So yesterday after I finished typing my post in Word (like I always do), and rereading it and giggling and sighing with delight I hit “Save As” and typed in “04-25,” as in the date on which it was written, which is how I have named my posts from the start. Then I hit enter and a message popped up on the screen reading, “The file 04-25 already exists.”
Apparently, I’ve been writing this thing for an entire year now. I can assure you that when I first saved a post as “04-25” it never once entered my mind that at some point I would have to account not only for the day and month but also for the year. And plenty of times, quite recently too, I have thought, in my unmitigated love of round numbers, to quit at the one year mark. Then I obviously lost track of time.
Really, though, when I think about it, wanting to quit was more of a winter malaise than anything else. You know – the holidays are over, it’s dark at 5:00, you’re sick all the time, your girlfriend keeps having surgeries and there’s only so many times you can write about “CSI” (11).
Still I figured that I should do something at the one year mark, just to memorialize the previous year and also to get ready for the next. And what I decided to do was clean out my drafts folder. Because, actually, I don’t have a drafts folder. I have an “ideas” folder. And it’s not so much a folder as it is scribbles jotted down on the backs of envelopes and post-it notes. And, to be honest, they’re not so much “ideas” as they are sentences that, at one time, I honestly believed could be considered ideas. I can be quite retarded.
• “I was leaving the bathroom as a guy was finishing up at a urinal. I open the door to leave and as I’m passing through I see out of the corner of my eye the guy who was at the urinal following me. And he huffs like he’s pissed I didn’t hold the door for him. WTF? Wash your hands.”
(Um . . . hmm. Yeah. I guess that’s the end of the post.)
• “On the Being Poor Scale, where does putting out your cigarette halfway through and saving the rest for later rank?”
(The “Being Poor Scale?” Really? I also remember thinking, “The highest ranking can be ‘dying in a box.’” Blogroll me, seriously!)
• It’s like the feeling you get when you walk into a men’s room and see that there’s someone in a stall. You know he’s cursing you and you can play this one of two ways – you can hurry through, knowing this guy is in a cold sweat clenching back a shit, or you can say “I rush for no one,” and take your time, essentially making yourself this guy’s number one enemy.
(The longest, most inapplicable metaphor in history. My grade school English teacher always said to write like you would talk in a conversation. Can’t you picture me saying to someone, “I don’t know, I was just so put off by the whole thing. You know it was like the feeling you get when you walk into a men’s room . . .”)
• “My apartment: where Tupperware come to die.”
(Even more interesting: how, at the time, I planned on making this interesting.)
• “It’s as good a strategy as catching bullets to throw back at your enemy.”
(Which isn’t a good strategy?)
• “You don’t like the co-worker who keeps ketchup packets in their desk until the day comes where you get French fries with lunch and forget to ask for ketchup.”
(I think I was planning an entire post about “Things you don’t like about your co-workers” and then I realized that I may as well write a post about “Things you don’t like about cancer.”)
• “Reminds me of the time my girlfriend wanted to change the locks to her apartment because she woke up one morning and realized she had left her keys in the front door. Obviously a killer had come up, removed the keys, taken them to an all night hardware store, made copies, brought her keys BACK (to avoid suspicion) and planned on returning at a later date to kill her.”
(100% true. [20% cute / 8% troublesome / 72% meaningless])
• “Tense like those moments right when you know that you’ve just clogged the toilet.”
(I don’t know how a toilet metaphor snuck in here . . .)
• “My pet peeve – naturally ugly people.”
(FYI, this was jotted down on the back of an envelope I never opened. Looked at it today and turns out it’s the return envelope for the $25 donation I promised my alma mater over the phone a couple of months ago. Ladies – please stop calling. I’m in a relationship. Please.)
• This picture
Possible caption: “I'm an asshole.”
• “Overrated: Listening to music in the shower.”
(Also overrated: my “ideas.")
• “It’s like when I got the flu the day after eating an Italian hero from a deli near my work. Of course it wasn’t the hero that gave me the flu, but I haven’t been able to eat there ever since.”
(Actually, the deli in question closed down about a month later, so it probably was the hero that gave me the flu.)
• “You shouldn’t have to wash potatoes if you’re just going to peel them.”
• “I have much more trouble with button fly pants than a 26 year old guy should.”
(Really, seriously. Blogroll me.)
• “I’m scared to think of what might happen to me with a few good nights of sleep. It could go either way: either I become astoundingly productive and this blog takes on the quality of The New Yorker (if The New Yorker were funny and wrote about poop and if I actually had “sources” and “informed opinions”); or, I no longer grapple with bouts of mania and self-engrandizement and I drop this thing altogether for more noble pursuits, like running a charity . . . or making a donation to a charity.”
(Still haven’t had a decent night of sleep; although it’s safe to assume that the writing quality here isn’t changing anytime soon. Unless I stop drinking. So like I said, no time soon.)