secretary, meeting, diet, b-day makeout, donate thanks, mail, serious, music
13 July 2006
There is a secretary at my work who, when I run into her in the halls, looks at me with such fear and disdain that I can only assume that she reads this site. That, or I look like the man who murdered her toddler in 1998. And I smell like him. And I have the same DNA as he does. Semantics.
Anyway, Ms. Secretary, if you’re reading this, you don’t need to be so afraid/disgusted. Just say hi to me. I’m actually shy in real life (lie), so I’ll probably just smile, shrug it off, and then whisper in a low, raspy voice, "Billlllyyyy…" before licking my lips.
Looking forward to meeting you!
*****************
Yesterday at work, I had a morning meeting. I actually prefer morning meetings, because I’m usually a zombie after noon. But this particular meeting is outside my area of specialization (translation: I don’t know anything about it, nor do I know why I was invited).
About five minutes into the meeting, which was with five other people, it became apparent that I was not going to contribute anything. So I made a vow to myself: I would not say anything at all during the entire meeting.
But really – that’s not a that big of deal, so I upped the ante a little bit: Not only would I not say anything during the whole meeting, but I would not even grunt, nod, or write anything down. That would be much more difficult.
But, forty minutes later, I had succeeded. I sat in that meeting like a goddamn deaf mute, giving no sign that I at all recognized what was happening around me. People were just talking away, engaging each other, even arguing a little bit, and I just sat there, staring. It was incredible. As soon as I got back to my office, I closed my door and giggled like a schoolgirl and then made like fifteen personal phone calls.
…
I just read this over and realized it’s not funny at all. Let’s just chalk this up to "You had to be there" and move on.
*****************
The diet is going reasonably well. So far, I’ve lost 10 pounds in 18 days (remember, the goal was 20 in 60 days). Though I moved down a notch on my belt, I still can’t tell the fucking difference when I look at myself naked in the mirror, in a crouching position, holding a wrench in my hand. However, I’m a numbers guy, so as long as the number on the scale keeps getting smaller, that will keep me motivated.
So far, it’s been a weird diet, because interspersed among the days in which I eat 900 calories and burn off 500-600 at the gym, there have been days when I’m in Philly/down the shore consuming 3000+ and burning off zero (in the past 18 days, I’ve spent 11 in NYC and 7 in Philly/the shore).
Last night was a major setback as well. When I woke up yesterday morning, I couldn’t recall a time when I felt more tired, and that feeling stayed with me all day. Then during the course of the day, I got some good news and some bad news. So after work, I decided to blow off the gym and eat an actual meal, because a) I was tired; b) to celebrate the good news; and c) to lament the bad news. The result: one chicken burrito from Cafe el Portal and a whole pint of Haagen Dazs Cookies ‘n’ Cream later, I actually gained a half-pound. Fuck.
But fear not: this is not the end and last night was only a minor transgression. I feel great today, since after eating that giant meal I took a Xanax and slept from 10:30pm until 8am – more sleep than I’ve had in weeks. I’m going to try to eat under 700 calories today (corn flakes with milk is 200, Slim Fast shake is 180, frozen dinner is 290 = 670) and burn off 700 at the gym. Therefore, I might die tonight. If this is my last post, remember me as a hero and a soldier of love. And I’m so sorry we never got to do it. So, so sorry.
(And yes, I’ve realized I’ve completely lost my mind about this. But I’m sorry, I have to start dating a hot girl. Also, isn’t it better to go crazy about something like this than, say, murder? Wouldn’t you rather I count calories than fingers I’ve collected? Actually, don’t answer that.)
*****************
Since my birthday is on Monday, this weekend will be the unofficial celebration of my birthday. Of course, for some reason, I am having a severe, almost allergic reaction to turning 27, so I hope to stay in both nights and drink alone. A good way to start the year.
This means that my streak of making out on my birthday will more than likely come to an end. Every year since 1998, I have either made out or, in better years, actually fornicated on my birthday or on the celebratory weekend/night of my birthday. Of course, the past few make-outs in recent years have been cheap, forgettable, and mostly out of pity. (Last year was not a high point: "C’mon! Let’s just make out! I’m one of People’s 50 Hottest Bachelors and it’s my birthday! I’ve bought you like five fucking drinks! C’MON!" Sad.)
But still, a streak is a streak, but I just don’t know if I have it in me this year. I suppose I’m willing to accept the end of my birthday make-out streak, but I only hope that an alternative streak doesn’t begin this year: NOT making out on my birthday. Remember: it’s not how many times you go down, but how many times you get up. So if I don’t make out this weekend or Monday, I’ll live. But I swear to God, I will pay for it on my 28th if I have to. Because I ain’t goin’ out like that.
*****************
Speaking of love, thank you to the five of you who have donated for my birthday. Of course, I will send a personal thank you, but I don’t remember the password to the email address to which my Paypal account is connected. Long story short, I cleared my cache or cookies or whatever and don’t remember the password that was saved for that gmail address. I had to do this because all of my passwords were the same, including the password that Site Guy Brendan and I use for this site. A little while back, we had a falling out, and I thought it best to change all of my passwords so that Brendan wasn’t firing off emails from my accounts to ex-girlfriends and old professors, telling them that I’ve hit some hard times and am on the lam somewhere "in the Dakotas." I picked random passwords and saved them onto my computer. However, I decided it was time to clear the cache because I’m pretty sure that two nights ago I stumbled onto a kiddie porn site (accidentally, of course). And I don’t know that email’s password, so no email.
Anyway, I’ll figure this out later today, send the email thanks, and will show up at your place sometime next week with a bottle of wine and some of my favorite Sting cds. We’ll make a night of it. (The good news is that three of the five donors are from Texas, so I can kill three birds with one stone! Go Lone Star state!).
The rest of you, it’s totally cool if you wait until Monday to donate. But after that, we’re not speaking to each other. We can still be in love, but just not the talking kind of love. Sound good?
*****************
Speaking of not getting mail, I have now not received any mail for over 4.5 months. During this time, my mailbox has been broken and my landlord has refused to fix it. I was just about ready to give up on this, but then I realize that because of my landlord’s failure to achieve even in the modest task before him I’m not going to get any birthday cards this year. FUCK. THAT.
The point is, I’m going to need your help soon. I’m planning on starting some kind of demonstration or smear campaign against the restaurant that my landlord owns if the mailbox is not fixed. So get your picket signs and bags of shit ready. We’re about to go to war against some overpriced, bad Italian food. I hope you’re up to the challenge. Look for more information soon, and start doing some push-ups.
*****************
A quick, but serious note: some pretty heavy shit is going on in the world right now. Israel is seriously pissed at just about everyone around it, Japan is threatening a preemptive strike on North Korea (whose leader is the worst kind of ladyboy: a nuclear lunatic ladyboy), and the Indians, well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Indians, it’s that they don’t fuck around. Sure, they may seem unthreatening and smiley behind the counter of your local gas station mart, but once they find out who’s responsible for those train bombings, it ain’t gonna be pretty. So pray if you got ‘em.
(Oh, and people are still dying by the busload in Iraq, Afghanistan, and about 94% of Africa. So there’s that too. Not a great time for Earth.)
(Oh, and as of this writing the two most popular stories on CNN.com are "Former ‘Idol’ contestant indicted on child porn charges" and "’House’ star gets huge raise." God bless America.)
*****************
Six Songs
"All That I Want" The Weepies
I am completely and utterly obsessed with this song, just like I was with their song "Gotta Have You" a few months ago. It’s even a little Christmasy, but not so Christmasy that you can’t listen to it all year around. Excellent, excellent, excellent.
The following two songs come from the "Dirty Hipster Stripper" mix:
"Why Can’t You Be Nicer To Me" White Stripes
In my 26 (almost 27) years, I have learned one thing: niceness is all I want from a woman (well, niceness and boobies). Just be nice to me and we’ll get along fine. I’m not talking about sending me emails about how no one has ever done you like I have (because I already know that’s true, but in a bad way), or hourly text messages telling me you miss me (I don’t want to pay for those), or phone calls that list all the nasty things you’re going to do to me the next time you see me (because, well no, that one is ok). But I need some niceness every once in a while. I’m an artist and possibly a manic depressive. I’m fragile and insecure. I thrive on positive feedback. Without it, I will go insane. So be nice to me. Even if you don’t mean it. I am great at pretending and being duped, but bad at waiting for niceness (let’s add "not necessarily impatient but only so patient" to "fragile" and "insecure").
Sexy song, though.
(Also, in addition to niceness, if you could wear something a little slutty but also still classy, that’d be awesome.)
"Party the Baby Off" Icarus Line
If you are not standing up, filled with adrenaline, trying to rip your genitals off when this song hits the 1:20 minute mark and the singer says, "Tonight, take off all your clothes," and the guitars start crunching away, well, you should see a doctor. Because something is wrong with you, friend. Probably cancer. But check with the doctor to be sure.
The following two songs come from the "Balls Out Workout (But Less So)" mix:
"Love You Madly" Cake
I fucking love Cake. I’ve written before about how I think people think liking Cake is not cool, but I don’t care. Just listen to the song.
"Cherry Cola" Eagles of Death Metal
What a fun fucking band. Yeah, I know that they’re kind of a joke, but anything band that sings, "I can razzamatazz you honey if you want me to/I can be your daddy, be your rock and roller/You can be my sugar, be my cherry cola" is more than ok in my book.
"Hello Old Friend" Eric Clapton
This is cheesy Eric Clapton song whose chorus goes: "Hello old friend/Really good to see you once again." I don’t like the song, but it’s noteworthy here because I sing this line to myself every time do something I haven’t done in a while, usually something related to vice. For example, if I don’t drink during the week, I’ll sing this line to my first weekend beer. But last night, I actually sang it to my penis after I hadn’t masturbated in, like, two whole days. The image of me sitting at my desk after eating a burrito and a pint of ice cream, wearing only boxers, and singing to my penis before I nearly took its life because of such a vicious beating, well, that should give you sweet dreams for the rest of the summer.
[Have a good weekend]
Anyway, Ms. Secretary, if you’re reading this, you don’t need to be so afraid/disgusted. Just say hi to me. I’m actually shy in real life (lie), so I’ll probably just smile, shrug it off, and then whisper in a low, raspy voice, "Billlllyyyy…" before licking my lips.
Looking forward to meeting you!
*****************
Yesterday at work, I had a morning meeting. I actually prefer morning meetings, because I’m usually a zombie after noon. But this particular meeting is outside my area of specialization (translation: I don’t know anything about it, nor do I know why I was invited).
About five minutes into the meeting, which was with five other people, it became apparent that I was not going to contribute anything. So I made a vow to myself: I would not say anything at all during the entire meeting.
But really – that’s not a that big of deal, so I upped the ante a little bit: Not only would I not say anything during the whole meeting, but I would not even grunt, nod, or write anything down. That would be much more difficult.
But, forty minutes later, I had succeeded. I sat in that meeting like a goddamn deaf mute, giving no sign that I at all recognized what was happening around me. People were just talking away, engaging each other, even arguing a little bit, and I just sat there, staring. It was incredible. As soon as I got back to my office, I closed my door and giggled like a schoolgirl and then made like fifteen personal phone calls.
…
I just read this over and realized it’s not funny at all. Let’s just chalk this up to "You had to be there" and move on.
*****************
The diet is going reasonably well. So far, I’ve lost 10 pounds in 18 days (remember, the goal was 20 in 60 days). Though I moved down a notch on my belt, I still can’t tell the fucking difference when I look at myself naked in the mirror, in a crouching position, holding a wrench in my hand. However, I’m a numbers guy, so as long as the number on the scale keeps getting smaller, that will keep me motivated.
So far, it’s been a weird diet, because interspersed among the days in which I eat 900 calories and burn off 500-600 at the gym, there have been days when I’m in Philly/down the shore consuming 3000+ and burning off zero (in the past 18 days, I’ve spent 11 in NYC and 7 in Philly/the shore).
Last night was a major setback as well. When I woke up yesterday morning, I couldn’t recall a time when I felt more tired, and that feeling stayed with me all day. Then during the course of the day, I got some good news and some bad news. So after work, I decided to blow off the gym and eat an actual meal, because a) I was tired; b) to celebrate the good news; and c) to lament the bad news. The result: one chicken burrito from Cafe el Portal and a whole pint of Haagen Dazs Cookies ‘n’ Cream later, I actually gained a half-pound. Fuck.
But fear not: this is not the end and last night was only a minor transgression. I feel great today, since after eating that giant meal I took a Xanax and slept from 10:30pm until 8am – more sleep than I’ve had in weeks. I’m going to try to eat under 700 calories today (corn flakes with milk is 200, Slim Fast shake is 180, frozen dinner is 290 = 670) and burn off 700 at the gym. Therefore, I might die tonight. If this is my last post, remember me as a hero and a soldier of love. And I’m so sorry we never got to do it. So, so sorry.
(And yes, I’ve realized I’ve completely lost my mind about this. But I’m sorry, I have to start dating a hot girl. Also, isn’t it better to go crazy about something like this than, say, murder? Wouldn’t you rather I count calories than fingers I’ve collected? Actually, don’t answer that.)
*****************
Since my birthday is on Monday, this weekend will be the unofficial celebration of my birthday. Of course, for some reason, I am having a severe, almost allergic reaction to turning 27, so I hope to stay in both nights and drink alone. A good way to start the year.
This means that my streak of making out on my birthday will more than likely come to an end. Every year since 1998, I have either made out or, in better years, actually fornicated on my birthday or on the celebratory weekend/night of my birthday. Of course, the past few make-outs in recent years have been cheap, forgettable, and mostly out of pity. (Last year was not a high point: "C’mon! Let’s just make out! I’m one of People’s 50 Hottest Bachelors and it’s my birthday! I’ve bought you like five fucking drinks! C’MON!" Sad.)
But still, a streak is a streak, but I just don’t know if I have it in me this year. I suppose I’m willing to accept the end of my birthday make-out streak, but I only hope that an alternative streak doesn’t begin this year: NOT making out on my birthday. Remember: it’s not how many times you go down, but how many times you get up. So if I don’t make out this weekend or Monday, I’ll live. But I swear to God, I will pay for it on my 28th if I have to. Because I ain’t goin’ out like that.
*****************
Speaking of love, thank you to the five of you who have donated for my birthday. Of course, I will send a personal thank you, but I don’t remember the password to the email address to which my Paypal account is connected. Long story short, I cleared my cache or cookies or whatever and don’t remember the password that was saved for that gmail address. I had to do this because all of my passwords were the same, including the password that Site Guy Brendan and I use for this site. A little while back, we had a falling out, and I thought it best to change all of my passwords so that Brendan wasn’t firing off emails from my accounts to ex-girlfriends and old professors, telling them that I’ve hit some hard times and am on the lam somewhere "in the Dakotas." I picked random passwords and saved them onto my computer. However, I decided it was time to clear the cache because I’m pretty sure that two nights ago I stumbled onto a kiddie porn site (accidentally, of course). And I don’t know that email’s password, so no email.
Anyway, I’ll figure this out later today, send the email thanks, and will show up at your place sometime next week with a bottle of wine and some of my favorite Sting cds. We’ll make a night of it. (The good news is that three of the five donors are from Texas, so I can kill three birds with one stone! Go Lone Star state!).
The rest of you, it’s totally cool if you wait until Monday to donate. But after that, we’re not speaking to each other. We can still be in love, but just not the talking kind of love. Sound good?
*****************
Speaking of not getting mail, I have now not received any mail for over 4.5 months. During this time, my mailbox has been broken and my landlord has refused to fix it. I was just about ready to give up on this, but then I realize that because of my landlord’s failure to achieve even in the modest task before him I’m not going to get any birthday cards this year. FUCK. THAT.
The point is, I’m going to need your help soon. I’m planning on starting some kind of demonstration or smear campaign against the restaurant that my landlord owns if the mailbox is not fixed. So get your picket signs and bags of shit ready. We’re about to go to war against some overpriced, bad Italian food. I hope you’re up to the challenge. Look for more information soon, and start doing some push-ups.
*****************
A quick, but serious note: some pretty heavy shit is going on in the world right now. Israel is seriously pissed at just about everyone around it, Japan is threatening a preemptive strike on North Korea (whose leader is the worst kind of ladyboy: a nuclear lunatic ladyboy), and the Indians, well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Indians, it’s that they don’t fuck around. Sure, they may seem unthreatening and smiley behind the counter of your local gas station mart, but once they find out who’s responsible for those train bombings, it ain’t gonna be pretty. So pray if you got ‘em.
(Oh, and people are still dying by the busload in Iraq, Afghanistan, and about 94% of Africa. So there’s that too. Not a great time for Earth.)
(Oh, and as of this writing the two most popular stories on CNN.com are "Former ‘Idol’ contestant indicted on child porn charges" and "’House’ star gets huge raise." God bless America.)
*****************
Six Songs
"All That I Want" The Weepies
I am completely and utterly obsessed with this song, just like I was with their song "Gotta Have You" a few months ago. It’s even a little Christmasy, but not so Christmasy that you can’t listen to it all year around. Excellent, excellent, excellent.
The following two songs come from the "Dirty Hipster Stripper" mix:
"Why Can’t You Be Nicer To Me" White Stripes
In my 26 (almost 27) years, I have learned one thing: niceness is all I want from a woman (well, niceness and boobies). Just be nice to me and we’ll get along fine. I’m not talking about sending me emails about how no one has ever done you like I have (because I already know that’s true, but in a bad way), or hourly text messages telling me you miss me (I don’t want to pay for those), or phone calls that list all the nasty things you’re going to do to me the next time you see me (because, well no, that one is ok). But I need some niceness every once in a while. I’m an artist and possibly a manic depressive. I’m fragile and insecure. I thrive on positive feedback. Without it, I will go insane. So be nice to me. Even if you don’t mean it. I am great at pretending and being duped, but bad at waiting for niceness (let’s add "not necessarily impatient but only so patient" to "fragile" and "insecure").
Sexy song, though.
(Also, in addition to niceness, if you could wear something a little slutty but also still classy, that’d be awesome.)
"Party the Baby Off" Icarus Line
If you are not standing up, filled with adrenaline, trying to rip your genitals off when this song hits the 1:20 minute mark and the singer says, "Tonight, take off all your clothes," and the guitars start crunching away, well, you should see a doctor. Because something is wrong with you, friend. Probably cancer. But check with the doctor to be sure.
The following two songs come from the "Balls Out Workout (But Less So)" mix:
"Love You Madly" Cake
I fucking love Cake. I’ve written before about how I think people think liking Cake is not cool, but I don’t care. Just listen to the song.
"Cherry Cola" Eagles of Death Metal
What a fun fucking band. Yeah, I know that they’re kind of a joke, but anything band that sings, "I can razzamatazz you honey if you want me to/I can be your daddy, be your rock and roller/You can be my sugar, be my cherry cola" is more than ok in my book.
"Hello Old Friend" Eric Clapton
This is cheesy Eric Clapton song whose chorus goes: "Hello old friend/Really good to see you once again." I don’t like the song, but it’s noteworthy here because I sing this line to myself every time do something I haven’t done in a while, usually something related to vice. For example, if I don’t drink during the week, I’ll sing this line to my first weekend beer. But last night, I actually sang it to my penis after I hadn’t masturbated in, like, two whole days. The image of me sitting at my desk after eating a burrito and a pint of ice cream, wearing only boxers, and singing to my penis before I nearly took its life because of such a vicious beating, well, that should give you sweet dreams for the rest of the summer.
[Have a good weekend]
