North, and slightly West

17 04 2008

So, in case I haven’t said anything about it, The Girlfriend and I are moving in together.This means that she’ll be moving a few dozen blocks from her dorm residence hall, and I’ll be moving about eighty miles Northward. It also means that we will be on equal ground–we’re both living there, rather than one of us moving into the other’s space–so there should be no territorialism. Unless I try to pee on her furniture.

Further, it means that I have to find a new job in the next six or eight weeks. She’ll be moving first, and I’ll follow as planned a month later. I still have to train my replacement at work and, oh yeah, inform them that I’ll soon be quitting. It would be nice to find something along the lines of what I’m already doing, but hey–beggars can’t be choosers. They can, however, be hookers.

In order to ease the process of moving in together, I have set forth a few personal goals that I hope to achieve before she gets sick of me and feeds me to my dog.

I will not:

–Fart* in front of her.

–Extinguish cigarettes in food.

–Use my dog to sweep the kitchen floor.

–Eat butter and crackers.

–Forget to flush after depositing evidence of Taco Bell.

–Wipe boogers on the walls behind or beside the toilet.

–Throw things at my neighbors.

–Vomit in the trashcan.

–Order pizza before counting how much money I have to spend.

–Borrow money from my neighbors to pay the pizza guy.

–Masturbate in the living room.

–Sing along to commercial jingles while masturbating in the living room.

–Take out the trash only as far as my neighbor’s balcony.

–Leave frozen burritos in the pool to become unfrozen goo.

–Allow meat products to thaw in the sun while I swim.

–Put old hotdogs in potted plants around the complex.

Hopefully, I won’t have to remember this list the hard way, which usually involves repeated admonishments followed by a strict questioning of moral values, of which mine are often in question. Then again, it will be our apartment. That’s an important distinction, in case it ever comes up in court.

*While she’s awake, obviously.

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The filth in country music, and why I’m beginning to hate my job

3 03 2008

At the risk of earning the ire of yet another insane C&W fan, I have to send out a word of congratulations to whoever wrote the following lyrics:

“Why don’t you stay? I’m down on my knees. I’m so tired of bein’ lonely, wanna give you what you need.”

Now, it may just be that I’m incredibly immature, but that little sampling of lyrics just smacks of desperately offered fellatio. It makes the singer sound like a woman in the last extremity, who has been broken down so much by the weight of her solitude that she has finally chosen to put her absent lover’s genitalia in her mouth, provided that he come back to her.

I’ve had girlfriends like this, actually.

Whatever the actual point of the song, I like my interpretation better. Not only does it speak of a pronounced increase in oral sex awareness, but it also gives me ammunition to use the next time someone complains about sexuality in rock and roll. Not only that, but it instructs young girls everywhere that, in order to keep their men, they might have to blow them.

About the job: I am getting intensely bored with my job. Not “bored” in the Office Space sense, or even in the Fight Club sense. No, I’m getting bored with my job in the “Christ, there is nothing left to DO here” sense. Things have slowed to a crawl at my company, so much so that I can call in whenever for no good reason, and no one gives a shit. I don’t like working for people who won’t fire me.

On top of all of that, I’m going to be moving soon. San Marcos is over seventy miles away, and I just don’t see commuting back and forth five days a week to a job that really isn’t very fun. Add this to the fact that I might be getting married* soon, and you’ll see why I kind of don’t care about my job anymore. 

That’s about all that’s new in my world today. Oh, that, and my girlfriend convinced me to shave my stomach. Don’t ask.

*More on this later, as the story develops.