Thursday, November 17, 2005

Three Events United Only By My Fat Ass

I just finished eating an entire 16" pepperoni and mushroom pizza; shortly thereafter I topped it off my midnight hour meal with a quart of egg nog. The stomach has begun it's final countdown sequence, total and utter destruction is imminent. Of course, I can at least find consolation in the knowledge that my valve will never truly be closed again, instead it will be irrevocably blown out by the building methane pressure.

Yesterday, I received an email solicitation from an online brokerage house. The message was sent to my gmail account, which is generally pretty good about filtering out spam and greetings of a definite solicitous nature. However, I am glad the message made it through, not because I am interested in a loan--or even remotely qualified to receive one, what really caught me eye was to whom the message was sent: my ex-girlfriend.

My gmail account is a little over a year old, I last dated a girl nearly three years ago; this begs the question, why in the fuck would I receive a message addressed to my ex. She doesn't know about the email address, it isn't publicly listed as far as I can tell; furthermore, she isn't one to sign up for spam and send it my way--that is actually something I am more apt to (actively) do. The only reasonable deduction is that I signed up for a service from the brokerage using my ex-girlfriend's name. I don't recall doing this, though it isn't totally out the question. I still think of her and find myself fondly remembering our relationship, especially the parts involving nudity and spanking. Perhaps I just wanted a message from her, so I decided to have messages sent for her, which is sort of the same thing...I guess. What I am really trying to say is that I am potentially a really pathetic fuck, thank God for selective memory.

Another important event of note: I attempted to paint the interior of my father's soon-to-be-finished house. I was on my feet for approximately five hours, this time was spent painting the corners in several rooms and sticking my head--in particular my hair--in still fresh paint at every turn. Dad felt it necessary to reapply every single stroke, usually such behavior results in a terse exchange prompted on my part involving colorful language, oaths of vengeance and promises to move far way. Today I just let it slide, my feet fat feet hurt too much. You know it says something when the soles of your feet become fat. One would think such a self-realization would result in a desire to change, I chose to say the course and eat large pizza by my lonesome.

Go to Hell