OK, I’m supposed to be thrilled to the marrow of my American bones — It’s Superbowl Sunday. Woo Fucking Hoo.

I don’t think it would be possible for me to care less.

For me, the Superbowl is actually kind of a time management problem. I have a lot of things I want to get done this weekend, but tomorrow at 6:25 p.m. in time for kick off, I will be at my bro’s house in Braintree. If I am smart and lucky and not overwhelmed by my own weekend laziness, I will get my flat tire repaired, pick up my laundry and finish cleaning up a bit, and maybe even work on the stuff I brought home from work. In truth, I probably won’t get that much done, and I will just wallow in my own feelings of inadequacy.

I should point out that cleaning is something high on my list of priorities for a chance (and quite likely for this week only). With M. returning, I would like to suspend reality a bit and not have it absolutely apparent that without him I let everything go to shit. No reason for him to have ample proof of chaos in his wake. (One of the many things that appeals to me about moving out West is that it would require leaving shit behind. Instead of cleaning, I could walk away. Or, it would force me to clean and divest myself of all shit, a simple buddhist future devoid of material goods.)

I think one reason I have a hard time doing everything I want to do in a weekend is I enjoy the solitude and calm of doing nothing instead. If I go to three to five comedy shows in a week, by the end of it, I fucking hate comedy and people and talking. That’s obviously an exaggeration, but really how many times do you have to hear the terminally unfunny try to convince the world they’re not (terminally unfunny). Actually, not necessarily in the category of terminally unfunny, what I really hate is people yelling about meaningless bullshit. During the week, I heard yelling about spinach, muppets, bunnies and some other shit so meaningless I can’t even remember it.

Yell about a lost kitty or your girlfriend or the Bush Whitehouse or anything else that you truly feel brings you pain. But, for fucking Christ’s sake, shut up with the oh so clever (and very overdone) excess emotion of the trivial. Yeah, we all get it’s ironic-like, because, like, it’s not really real, because, like grocery shopping isn’t really something to make you upset. You’re a super actor. Now, shut the fuck up.

Glad I got that out. And, for the record, I’m not being ironic. I really do want to scream when I have to listen to so many people with so fucking little to say. No wonder normal people do not consider stand up comedy to have substance. Most of the time, because I listen to so much crap, I do too.