We have two pumps in the shower stall; one for shower gel and one for soap. I didn’t realize there was such a huge difference between those two products. The shower gel is mint rosemary or something like that. Someone told the office manager that it was too strong. “It doesn’t feel good… down there.” She said. The office manager replied, “You’re supposed to rinse it off.” Yes, I work with some strange people.
My three favorite words these days are, “what’s the point?” I ramble a lot, and I’ve been getting sick of hearing myself. As a result, I have very little patience when listening to people. There are the folks who talk a lot and never really say anything, and they annoy me the most. The other day I found myself cornered by one for almost an hour. I was having a whole unrelated conversation in my head until he realized that I wasn’t listening. Then he proceeded to repeat everything I missed. Sighs. I wished I had a fast-forward button. It was torture. I couldn’t help but wonder if I ever make anyone feel that way. I certainly hope not. The worst part of the conversation was when he started to suggest ways I could improve my fitness. FIRST OF ALL, the MF is a fat and unattractive man with those crazy razor burn rashes on his face and neck. Every time I see him he looks greasy and smells like hair that hasn’t been shampooed in over a week. I wanted to let his ass have it, but then I thought, “What’s the point?” He’s lucky I was sober. The poor guy I met the night before at the Endup wasn’t so fortunate.
Trouble said the guy was eyeing me from across the room for a while before coming over. I know this is shallow, but he was too short. Hey, everyone has preferences. He was a good-looking guy, although he was a bit corny. He was persistent too, little fucker. He said he and his friend where both straight and in town visiting from New York. Naturally, all straight men visiting from New York come to San Francisco and go to gay clubs. Yeah, right! If the cynical expression on my face wasn’t enough, my sarcasm and my elbow jabbing Trouble in the ribs every time the guy said he was straight couldn’t have been a more obvious sign that he was getting nowhere. AND why did he have to keep announcing that he was straight? Yeah, ok little man. Finally, I decided to go in and dance. He noticed that I liked the song playing and said, “Oh would you like to dance?”
“Yeah, but I’m gonna go dance over there.” Conversation over. It may sound bitchy, but I tried being nice first and it just didn’t work. I sometimes admire people who are persistent, but not when they are harassing me. Oh well, at least he was cute. Trouble retold the story the next night and everyone roared. I didn’t think it was that funny.
I had hoped to run into Hot Fireman again, but I didn’t make it to the parties he said he was attending. The music was just a little too electronic for me. I listened outside the front door, before committing to spend the $20 entry fee, and it was like listening to the soundtrack to a really bad drug movie. I didn’t want to spend the evening performing the balancing act of trying to get toasted enough to enjoy it without getting so drunk that I fall on my ass. I was in no mood to play that game, especially considering that Trouble and I spent almost six hours at the Endup the previous night. When I’m tired, the line between sober and shit-faced gets too thin to decipher. The magic really only happens when you get as close as possible to that line WITHOUT crossing it. I wasn’t so confident that I could do that with how tired I was. The night ended up being a bust, and Sunday was recovery day instead of roller skate day. I guess Trouble and I got a little ahead of ourselves. And another thing – WHERE ARE MY WINGS, RED BULL? I must have consumed at least four cans of that shit Friday night. FYI, it makes hangovers so much worse.
No comments:
Post a Comment