How My Birthday Went
Many of you may not know how I spent my 31st birthday. In this brief summary, I aim to rectify this awkward lack of information. If you could, please help me get this information into the larger news channels, so that it can serve more people.
- - - - - - - June 14, 2006 - - - - - - -
Wake up, anxious: why isn't the dog awake? Why isn't she bothering me? Did she actually die this time? [What I mean by "this time" unclear; after brief inspection dog seems to be asleep on pad next to bed and breathing normally]
Oh dear God, why do you do it to a man, why do you not give him two bladders, one a day bladder of modest volume, and one a night bladder equal in size to a basketball, which is engaged only when the body is prostrate.
The pain and anxiety are too much. I limp off to the can (have you ever voided so much liquid that the toilet actually flushed itself?), then manually open the dog's eyes to make sure they respond to light.
Finally drift back into sleep as bladder, like a post-delivery uterus, finishes shrinking back down to regulation size.
Time to get up! We have to go register for the IRS auction of things that were seized from our favorite restaurant. [Our favorite restaurant was run by an Italian man who wore so much cologne that his brain went crazy and he didn't pay any taxes for ten years.] We hope to get a well-seasoned pan, a few sets of shelves, a set of tongs and ladles, and heck, maybe even a real deep-fryer.
Got plenty of cash from the ATM, for the auction. Although I don't notice it at the time, I leave my card in the machine.
A local restaurateur bought all the restaurant equipment for a flat price and everybody else went home from the auction without anything.
The morning's hopes dashed, we walk back into town for a proper taqueria lunch. After we sit down at a sidewalk table, some little kid on a skateboard comes really close to getting killed by a truck, and then I start to think about my own kid, and I can't enjoy my enchiladas.
My grandpa calls and tells me that he cut his thumb pretty bad and had to get stitches.
The mail's here! Maybe there will be a card or two. Hm. Water bill, something from a local political candidate...and something called "Complex" magazine. Complex is like a rap magazine with Eminem on the cover, and lots of puffy shoe ads, and some butts in tiny shorts...it's like something Ray would read. Who subscribed me to this? It came to my home address, which I don't publicize...is someone trying to tell me that they know where I live, and that they know I don't like rap? Am I being harassed? I can't tell. It's frustrating.
Ugh. Why did I eat this many french fries? Am I crazy, or just an idiot? I must have had fifty french fries. Fifty french fries could easily be arranged to spell WWWWHYYYYYYY
I think someone just shot a gun at my house. I need to move to a better neighborhood.