Sunday, November 27, 2005
Long Tall Weekend
I'm proud of myself that I was able to leave you with something the last time we spoke that was utterly vile, juvenile and anti-socially contemptible. It's something I will treasure for the rest of my days and I have you people and your delicate food+colon=bad sensibilities to thank for it. Bless you all.

I do feel bad that it's been four days that I've posted. Not "bad" as in any kind of guilt borne out of neglected social responsibility, I mean physically bad, as in shakes and sweating and insomnia. Bucket Withdrawal extends to Your Humble Proprietor as much as it does to you, my enthralled public. But I made it, with the help of God and some clever self-medication. I'm happy Sunday's here, no mistake. Two bottles of NyQuil per day eventually does more harm than good.

Most of my memory of the past weekend, consequently, is kind of a blur, but I know you're as desperate to know all about it as I am desperate to tell. So:

THURSDAY: Very pleasant day split between my in-laws' and my sisters' houses where I do very little/no work in exchange for great piles of food. Between steaming mounds of turkey and a suspect ham, the remainder of the day is spent with tryptophan and trichinosis warring for control of my body, if not my very soul. They work it out amongst themselves for a while, settling on a very sleepy diarrhea. The truce only lasts until the forcible intervention of my pet tapeworm--who a) in fairness, was there first and b) does not play well with others--which somehow expels both. In gratitude, I have finally given my tapeworm a name. I call him "Homunculus". If it asks for power of attorney, I'm not sure what I'll say.

FRIDAY: I wake up hungry again, believe it or not. For some reason I have a mad craving for Cinnabon. Apparently I was not the only one because the mall was total chaos. The Cinnabon line was outrageous. And don't even get me started on the Orange Julius. Total nightmare. For the rest of the day I sit around a lot, allowing my Thanksgiving to bloom into fully realized body-fat. By evening I am more puddle than man.

SATURDAY: I sit in front of the TV in frenzied anticipation of the UCLA-USC football game only to realize that it's not on until next Saturday. Fuckers. Now I found myself with massive stores of testosterone meant to be spent shouting and throwing things at the TV that now must be otherwise expressed. I spend a lot of the rest of the day masturbating. And wandering the neighborhood looking for trouble, which I find in an incident that ends with me punching the mail-carrier lady in the face. I stay up late into the night leaving a series of worried voice-mails for my therapist.

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23-17 in overtime. Everything else is a fuzzy, pink haze. I don't know if it's post-football euphoria or the NyQuil again.

Which leads us to this. On behalf of all of you, I'd like to welcome me back. It's good to have me. I was missed.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 10.0



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