I arrived to Davis this morning, opening the first glass door to look up and see a sign that read, "NO HEAT Mon 12/21. Cutler has been notified." This fact, combined with a crack windshield caused when my defrosters blasted on to a high temperature against the cold glass after using my automatic car starter (why the fuck do I have this thing if I can't set the temp above the blue line on a freezing cold morning), froze me in my tracks as I looked to the ceiling with expectations of further let downs. The biting wind woke me, blowing me from the mental breakdown lane I was in, and pushed me inside.
In the break room, I found a bunt cake set upon a plate from my tableware from home, but I let that annoying fact go long enough to grab a slice of extremely moist, what-I-thought-was-coffee cake. My moment of happiness was quickly ripped away and was replaced by one of the worst tastes my buds have faced in a long time. I have heard of rum cake before, but never one like this. Lighting a flame near this confectionery experiment would have set the building ablaze, yes remedying the cold factor, but probably eliminating the stable paycheck I foresee in my future. Now, I am no baker by any means, but whoever created the cake must have forgotten to wring out the dough before sticking it in the oven. It was similar to eating a piece of rum-soaked cotton ball, which I never wanted to do in the first place.
Jennie tried a piece even after I warned her. She, too, was not impressed.
About 10 minutes later Paul is heard yelling, demanding to find out who cooked the cake. His voice grew louder as he came down our way when I hear him ask Barbie, "Did you make the cake in the kitchen." Her answer was quiet, but obviously yet because he followed with, "I should have known it was you. Stephen Albano is drunk!"
And that is when I realized that my day could be worse and laughed out loud, literally.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Dead Birds
After my co-worker was shat upon by a bird, he must have carried on with his day with no other thoughts in mind. Days later (maybe weeks), he dressed himself with the same shirt without washing it. Dried cuh-cah was on his shoulder and I noticed it in the lunch room. Discussing poo was entertaining enough and then another co-worker walked in. He did not take part in the conversation taking place, but listened for a bit and intruded wit the most welcomed story ever imagined.
"They say shit is luck. I wasn't that lucky. Walking on the streets of Chicago a few years ago, I was hit hard by an object falling from the sky. Not certain what the object was, yet sure of the pain, I looked around the ground to find a dead pigeon next to me."
For those slow on the uptake, the man was hit with a dead fucking bird. This co-worker was many a thing, and a liar was one of them, but I believe this story to be true. His experience was honest.
But what about the bird? I wonder how it happened. We will never know but can hope that he/she caught the first worm of the day and spent life's last hours chewing and regurgitating said worm for its young who then flew the coop.
If we can't hope, what can we do?
"They say shit is luck. I wasn't that lucky. Walking on the streets of Chicago a few years ago, I was hit hard by an object falling from the sky. Not certain what the object was, yet sure of the pain, I looked around the ground to find a dead pigeon next to me."
For those slow on the uptake, the man was hit with a dead fucking bird. This co-worker was many a thing, and a liar was one of them, but I believe this story to be true. His experience was honest.
But what about the bird? I wonder how it happened. We will never know but can hope that he/she caught the first worm of the day and spent life's last hours chewing and regurgitating said worm for its young who then flew the coop.
If we can't hope, what can we do?
Friday, October 16, 2009
Senses
I saw a blind man and it made me wonder. Are deaf people allowed to have service dogs travel with them? The site re-raised the, "would I rather be blind or deaf," question and I realized that being blind with my bitch by my side 24/7 wouldn't be so bad. I love dogs and a trained companion is loyal and undying. So, if given the option to become either blind or deaf, as long as I have a dog, it doesn't really matter.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Light Reading
I learned of a competition that Writer's Digest has each month. A prompt is provided and authors write an essay. This month's prompt reads, "A man walks into a bar. But it isn't a bar."
A man walks into a bar. But it isn't a bar. Not anymore. Long gone is the cacophony heard each day from men stopping in from nearby job sites for a few pints on thier way home. A real Man's bar where credit cards do not apply; only unpaid tabs and broken promises to the women left tending to unwanted weeds that survive the years of neglect, growing harder each day. Where the nicotene and smoke lingering in the stagnant air goes unnoticed. Years of the habit prefabricate this crowd immune to the stale scent wafting from cracked walls and yellowing clothing. The chemicals inhaled are the embalming fluid preserving hard pieces of black flesh once pink and soft. This air is for the sick, but the sick, providing a quick fix for those too broke to afford a cigarette of thier own. One deep inhale of this smog corrodes life's highways. Gray skin and wads of mucus highlighted with streaks of blood are proof that it is working.
The patrons lined up inside a bar like this are half-witted and mindless, unable to acknowledge that death is rapidly approaching; preying specifically on those who have full-willingly practiced years of self-abuse while ruining the lives of surrounding loved ones. "Self-medication," they call it. Numbing the inner demons and building walls to keep clear memories of past tortures from surfacing is a practice common with schizophrenics. "What mood will Daddy be in tonight," young children of the neighborhood question while fighting off both hunger pains and biting chills. "Have I grown to become him," ponders the mind of the men you find inside.
Not wanting to answer, another shot is knocked back to pass the days away. The person he is, is not the person he expected to be. How to transform? Pass out on the front stoop next to bags of ripe putrid trash (that wasn't picked up because he was to hung over to deliver them to the curb on time) after wife number two locked him out for throwing a bottle at little Ryan. When the back of his eyelids create the screen for the evening's movie, the dreamy role he stars in is much better that his own real-life tragedy. This unconsicous state becomes desired reality. Why wouldn't one return? Night, after night, after night, after.....
Night has fallen and inside this shell of a tavern, roaches scurry underfoot; gluttons for rot. Broken glass strewn across the dirty ground slices through sole-less shoes. Not one drop of moisture to be found. "What I would give for just one drink," he ponders to himself. He turns and notices the door walked through only moments ago was replaced with cement. Thorny branches punch through each window and the stars and the moon dissolve into midnight's sky. The bottles that remained whole explode and the stench of decay permeates, gaining pungency as the time ticks by. The sharp odor, a waft of moldy cheese and curdled milk makes him gag. Eyes burning he blindly stumbles, using the crumbling walls as a guide desperately searching for a way out. Unfortunately for our friend, this is just the beginning of his never-ending demise.
A man walks into a bar. But it isn't a bar. Not anymore. Long gone is the cacophony heard each day from men stopping in from nearby job sites for a few pints on thier way home. A real Man's bar where credit cards do not apply; only unpaid tabs and broken promises to the women left tending to unwanted weeds that survive the years of neglect, growing harder each day. Where the nicotene and smoke lingering in the stagnant air goes unnoticed. Years of the habit prefabricate this crowd immune to the stale scent wafting from cracked walls and yellowing clothing. The chemicals inhaled are the embalming fluid preserving hard pieces of black flesh once pink and soft. This air is for the sick, but the sick, providing a quick fix for those too broke to afford a cigarette of thier own. One deep inhale of this smog corrodes life's highways. Gray skin and wads of mucus highlighted with streaks of blood are proof that it is working.
The patrons lined up inside a bar like this are half-witted and mindless, unable to acknowledge that death is rapidly approaching; preying specifically on those who have full-willingly practiced years of self-abuse while ruining the lives of surrounding loved ones. "Self-medication," they call it. Numbing the inner demons and building walls to keep clear memories of past tortures from surfacing is a practice common with schizophrenics. "What mood will Daddy be in tonight," young children of the neighborhood question while fighting off both hunger pains and biting chills. "Have I grown to become him," ponders the mind of the men you find inside.
Not wanting to answer, another shot is knocked back to pass the days away. The person he is, is not the person he expected to be. How to transform? Pass out on the front stoop next to bags of ripe putrid trash (that wasn't picked up because he was to hung over to deliver them to the curb on time) after wife number two locked him out for throwing a bottle at little Ryan. When the back of his eyelids create the screen for the evening's movie, the dreamy role he stars in is much better that his own real-life tragedy. This unconsicous state becomes desired reality. Why wouldn't one return? Night, after night, after night, after.....
Night has fallen and inside this shell of a tavern, roaches scurry underfoot; gluttons for rot. Broken glass strewn across the dirty ground slices through sole-less shoes. Not one drop of moisture to be found. "What I would give for just one drink," he ponders to himself. He turns and notices the door walked through only moments ago was replaced with cement. Thorny branches punch through each window and the stars and the moon dissolve into midnight's sky. The bottles that remained whole explode and the stench of decay permeates, gaining pungency as the time ticks by. The sharp odor, a waft of moldy cheese and curdled milk makes him gag. Eyes burning he blindly stumbles, using the crumbling walls as a guide desperately searching for a way out. Unfortunately for our friend, this is just the beginning of his never-ending demise.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Worcester St. Patrick's Day Parade
Is like all other parades. It is geared toward humans that stand over the average height of 5'5". I, unfortunately, stand a little over 5 feet and do not enjoy staring at the backs of those standing in front of me. Being 30 makes it difficult to push children either out of the way or down without feeling guilty. So with that being said, for the hundredth time, the answer is no. I will not be going to the parade this Sunday, and will be find sipping on a pint at Galway Bay. All of you other Leprechauns should join me.
Friday, February 27, 2009
The Lack of Common Sense in Our Youth Disturbs Me
Reading the Worcester Telegram this afternoon, I learned of an 18-year-old female in serious condition caused by severe burns. How did this happen, you ask? Well, apparently, our young lady friend suffered from lice. Instead of traveling to her nearest corner store for medicated shampoo, she decided to self-medicate and soak her head in gasoline. The pilot light for the water heater was trigger and set her hair ablaze. The person that lead this girl into believing that gasoline was a safe solution should be burned too. Idiots.
Next disturbing story starred not a young man, but equally as stupid. The 31-year-old felt as though his wife was favoring her 3-month-old kitten over him so he threw kitty down a flight of stairs, killing the animal instantly. He will serve 90 days in jail and two years of probation. I hope inmates read newspapers and spot this guy upon arrival and pound him. What a tool.
Next disturbing story starred not a young man, but equally as stupid. The 31-year-old felt as though his wife was favoring her 3-month-old kitten over him so he threw kitty down a flight of stairs, killing the animal instantly. He will serve 90 days in jail and two years of probation. I hope inmates read newspapers and spot this guy upon arrival and pound him. What a tool.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Valentine's Day greetings
As miserable as I feel due to the Presidential holiday that transforms me from a kind and patient person into a miserable human being that points out others stupidity, Valentine's Day interrupts the hell week providing me with trinkets and candies. Presidents' Day is THE biggest sales event for all automotive dealers and people (car boys) are not nice when placed under stress. I am not a big fan of the holiday, believing that our money is better spent, but after dealing with automotive clients all week, I am cupid's biggest fan.
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