Solitary

The hard economic truths of my life (No Dolla$, No Cent$) have made it necessary that I continuously live with a roommate, and I’ve gotten lucky because Megan is a special kind of roommate that cooks for me, allows me to coerce her into afternoon drinking and puts up with my…peculiarities. We’re approaching our five year anniversary, which makes Megan shit her pants, so I’m probably going to send a singing telegram or a stripper in a giant cake to her office to mark the occasion because I’m not afraid of publicly declaring how much I love paying for only half of everything.

Just another Saturday morning at our place.

These are your options: live with your parents, your significant other, a roommate or no one at all. The last option is frightening indeed, because it means those peculiarities I mentioned above have nothing and no one to keep them in check. Without a human reminder of how weird you actually are, these tics annex the rest of your life. I know this, because Megan has been out of town for five days. Continue reading

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Something In The Way She Moves

It happened – I gave my boss my notice. And as guilt-inducing as that was (see here for another example of how bad I am at telling people I Quit), I survived crying in a bathroom stall and emerged on the other side, a human being about to be unemployed and on the road, sans health insurance and care. Once again I’m filled with the complete Don’t Give A Fuckitude of purest freedom. Word has got around the office.

Me everyday at work, until February 27th

The inevitable reaction by every coworker of mine to the announcement that I’m moving to Austin next month is as follows:

Response One: “Wow! So do you have a job lined up?”

Answer: Nope! Pre-move job searches are for pussies, sir.

Here we have encountered a problematic mid-American assumption. Everyone in this neck of the woods worships at the altar of Stability. Stability is not a virtue, it’s a condition and a contagion. It’s the state of having your balls removed. Symptoms include total paralysis..

Read this book and tell me you aren’t terrified of suburban malaise too

I know how much work change is, how it requires constantly deluding yourself about grass being greener and adopting an optimism you don’t normally possess. Why do I need a job before I go to that place I want to go to? I don’t! Will a gap in my resume render me unemployable, dooming me to a life of cheap prostitution and eventual death by sex crime? Sure won’t! Will moving to Austin put me closer to the music, beer, art and people I want to surround myself with? It will! Will that content me? I’m willing to roll the dice. The lure of Stability is strong, and I can’t lie and say that I never worry about careers or retirement plans or owning a pair of jeans that cost more than $20. Choosing not to do something that might, MIGHT make you happy because you don’t want to try? That’s some bullshit laziness, that is.

Response Two: Coworker looks wistfully to the sky and sighs, “Ah, well you can do that. You’re young!”

Why so many wists? For what are you wisting? You’re 35, Tim! You aren’t old, and I’m not young, and you’re not a tree, move where you want to, son! Take advantage of those god-given appendages and follow the warm gulf stream winds of your desire that whisper, “…southbysouthwest…..southbysouthwest….” in time with your heartbeat.

This whole Do Things While Your Young initiative is ridiculous, and also goes back to the stability issue. It implies that you’re making a mistake you’ll need years to financially and professionally recover from. It forgives you your ignorance, while ringing with longing. The speaker of this sentiment once came upon the same roads diverging in a yellow wood that I’m pondering now, and they, sorry they could not travel both, settled for the one that was not Interstate 35, South. No shame in that, though this route just happens to lead to beardy men, food trucks, patio day drinking and rocknroll music. Or, heaven.

Is this the last stop the Erin train will ever make? Unlikely. But it’s a new one, and that’s all I’m looking for. Quit your jobs and join me. Margaritas for everyone.

Please Don’t Go

Psst. Hey. You. Yeah, you Megan.

Oh, hey Blog. What’s up?

“What’s up”? Seriously? You ignore me for three weeks and then you’re all “What’s up?” like nothing is wrong?

Well I..

You what? You’re too busy?

Yes. I am very incredibly busy! I have A LOT going on right now, Blog. I’m sorry. It’s crazy busy at work (January and BOOM! Everybody wants to get healthy!). Not to mention we have this new doc that’s come on and nobody knows what they’re doing. AND we’re hiring someone to take my place so I can MOVE to Austin. I’ve been working like…10 hour days, Blog. And weekends!

Sure, sure. But really? I mean, 10 hours a day – that still leaves like 14 hours to show me some love?

I know. I know that things have been weird with us lately. I’m just so tired and my days are so boring, I have nothing to really talk about, you know? I wake up, go to work, my patients suck, I have ‘senioritis’, I’m hungry and sleepy all day, then I go home and stare at the tv for an hour. End day. My life is really dull, you don’t want to hear about that. It’s boring.

Pie

How do you know? Maybe I do.

Come on, Blog. I promise things will be better when I’m less stressed. Less tired.

But you’re not too tired to spend time browsing Pinterest and watching Seinfeld reruns are you?!

Oh, uh. Well, I mean it just helps me wind down at night, Blog. They don’t MEAN anything to me.

I SAW YOU WITH A GLAMOUR MAGAZINE THE OTHER NIGHT! AND IN THE BATHTUB NO LESS!

Shit. No one was supposed to know about that. I’m sorry, Blog. I really am. But I – I was thinking about you the whole time I swear! While I was reading that Glamour magazine, I was thinking about how “A Beauty Bucket List” is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard and how I don’t NEED Glamour’s permission to “Let it go to voicemail and then text them back”. Really, I mean, that’s fantastic writing fodder. It was all for you, Blog. Everything I do is for you.

Yeah, well it still hurts.

Hey! I’m trying over here! Somebody has to make some money to afford the lifestyle you require, Blog.

You don’t commit to anything!

I’ll commit to punching your face.

You’re flakey!

Fine, I’m flakey! I’M FLAKEY! I’m still going to punch you in the face.

You would never. Your ego depends on my popularity. You would never hurt me.

I know. I’m sorry, Blog. Please don’t go. We’re just going through a rough patch. Soon I’m going to move to Austin where I won’t have a job and we’ll have all the time in the world to discuss food and jobs and drinking and fun. I promise, Blog. I promise. Please don’t go.

Oh Lately It’s So Quiet

Have you noticed that? The post-New Year’s drought of words of wisdom from this quarter? It’s not that I’m not diligently typing away in the back rooms of this blog, it’s just that I’ve only been able to produce vitriolic attacks on everything from cotton candy unicorns to fiscal cliffs because, honestly, I’ve been extremely angry at everything for the last two weeks. So much uncontrollable rage, but why?

Oh my god it's so gross I WANT IT INSIDE OF ME

SO GROSS BUT I WANT IT INSIDE OF ME

I’m simply hungry. Really hungry, all the time. Wake up hungry, go to bed hungry, with very little respite from hunger in between. Hungry in the bread basket of America, where I’m constantly reminded of how available Jalapeno Turkey Burgers are at Carl’s Jr., or that there are donuts in the break room every goddamn day. (Shut UP, Steve, I know there are donuts here! I sense maple glaze like it’s a disturbance in the force!) This is the kind of hunger that makes me believe I know EXACTLY what it must have been like in a Soviet prison camp.

No disrespect, but I FEEL like I feel you, bros.

YES, we’ve established I’m an asshole, YES this is all my own fault so I can’t complain or tell Steve to stop telling me about the donuts during these hunger games. Readers: I knowingly and willingly committed to a 30 day cleanse. Forgive me my sins.

Sure, I COULD claim I’m doing this for the hippie-dippy benefits: Health! Oozing out toxins! If you could only flip me inside out and see how clean my internal organs are! Lies, mostly. Anyone who has ever hung out with me over a weekend knows I have only contempt for my organs and treat them like garbage. When one removes eating form their daily routine, one finds a lot of time on their hands to think about their motivations. And here’s the terrible truth: I’ve got a black, gooey, throbbing tumor of female body issues and I HATE IT. But I’m getting skinny as hell and I fucking LOVE THAT.

Whatever holes in me were previously occupied by toxins are now filled with shame. How could this have happened? How could I have worked so hard and projected such a badass exterior of not giving a shit about girly crap like ass size and STILL fall victim to just wanting to be thin?! How?! Why?! Because of course it’s only a projection and patriarchy is internalized etc etc unrealistic standards of female beauty blah blah blah. So here I am thinner, yet feeling ever so hypocritical (and yearning so strongly for a donut it’s creepy). Food lust aside, is there anything worse than having to face your own abject normalness? Me and the rest of the world, we all have the same broken parts. .

But will staring at this conundrum stop me from finishing the next two weeks of this cleanse?

Probably not.

Because, you know, all the health benefits.

Sunday Morning Existential Crisis

Oh, of course no pickles. That would make this disgusting.

Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy: Why is this a thing? Why did someone get paid to design this recipe? Why does White Castle even feel the need to provide recipes to the world? Why would anyone think it was a good idea to fist a million shitty little hamburgers up a turkey’s ass?

Why was this goddamn ad looking at me from the Sunday paper, as there are no White Castles even in this goddamn part of the country??

Why is the universe conspiring to kill everyone I know thru congestive heart failure? Why is this the world I live in? Why is humanity fat and doomed?

WhhyyyyyyyYYYYYYY???