why are pants plural?
so shorts won't get lonely.
ramblilngs
the passage of time. holy crap.
the tree outside my window feels it, the increasing warmth of the summer's sun, the passing of time and the changing of seasons, entire years pass and the tree feels everyday.
the rain comes from the sky, dude.
that voice in my head is a funny one, all condescending and shit. i enjoy that, and shit. the fuck off punk that is cynical and never gives a shit. nor fuck. straight edge punks are different, they have a cause.
man. i've done stuff and i want to tell people that everything works out and worrying is wasted time you could be having fun, but then again I'm poor as shit, i mean I eat and everything, but not as much as I could, you know, more than twice a day. it's good i am working and making money because rent is due and baby needs some shoes. which brings me back to this whole idea that everything is going to work out and i am happy. that is the trick, being happy poor.
no matter how much more money you make it won't change your want to make more money and soon the more money you are making is not enough to be considered more money, it just is money you are making and so you want to make even more money and still you haven't figured out that more money has little to do with your happiness.
not to suggest that money isn't happy, those little fuckers are joy made into paper, but paper burns good and joy is fleeting. besides, i have everything i want right now, mostly. the things i don't have, i feel are on their way. but, working ten dollars an hour part-time is not going to bring bike hostel ownership, or health care.
I would love a job that pays well enough for me to spoil my friends with ridiculous gifts, and money. a job that i want to do, so there is no work and so i could be like:
"want a fancy-pantsy dinner at a hoity-toity restaurant?"
"could you use a matchbox pick-up truck that runs on biodiesel?"
"do you want a computer that wasn't made in the 90s?"
"dude, go to the dentist to fix that empty filling, it's on me."
i am distracted by the underwear ad on my computer. butt, now it changed.
oh, shit. no popcorn. no dinner.
pay your taxes. support your war. today is the day.
the tree outside my window feels it, the increasing warmth of the summer's sun, the passing of time and the changing of seasons, entire years pass and the tree feels everyday.
the rain comes from the sky, dude.
that voice in my head is a funny one, all condescending and shit. i enjoy that, and shit. the fuck off punk that is cynical and never gives a shit. nor fuck. straight edge punks are different, they have a cause.
man. i've done stuff and i want to tell people that everything works out and worrying is wasted time you could be having fun, but then again I'm poor as shit, i mean I eat and everything, but not as much as I could, you know, more than twice a day. it's good i am working and making money because rent is due and baby needs some shoes. which brings me back to this whole idea that everything is going to work out and i am happy. that is the trick, being happy poor.
no matter how much more money you make it won't change your want to make more money and soon the more money you are making is not enough to be considered more money, it just is money you are making and so you want to make even more money and still you haven't figured out that more money has little to do with your happiness.
not to suggest that money isn't happy, those little fuckers are joy made into paper, but paper burns good and joy is fleeting. besides, i have everything i want right now, mostly. the things i don't have, i feel are on their way. but, working ten dollars an hour part-time is not going to bring bike hostel ownership, or health care.
I would love a job that pays well enough for me to spoil my friends with ridiculous gifts, and money. a job that i want to do, so there is no work and so i could be like:
"want a fancy-pantsy dinner at a hoity-toity restaurant?"
"could you use a matchbox pick-up truck that runs on biodiesel?"
"do you want a computer that wasn't made in the 90s?"
"dude, go to the dentist to fix that empty filling, it's on me."
i am distracted by the underwear ad on my computer. butt, now it changed.
oh, shit. no popcorn. no dinner.
pay your taxes. support your war. today is the day.
Dude, chicks
I have the speacial priviledge of having four hot chicks in my room at any given time. They are sweet, but kinda smelly. This excellent photo was taken by Aaron Rogosin.
Yesterday
I moved to Portland and don't have much of anything, so I have been working day labor for a cool guy that pays under the table. It is ideal in the sense of not having any stability, it doesn't pay well enough to interfere with food stamps and he treats me well enough that I keep coming back. All the work is off the books and everyone involved understands that the situation is a little bit sketchy, a shit storm could tear the whole thing up.
The guy I work for is a sweet heart, he really is. Divorced with one son that he home schools, he usually doesn't work on the weeks he has custody of his boy. He loves the crap out of his kid.
Alright, so I get to the job site and we are finishing the molding in a bedroom. In addition, the boards around the doors in the kitchen need to be ripped down, cut, sanded and nailed back up. We work hard and before long we are breaking for lunch. I go out and get some ketchup. We return and get back to it. Power tools are in use. My crew mate is using the chop saw to cut 45s from the top piece on the base boards and so the boss says to use the table saw. If you don't already know, table saws are the scariest power tool ever. All those eight digit shop teachers can explain why.
Then the boss asks, "you know how to use one of these right?"
I give him the best dumb look I can muster and he launches into the short version of how not to loose a hand, while also removing the fence and exposing the raw, finger devouring, scraggly toothed saw blade.
I say, "yeah, no problem." He goes inside.
I grab a random board and start up the saw. I prep my bag of fake blood. I push the stick through the whining saw. I yelp and squirt ketchup into my hand, struggle into the house and repeat, "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god" until the boss reacts. He pops his head out from the bedroom and sees me clutching my hands together and ketchup dripping on the floor. He darts into the bathroom and struggles to remove the plastic off of a roll of toilet paper, "just hold still, here!"
His heart is audible and his mind is racing through all the protocols of what to do, 911? Drive to the hospital? How much is that going to be? Will he sue? Maybe we could work out a co-pay. Maybe it would be best to toss him on the curb and hope he flags someone down.
The guy I work for is a sweet heart, he really is. Divorced with one son that he home schools, he usually doesn't work on the weeks he has custody of his boy. He loves the crap out of his kid.
Alright, so I get to the job site and we are finishing the molding in a bedroom. In addition, the boards around the doors in the kitchen need to be ripped down, cut, sanded and nailed back up. We work hard and before long we are breaking for lunch. I go out and get some ketchup. We return and get back to it. Power tools are in use. My crew mate is using the chop saw to cut 45s from the top piece on the base boards and so the boss says to use the table saw. If you don't already know, table saws are the scariest power tool ever. All those eight digit shop teachers can explain why.
Then the boss asks, "you know how to use one of these right?"
I give him the best dumb look I can muster and he launches into the short version of how not to loose a hand, while also removing the fence and exposing the raw, finger devouring, scraggly toothed saw blade.
I say, "yeah, no problem." He goes inside.
I grab a random board and start up the saw. I prep my bag of fake blood. I push the stick through the whining saw. I yelp and squirt ketchup into my hand, struggle into the house and repeat, "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god" until the boss reacts. He pops his head out from the bedroom and sees me clutching my hands together and ketchup dripping on the floor. He darts into the bathroom and struggles to remove the plastic off of a roll of toilet paper, "just hold still, here!"
His heart is audible and his mind is racing through all the protocols of what to do, 911? Drive to the hospital? How much is that going to be? Will he sue? Maybe we could work out a co-pay. Maybe it would be best to toss him on the curb and hope he flags someone down.
I could have dragged the scene out a lot further, but the absolute panic that radiated from this guy made me a bit reluctant. Also, the idea that a roll of toilet paper was going to help my severed hand was also pretty hilarious. So, I bashfully murmured, "April Fools"
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