And at my advanced age, I'm not risking that shit. It's a no-brainer.

But Fuck All That, Let's Go To Colorado

By "Let's" I mean "I'm going to". You aren't invited. Don't take it personally, it's not you; it's me. I need some space. I need to get out there, kick the tires, take a poop in the woods, as it were. Literally. Actually, I'm only going for 2 days of woods and mountains, so I can probably hold it for two days. Well, I think I can. The altitude helps with that, though I'm not quite sure why. I would have assumed less atmospheric pressure outside the ass cavity would result in less resistance to the equalization process, but, dudes, I seriously have a hard time pooping at altitude, outdoors. Or indoors. The outdoors thing might be just some ol' OCD-awesomeness. Hard to say.

That's all the details I am at liberty to provide about that trip.

Oh, except that, in doing preliminary research for staging area lodging and entertainment, I was sad to see that Tiki Boyd's is no longer. There goes my chance to hobnob with royalty, and hit Mr. Rice up for permission to reform the Abraxas Foundation. Fucking hell.

SEE WHAT PROGRESS GETS YOU, PROGRESSIVES? NOT COOL, DUDES. NOT COOL. DID I COME OVER TO YOUR HOUSE AND PEE ON YOUR CHILDHOOD TEDDY BEAR? NO, I DID NOT. AND DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY? BECAUSE I'M COOL ABOUT THAT SHIT. I MEAN, THAT'S NOT THE SORT OF THING I LIKE TO DO. Speaking of which, time to make either a sandwich, or spaghetti. Who am I kidding? It's 9:30pm, that's sandwich time, as I don't have the desire to do any more work today. Also, I need to call sherpasovernight.com, as the tracking number (if you want to call it that; I had to install this weird-ass font to get it to display properly) is showing no Sherpas on their way to me, and that's just fucked up. Man, I ordered those things like 10 days ago. Give or take a day for customs?

Every Day, My Life Becomes More Like A Sitcom

Where all the characters are pretty funny, but, ultimately, I don't give a shit about any of them. Except the protagonist. I should probably either up my dosage, or dump the shit, entirely. Definitely one, or the other. Which one do you think it is, Carl?

My Back Hurts!

Fortunately, it's not a serious problem, just the result of busting my ass at work. For months now. Consecutively. Today, in fact, I, myself, installed 120 Dunkin' Donuts servers. 50 lbs isn't a lot to pick up, once, but try doing that 120 times in 9 hours. 5 days a week. 14 weeks in a row. On the plus side, my back looks buff. But, dudes, my back? Why the fuck do I need a buff back? I need softer hands, is what I need.

But I'll say this; there is a very nice feeling from physical work, where, at the end of a big project, you can look at it and say, "I built that thing, motherfuckers! I BUILT IT!" "cat ~/projects/whatever.lib" lacks that visceral impact. And the whole thing feels, well, manly.

Jerry Falwell's Death Made Me Think

Not anything about Jerry Falwell, as I don't give a shit about him one way or the other, but about how I would be remembered if I died. Ignoring the obvious fact, of course, that I wouldn't be remembered, for the sake of argument, it would probably be easy enough to make a credible case that, in general, I was an asshole. I've no problems with that. However, I'm a selective asshole. I think, in a way, this has always been my goal in life, and I intend to go eat a ham and swiss sandwich to celebrate having achieved my own life goal, so easily, so often, so awesomely, and the joy of liberation upon having found out the extent of one's victory... ah, fuck it. Drink up, dudes. To awesomeness.