I’ve always thought that a really cool job would be to be the person who gets your photos developed. You know, the guy who sits there and takes the photos out of the machine and puts them into the package. Sure, it’s mindless, but I think I could get really into it: just sit there with my headphones on, rocking out, and checking out people’s private moments.

Because of this, whenever I want to get a roll of film developed but still have a few pics remaining, I try to take weird pictures for the photo person. For example, a few rolls ago, my last two pictures were shots of my nose. That wasn’t too fun though, because I got those pics developed at CVS, and the person I picked them up from wasn’t the person who I dropped them off to (and presumably the person who developed them). I’ve also been known to take in-your-face shots of me angrily giving the camera the finger.

I had four pictures to burn this morning, so I took some very up-close shots of my feet and toes. Naturally, I think this is hysterical, because I am a simpleton, and something like taking pictures of my feet to play a prank on the photo shop people will keep me laughing for about two weeks.

To this end, I took the film this morning to the little mom-and-pop photo shop which is manned by two Mexican girls to be developed. I went to pick the pictures up about thirty minutes ago, and I could barely contain myself on the walk over to the store. As soon as I walked in the store, I could feel the tension in the 8′ x 8′ shop. They were trying so hard to conceal their disgust and curiosity but weren’t doing a good job. Of course, I’m on the other side of the counter, giving myself an embolism because I’m trying so fucking hard to not explode in laughter.

So now I’m back at my office with eight pictures of my feet, shaking with delight as I write this. Though they are part of my own body, I have to admit that they are very, very disturbing. And no – please don’t email me asking for copies. That’s just gross.

What a great Friday.

[Going up to Boston this weekend to come one giant step closer to fulfilling my destiny: killing myself with alcohol and dairy products. I'll be back on Tuesday. Enjoy your weekend.]

A good friend of mine from school recently slept with a married guy. This is fairly shocking in itself, but even more so because this girl is a saint – rarely hooks up, never does wild and crazy things – the perfect girl to bring home to mom – until this. Well, she could still be the perfect girl to bring home to mom, if your mom likes girls who bang married guys. My mom doesn’t really.

And we have been giving it to her over this, because she’s felt really guilty about it. Last night, we were out having a drink and breaking her stones pretty darn hard. My friends and I decided then that it would be wise for us to all go out and get wedding rings to wear to bars, because what we’re doing now just ain’t working. I mean, it can’t hurt, right? I asked her (the mistress) about this last night, and said, “Now, I don’t have a wedding ring, but I do have a class ring. If I put that on do you think I can get maybe a handjob?” She wasn’t very amused.

I just hope that when I’m married, girls will still want to sleep with me.

Wait – take out the word “still” from that sentence. Sorry.