Day 229
Today was a big day of learning for me: learning how to be ridiculously dumb. My favorite examples of this are as follows:
So, my friend told me that she would pick up my sandwich bill. She and I stood next to each other with the same lady making our sandwiches in front of us. My friend ordered a smoked beef and me my usual, pastrami. As we watched the meat laid on the bread my friend mentioned how wonderful the beef was at this establishment. I told her that since I had gone back to meat (yeah I recently got out of what I now call the 7 Lost Years Without Eating Flesh aka. I Was An Idiot) I hadn't been able to stomach beef. She gave me a funny look and said,
"What do you think that is?"
"Pastrami."
"What do you think that's made out of?"
"I dunno. Pork?"
"Pork?! It's made out of beef! Just look at our sandwiches, it's the same kind of meat."
If that wasn't bad enough, later today I decided that I should cut my own hair. I haven't had bangs since I was 14 (I am not gonna say how many years ago that was) and when I was growing up my dad often cut my bangs while I sat still on a kitchen stool. But, that's not all that interesting, what's interesting is the fact that I learned that cutting hair is not as easy as the stylist makes it out to be.
I thought I'd just snip the awkward side bangs I had acquired, and see if I could get them to blend in with my more normal-looking bangs. Okay, I'll be honest, I didn't want to bother straightening the strays so I thought it'd be easier to snip them. Now, I look like a 5 year old attacked me with grown up scissors. Actually, I wish a 5 year old had attacked me with scissors, at least then I wouldn't have had to confess to my neighbor that I had cut my own bangs. I also wouldn't have had her tell me it looked terrible. After I got over the shock of her honesty, I tried to convince myself that my bangs just look super 80s, which (somehow) means super awesome. I'll give it a day and if I can't convince myself of their choppy beauty I will go buy a hat.
Anyway, this morning was the first morning I actually made it to breakfast in over 2 weeks. To make up for this loss of breakfast consumption I have decided that ignoring the 2 slices of bacon per person masking tape and pen sign. I miss breakfast 4 days a week, minimum, therefore I can take four pieces of bacon, right? Actually, I don't really want or need 4 pieces of bacon, but I am secretly taking more than my share just to see if anyone tries to stop me. So far I have gotten away with my dirty deed and am comforted to know that there isn't (as of yet) some poor soul employed to make sure the nerdy know-it-alls don't take more than their share of breakfast meats. Although, should the position become available I may volunteer to be that poor soul. Given my recent fetish with writing cover letters I wonder if I could pull of why I would be a good meat enforcer, and cover my track record so as not to hinder my chances.
Tonight, while I was watching my first episode of Mad Men I was assaulted. Yeah, that's right, I was smacked around by the comments that I would soon discover after I discovered that the main guy in Mad Men was leading a double life. I popped onto Facebook and there it was, 27 comments from my friends on one wall post. The wall post was originally about candy, but winded up being about jacking off gnomes. Normally, I would've found this sick but yet humorous. Normally meaning, before I read the article on yahoo.ca news. The article was a reprint from Forbes magazine and it said that having your friends (or yourself) posting offensive comments could hinder your chances of getting a job as your prospective employer may see them when they are stalking you, just before they hire you. This leaves me in a predicament: either I can A. Unfriend all of my friends. or B. I could only apply for jobs whose hiring managers would approve of gnome ejaculation. Shit.
This evening I was messaged by a guy in my building I'd like to makeout with. You know, the guy who refuses to acknowledge my requests for a Battleship game but keeps asking me if I want to make him companionship (yeah, that's how he says it, like I am a low-rent escort) to McDonalds. This is what he wanted at 12:30 tonight. I told him, "No." Then I told him that I was angry with him for declining to play Battleship with me. He wrote, "I don't know how to play Battleship." I think this was supposed to make up for him ignoring me and make me feel sorry for him. My reaction was, "You are a fucking dumbass, it's a super easy game. And by the way, go to hell! And, P.S. I will NEVER go to McDonald's with you on five minutes notice, if you want companionship get a goddamn dog." What I actually wrote was, "Have fun at McDonalds. Night."
Tip of the Day: Looking up "masturbation" on wikipedia like some hell bent I-wanna-be-a-badass 12 year old kid isn't all that fun when you are in your mid-twenties, it just makes you feel old.
-Canadian Castaway
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