My Mom Says The People I Hangout With Don't Stimulate Me, Which Is Why My Life Is Stagnant.

"We should go over Kayla's and play Mario Kart. I would rather do that. You remember her MV? She went to the hookah bar with us that one time. Plus, she's hot and I want to hook up with her. Like, why do you want to paint anyway? That sounds stupid."

Terrible? Sometimes.

Recently, I have been contemplating sawing my head off, and replacing it with the head of a mascot from a sports franchise or a big business corporation, or a cartoon puppet from a children's show so more people will like/believe me when  I'm apologizing for being a terrible person, sometimes.

I probably say the words, "I'm sorry ____" or "I apologize_____" at least 100 times a day.

Because I'm a terrible person who ate a box of locally made chocolate peanut butter candies in the shapes of apples + A Weekender sized bag of locally made BBQ potato chips. I bought them for the greatest/coolest person in the world, who is currently living in Washington this summer. I ate them because I was stoned and hungry at 4 in the morning, and there was nothing to eat in my aunt's house. I also got her a t-shirt and wrote her a letter. (I didn't eat it either of them— I wasn't that stoned) But I'm lazy and wasted too much time and too much money doing meaningless bullshit with people I kind of care about (okay not really), and now she's gone, and coming back home, and might not like me as much before she left because I'm a TERRIBLE PERSON who is unreliable piece of shit. Sometimes. It's a proven fact.

I'm the worst.

Multiply anything by zero and you get zero.

And I'm sorry for the times I was late in the past.  (#101)

And for eating all your peanut butter chocolates and BBQ chips. (#102)

And never sending them out in the package with your letter and t-shirt before you left. (#103)

And for driving by roadkill without even acknowledging its existence. (#104) 

And for not erasing best friends who only give a shit about themselves sooner. (#105)

And for not attemping to cure AIDS or cancer. (#106)

And for being a TERRIBLE PERSON sometimes. (#107)

I want to bake myself into a tray of cookies, which resemble nothing in particular so people that care about me will be able to hold me gently in their moist palms before tearing me apart with bleached mouths, and digesting me with alcohol stained stomachs. Afterwards, rinsing the parts of me, which got stuck in between teeth out with mouthwash. The last of my sugary shapelessness dissolving or being spit and sucked down a drain because I am a MOTHERFUCKING success. Self-proclaimed. BFA: Class of 2011. Smoking bowls at work in the cooler with a coworker who is a former crack addict; her sixteen year old daughter, our lookout.

I will enjoy baking in the oven. Watching the people I know talk in the kitchen. Not understanding words, nonplussed expression of boredom with occasional fits of laughter. I will enjoy it because at least this time, I don't have to awkwardly stare around the room at people and assault them with funny faces. I have nothing to say. Or no one to say anything to. Listening to the mechanical sound of convection humming from the oven as I turn a golden brown. It's comfortable. I guess.

Except for the plethora of frowns reflecting off the windows. And the melodramatic buzz of text messages broadcasting unhappiness throughout the room. 

I can make coffee, but I don't think that will improve the situation.

Fuck, I'm a horrible host, but I'm trying my best. Making eye contact. Smiling. Asking, "Is everyone is okay?" Mingling. And looking concerned.

But I don't clean. My room is filled with a random assortment of garbage, loose body hair, and boxes of shit that have yet to be unpacked. 

And with five people in here it's cramped.

I'm sorry, I am terrible person sometimes, but you'll have to adjust.

Because I really don't think I'm that bad.

I don't have cable.

I do have Netflix, an iPod + iPod boom box dock, and a N64 and some weed.

(I guess it's all relative.)

But please don't forget  me. 

Because everyone is a terrible person sometimes. 

I'm alright with that even though my fingers are hidden and crossed.

And I will try as hard as I can never to forget about any of you.

"Duuuuddde, she's so hot." "Like the hottest fucking girl in the valley!"

When I am at work or a party or out with friends and someone attractive walks by and/or chats with us for five minutes and walks away, I can guarantee that a friend or coworker or random person who I'm next to will blurt out the statement, "Yo, she's so fucking hot! I would love to be up inside of that. Tappin that ass." as he/she points down at his/her sexual organ and humps the air. Or something similar to that. Then he/she will turn to me, and ask me, "Duuuuuudddde, like isn't she like the hottest fucking girl in the valley?" I think an outside party is required to confirm this fact for the local historian in order for him/her to record and preserve in the file cabinet of county records for future generations to enjoy.

Usually, I will nod my head in agreement like an intellectual attending a lecture, which he/she does not understand, and will never comprehend. Or I will just walk away, because questions or compliments using the word, "hot" to describe someone who is physically beautiful are fucking stupid. They also make the speaker look fucking stupid. Which means that the person who was humping the air a few minutes ago is a fucking liar. Because he/she is never going to get laid. Because he/she will never walk up to the hottest girl in the valley, and say, "You are the hottest girl in the valley!" Which is why they are talking to me about it in a secluded corner or on a lonely bench or in the next room, outside her earshot.

FUCK THAT SHIT! 

Here are some synonyms for the word, "hot":

Seductive

Addictive

Voluptuous

Ravishing

Poisonous

Potent

Symmetrical

Attractive

Stunning

Picturesque

Magnificent

Enlightening

Heavenly

Radiant

Comely

Sublime

Alluring

Exquisite

Cute

Ideal

Intoxicating

Fascinating

Astonishing

Breathtaking 

Pretty

Viral

Wondrous

Beautiful

Feel free to add more.

30 minute lunch break

Today, I was on my lunch at work sitting on the bench smoking a cigarette. I saw Renee, a girl who works up front, carrying a broom and a dust pan. And Pat, a woman who is one of the night managers up front, following closely behind tapping a cigarette out of her green pack of Pall Malls. Pat lit the cigarette just as I was stubbing mine out on the ground, and then looked at Renee.

“We’re not supposed to smoke here because the higher-ups say it bothers the customers,” she says taking an extremely long drag, “which means we have to clean all these butts up.”

“Okaaaaaay.” Renee said rolling her eyes upwards along with her vocal tone.

I threw my butt in the broken black plastic flower pot which acted as our ashtray and garbage.

Pat abruptly turns, and walks towards the front sliding doors finishing her cigarette in three puffs before dropping it on the sidewalk.

I noticed a small brown bird hopping around near my feet eating the crumbs from a discarded poppy seed bagel, and shitting little white dots everywhere.  And it was unavoidable.

Renee dropped the white dustpan to the ground and started sweeping the brown butts and ash out of the cracks in the sidewalk into a pile. She turned her head and fixed her accusatory pupils on the white pack of cigarettes next to me.

“Are you the one whose doing this shit? Throwing them on the ground like a lazy motherfucker? Making me have to sweep your shit up?”

“Nah,” I said shaking my head back and forth before opening my pack, “all my filters are white. Those are brown, which means I’m not the perpetrator. SEE!”

I pointed down to a pile of 50 brown cigarette butts, none of which are white.

“Alright, we’ll keep up the good work.” she exclaimed with a wink.

I gave her a thumbs-up, and watched the pile gain mass with each sweep.

“The funny thing is you don’t even smoke. Yet, you have to clean up everyone else’s shit cause they’re too lazy to toss that shit into the ashtray, which is literally five feet away. Bastards! Hahahaha..haaaaaaaaa!” I said rocking back and forth on the broken bench whose peeling red paint exposed splotches of cheap wood. It made a clanging sound as the metal legs lifted up and slammed back down.

I started laughing after completing the sentence because it’s a nervous tick, which is probably really annoying to the people I am talking to, and most of the time, I don’t even realize that I’m doing it. But, she didn’t seem to notice:

“I know right! Those motherfuckers!” Renee exclaimed slamming her broom down in an impulsive act of sedition. “I mean I smoke weed here, but not cigs. And they got me cleaning up other people’s nasty ass butts and ash. I, mean, what the fuck right?”

I pulled another cigarette out of my pack and lit it.

“We should go on strike!”

“Yeah, Fuck this place!” she said throwing her right fist into the air.

She knelt down and brushed the pile into the dust pan.

“Do you know we are selling expired baby food right now? They told me to check the dates and when I did, they were all two weeks expired. When I told them, the regional manager said, ‘Ehhhhh…They’re vacuum sealed. I’m sure they’re still fine for a couple more days.’ Can you believe that? ‘a couple more days.’ I mean, we are talking about little FUCKIN babies here. It’s terrible!” The skin on her face scrunched together forming ridges and valleys. “I work here.”

In my head, I saw babies with puffed up cheeks and green tinted faces regurgitating globs of decomposing fruit purée.  Their soft pink lips were coated in thick jelly-like film of infected nutrition, which made them look rabid and pitiful at the same time.

“Yeah, I can believe that.” I said, exhaling unsurprised syllables through the streams of breath and smoke. “Because I work here too!”

“This week we have an ‘In-Store Special’ on the expensive imported ham. It’s $5.99/lb, and it’s usually $8.99/lb. Last week, I noticed the expensive imported ham was two weeks past its expiration date because it never sells since it taste the same as the regular imported ham, which is $5.99/lb. We have sold about 7lbs out of a 12lb block of the expensive out-of-date imported ham. I feel bad selling them that shit, but I still do it anyway. Half the population of Plains may have food poisoning. And it would be my fault.”

I laughed, “But the worse they could do is probably sue me, and it’s not like I have a shit ton of money— twenty cents above minimum wage + a dollar extra on Sunday. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I laughed.

(10 second silence)

“Anal rape in a prison shower.” She answered matter-of-factly.

"Shit." I laughed and snubbed out my cig on the ground. 

“You better not be fuckin up the sidewalk I just cleaned with your butt.”

I held the butt in between my thumb and index finger and shot it directly into the center of the broken flower pot.

"Michael 'Fuckin' Jordan!"

Renee dumps the dustpan full of ashes into the broken flower pot. It looked like a waterfall : the ash and the butts freely falling downward into the basin of empty 25 cent bags of potato chips, which created a misty cloud of ash that drifted sensuously out of the broken flower pot in all directions, coating the surrounding surfaces in a thin grey film.

Pat stuck her head out of the automatic sliding doors and screamed in the hoarse voice of a drill sergeant who has been chain smoking for the last 37 years as a way to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder.

“RENEE, IT DOESN’T TAKE 15 MIN TO SWEEP UP A PILE OF CIGARETTE BUTTS!”

“Alright. I’ll be in, just give me a minute.”

“I’VE ALREADY GIVEN YOU 15! LET’S GO!”

Renee gathered her dust pan and clipped it to the shaft of her broom.

“Yo, at 9:45 we might smoke a bowl in produce you down?”

“Word, I’m pretty far ahead on my work, and should be able to close on time. So, yeah. Just get me before you go.”

“Okay. Cool.”

Renee slowly walked through the doors following Pat to register two and immediately scanned a bag of cat food for a sixty year old lady wearing bulky glasses and pink stretch pants.

For the last 10 minutes of my lunch, I envisioned hundreds of babies keeling over in their high chairs face first into bowls of spoiled fruits and vegetables.

I laughed, because maybe we aren’t so horrible. Maybe we play an integral part in the solution to the planet Earth’s overpopulation problem. Checks and Balances. But still everybody gets a paycheck every Friday, which makes the whole situation kind of fucked up.

I noticed the small brown bird again and it was shitting all over the area in front of the store and, for some reason, it felt like justice was being served in some small way.

eavesdropping on customer conversations: #1

"Mom, look how tan I am."

"You're not really tan, just sunburned."

"Oh."