Some weeks and days and hours, I curse my cubicle existence. You sit in a cubicle and toil, eventually you gotta hate life a bit, dig? It’s the soul sucking scenario of the new millenium.

This week has been one of the weeks where you have to think, “Fuck this bullshit, I’m heading on the road to Baja or Idaho or fucking Saskatchewan.” Somewhere exotic where the man not only ain’t keeping you down he’s a distant fucking memory leaked out through the bottom of a bottle of Mescal. The worm left behind or swallowed.

Yeah, the man, who is actually a youngish woman, been kicking my ass big time. I been down so long, I don’t remember up.

Only one thing that sucks about this job is it never sucks quite hard enough to sell that line. Maybe I’m a cockeyed optimist. More likely I’m a whore easily swayed by payola. But, the fresh fruit alone keeps me keeping on. Pears, I’ve been subsidizing the hourly wage with pears. Red, green, yellow, Anjou, Bartlett, Bosc, Comice, I’ve suckled all their sweet nectar while filing, collating and rescheduling, phoning, faxing and emailing with wild abandon. Yeah, fruit.

Then there’s the shit that keeps it lifely. It’s all edjumacation each and every day. Ripped from the headlines and all without the “donk donk” chord and deadbody reveal of a “Law and Order” episode. Ripped from the headlines in the happy, sunny, Cali way. Look, Maw, I’m learning.

You might have heard about the Judas Gospels. In the place of my employ, they’re bringing in some authorities for a bit of a lunchtime chat, kind of a brown bag thing, only no one brown bags it in a place with catered meals. We all got a translation of the text in our in-boxes and will get our Gnostic on during the work day. How very civilized.

Unless, of course, it marks the end times and the destruction of civilization. In which case, I guess I’m wicked sorry for joining in on the questioning the word of g_d.

I’m living a hard fucking life here. Not conventionally so. Not like with actual suffering and shit.

No, the deal is I try to be a creative type. You know all clever and coming up with stories and stuff I pull out of my ass to amuse others. An artiste, right?

The hard part is two-fold really. One is my home life is pretty goddamn stable. Mostly the strife on the home front is grumbling, fleeting, no worries misunderstandings. If domestic violence equals cancer, occasionally we experience a little chafing that a good moisturizer could fix right up. How fucking dull is that? Seriously, have you ever seen any prose in which the funny, the quirky, the life’s little lesson moment, the humanity came through in a tale of cloying, treacly happiness.

Right.

The second of the two-fold fold of hard living is work. Sure, it sucks mightily every now and again. Aggravating, boring, frustrating, the usual stiltifying numbness any good cubicle gig can give you. Yeah, I got some of that. But, still and all, it beats digging graves.

Moreso, there’s the past-life thing, where weblogging got my ass in the grass realm. You know, twice bitten, once shy or some such cliche. Worse yet, even at it’s worst, I can’t really get myself into a righteous stab-fantasy froth. Couple of folks could maybe use a dope slap upside the head, or maybe a noogie. Perhaps a retraining wedgie. No one, though, longs for the sneaky shiv jammed under the old rib cage.

Maybe they do, I’ve lost sight of caring that much, I fear. Either that or the free kumquats of last week kind of wear the hate right out of me. Seriously, kumquats, just right thre for eating.

Maybe I’m just weaker now from going to the gym. The free gym, the one at work. (I’ve been aching for the last few days after trying out this little bit of torture

It really only hurts when I laugh. But then it fucking aches, whilst making me feel 110 years old.)

The only other shitty thing to complain about is I finally found something akin to a real-live, East Coast submarine sandwich, or hoagie if you swing that way. Fuck yeah, I got me a small Italian that turned out to be about as big as my head.

Seriously, one thing Cali don’t have, besides pizza, is a good greasy sandwich. If it’s faggoty and on a crisp, sourdough baguette, yeah they got that aplenty. But, crispy baguettes make crappy hard to bite into sammiches. And, sourdough? Fucking blows. It’s all famous and shit in this area, tourists line up at Boudin Bakery, and I don’t fucking know why. Among other things, the bread tastes sour.

Anyway, my Italian from a place down the street from our very own home scratched an East Coast itch. When I get to my old stomping ground next month, it’s gonna be pizza and fucking ice cream 24/7 on an expense account no less.

I haven’t felt this giddy since Renquist went into permanent, lifetime (make that anti-lifetime) retirement. Karl Rove handed some new job responsibilities and Scott McClellan looking fior the next gig. Awesome.

Sadly, Rove still walks the earth and the halls of power. That is what keeps me agnostic on the old I.D. in the sky benevolenting smiling down and ak

Shit, I have been an anti-social freak these past days. I’ve been editing my little fingers to the bone. I decided to submit a revised version of the video I made last fall about my Memorial Day shooting spree to a PBS Independent Lens Online Shorts Festival.

I consider this a firststep, a maiden voyage, liftoff to bigger and better. Got to start somewhere, right? I’ll mail it off tomorrow, and at least I can say I submitted. (What woman hasn’t says she’s submitted, am I right ladies?)

It feels like I finished something and it doesn’t suck. Maybe I’m just feeling cocky ’cause I relied heavy on the Internet Archive and Creative Commons licenses, inspiring me to realize there is cool shit on the web.

More than that there’s the weird fucked up karma of my Internet past sliding into my Internet present — In the olden bad world, fucking no one I worked with knew that folks was getting a creative freak going on the internets, so my weblog was an aberration, an abomination. In the new world of my manifest destiny, the boss man, the employer, the mothership on whom I rely for a paycheck, these folks not only know, they provide some of the cake that helps the open content movement roll on. Power to the peeps, baby, and praise the rich patrons.

Anyway, here she blows.

For Dvae, or however he spells it these days, I’ll explain slowly two things. (1) I am not a proponent of gun use. We ain’t all trigger happy in the U. S. of A. (2) More importantly, since it seems his going to be putting on his stalker shoes and coming to a continent near me, I do have some gun access. Don’t fuck with a chick who can hold a 9mm Beretta steady if she’s got to.

Man, if all weekends were like this one, I might stop bitching entirely. Probably not, but I might think about it. OK, still probably not, but life is fucking grand, as old Holden Caufield wouldn’t say.

Got both our taxes done, and we don’t owe fucking nothing. Not once cent. Fuck ya, Uncle Sam, not this year.

I got nothing for M. for our anniversary, because sadly for him, I am selfish and self-centered. (Can I get an “amen” somebody, since I is a stand-up comic.) He, on the other hand, unencumbered by the mean and miserly villainy that resides in my heart, took my car out for a complete detailing and bought some street-corner, red roses to boot. All this while I sat on my ass thoroughly absorbed by video editing.

Finally, though, I am indeed done with re-editing my video about my weekend of gun shooting. It is new and fucking improved and shall be uploaded in the next couple of days or so. Now, it is ripe for submission to a public broadcasting film fest. Yay, fucking me.

I’m not actually sure of the exact day, but M. and I both recognize we met for the first time on or about Tax Day in 2003. That’s three years by my watch. ‘Cuz my watch has years not hours.

Now, we’ve lived together about a year and a month. So far, so good. Although, this morning brought complaints of domesticity. Apparently, a year ago he had a long-haired, rock and roll existence that didn’t require dishwashing.

On my end, my complaint is that he might in fact be as insanely neurotic as me, if not worse. Yesterday, he called me late in the work day to in a soft voice tell me, “My boss asked me to stay late, he wants to talk with me. I think he is going to let me go.” I pointed out that mostly people aren’t asked to stay late to get shitcanned, but I could tell he wasn’t looking for an argument. I’m not a total asshole, so I just listened.

He called me on his drive home. Because someone else in the office left, the boss wants to give him more responsibility.

Heretofore, I thought I was the only person who convinced myself that I was going to be fired with no other reason than my guilt at not having worked hard for, say, three day’s straight. Basically, that was M.’s situation. He has a potential other offer in the fire, so he’s distracted this week only. This burden of guilt equalled his termination.

Conclusion, he’s the same kind of batshit crazy as me. Thank god breeding does not appear to be in our future.

And, yes, I do recognize the irony of all of the times I thought I was going to get fired and worried for no reason, versus the huge bruhaha I completely didn’t see coming with my last employer.

My place of work is seriously, surreally fucked up. I swear to fucking god, it’s some huge experiment and all of my co-workers are from central casting.

Today’s episode of is it an office or is it a sitcom: I’m sitting at my desk, working like, don’t you know. Bear in mind, everyone is surrounded by glass and wood, so you gots yourself some serious sightlines. (I mean “sightlines” like seeing, not like rifle scope.) With all that glass there aren’t a lot of surprise visits.

Yet, I was surprised. Surprised by a dude in a banana suit handing out, um, ahh, bananas, of course. I don’t know if he paused when he got to the office with the poster of condoms on the door.

As a coda to the homeward bound post of days past, the trip I have started to actually plan (at least registering for the conference), it looks like I’ll be there on a Thursday night. For anyone who knows me from way back when, Thursday night at 10 p.m. means only one possible thing — Walsh Fucking Brothers. The elder says, “I’m in the book.” If not on “stage,” I’ll be sipping a PBR at the back of the ImprovBoston Theater on May 11.

OK, I’m a fucking moron, getting that specific on the web. So, like, if you are a stalker or maybe a pedophile who thinks my juvenile writing is evidence of my juvenilia, I’m just kidding. Nothing on the web is real.

This year, I’ve been sweating doing my taxes. I kept thinking, “Shit, I don’t want to write some big, fucking check to the IRS. No fucking way. I’ll do it the last possible second.”

In my crazy-ass brain, I was re-living all the salary I used to make, the unemployment benefits, the thing with the thing with the lawyers.
Lawyers, guns (OK, knives) and money.

Only, dumbshit, I forgot. Time has elapsed. That was then, this is now, yada fucking yada. I moved here, when the legal gravy train had stopped running. I took my lazy, sweet-ass, luxuriating-in-the-California-sun time getting a J O B.

In short, the federal govmint and the state of Cali, both OWE me a fucking pile of bills. Benjamins and whatnot. What a dink I am to not have filed sooner.

The funniest thing to me, I took a look at my adjusted gross income for 2004, and fucking a, I had mounted the six-figure fantasy. I was taxed accordingly. But, much more relaxed and all, I welcomed 2005 at exactly zero times that amount. Eventually, I recouped somewhere in the national average, above the “you want fries with that” standard but not by much.

I haven’t been so excited since my first real job was earning a whopping $13,000 per annum, and I cashed an IRS refund of like $426. Then, as now, drinks are on fucking me and Uncle Sam.

So, I’m watching MSNBC. Already, that is not a proud moment. Worse yet, we’re watching Tucker Carlson.

I’m completely distracted. Not only is Tuck (I think I can call him that, it’s better than douche), anyway Tuck has an open collar sans signature bowtie (see douche). Weird enough. But, the part that shows I have no sense of something grave and important–He’s chatting about the potential problems with nuclear bombs and all I’m thinking is “What’s going on with his lips? Are they chapped? Are those cold sores? What is it?”

His makeup artist has quit or died or something. He looks sore and red. How can I care about world issues when Blistex has apparently become as rare as an undocumented worker who doesn’t deserve to be labeled a felon.