Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Welcome To The Working Week
This post might come out... weird. Not my usual weird where I talk about fruit for 1,000 words or my personal feelings on the subject of werewolves (I'm against them, by the way), I mean just... off. Slightly.

See, I'm sitting on my couch composing this post on my laptop. That might not sound like a big deal to any of you, but for me, the deviation from my regular post-creation routine is a big step. The guy I buy my psychotropic therapeutic drugs from would be proud of me, or at least I assume he would be if he could be made to understand. I'd try to reason with him, but I'm pretty sure if I made a concerted effort to find him, the guy he sends to meet me at the agreed-upon exchange place would probably put a bullet in my liver. He seems like an organ-specific kind of dude.

I'm trying this new approach to post-creation even though I know I don't do well with alterations to my routine. I'm almost positive I'll have to cut later just to release some of the tension, but we have to expect some kind of coping behavior to make the transition possible.

It's not just the laptop, though. The reason I've been exiled to the couch is because I have kids playing computer games on my desktop rig. I know it's dorky to call your computer your "rig" but I drive a minivan and a sensible 10-year-old small car. Not at the same time, but those are my options, you understand. If I refer to either of them as my "rig" I would be universally ridiculed. I mean, neither of them has any kind of neon effects kit. If I use the same term for my computer (especially in this environment) I know at least that there is a tiny, tiny community of like minded hermits and spazzes who will nod their heads and go "yeeeaaaaaah..." Probably while not getting laid.

The reason I have kids on my desktop playing games is because of summer vacation. We have an extra kid in the house with my oldest boy out of school for the summer. You know, when my alarm was waking me up waaaaaay earlier than I wanted it to during the school year and we had 45 to 90 minutes of homework every night, summer vacation sounded grand.

I realize now that, psychologically, I'm much better equipped to handle the inconveniences of responsibility than the disruption--however small--of what I've come to recognize as my regular routine.

This is more than a small disruption. This is the total annihilation of the entire shape and gravity of my universe. No alarm, no kid getting dressed, no driving the same route, hitting all the same landmarks (seriously, I hit landmarks... sometimes I forget my contact lenses), no dropping-off, no six hours and seventeen minutes of near catatonia as I wait for pick-up time and I snap into the next segment of blessed, comforting, awful routine.

Honestly, if part of my regular routine involved driving a spike through my tongue or forced sodomy, that would be OK with me. So long as I could expect it at roughly the same time every day. I could totally survive in jail.

Dr. Phil tells me that even though the disruptions make me absolutely certain that I am within seconds of total psychological collapse and spontaneous death, I am fine, everything will be fine and I can learn a lot about myself, achieving unheard of heights of personal growth, if I make it through this crisis. But then Dr. Phil is a fat man who sells diet advice. So fuck him.

If it was something I could do every day with regularity between, say, soap operas and making sure all the items on my desk are aligned at perfect right angles, I would actually fuck him. Dr. Phil I mean. I'm sure that's how his wife powers through it. Have you seen her? She's tiny. It can't be a comfortable experience for her, physically. And that big shiny bald head (steady...) and that drawling mustache face coming (I said steady people...) at you, pointing to his crotch and saying things like "Whut you need to do is seize this issue with both hands, turn it over a few times, see whut it looks like. Then we're going to integrate it with your internal dialogue. Doggy style."

There, I just disgusted myself. Wow, I guess I CAN do it with my laptop. This is a huge breakthrough for me. I'll still probably have to cut, but I'll use something sharp instead of the rusty end of a wire hanger. I guess it's been a good day. I should treat myself.

This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.9



I realize now I should be doing Match of the Day for the following day as by the time I write this, two of the three daily matches are over. That approach does make it easy to pick, however.

Today: Germany v. Poland, 3 Eastern/noon Pacific, ESPN2. Wow, Germany vs. Poland. Sometimes people talk about international soccer as a metaphor or a substitute for political conflict up to and including war. My guess? Not so much of that from the analysts in the run-up to this one. A little awkward, to say the least. Although, judging by the strength of the German team this tournament (my pick to win the whole thing), I expect a very similar result to 1939. Except hopefully this time with no threat to European Jewry. But you never know. Germany is still Germany.

Tomorrow: England v. Trinidad & Tobago, noon Eastern/9 am Pacific, ESPN2. A soft-looking England team against our friendly Caribbean Red-Stripe-drinking neighbors. T&T is a nation of under a million people who tied powerful European Sweden, winning for themselves international respect, free state subsidized health care and unfettered access to buxom blonde Swedish women of their choice in perpetuity. These countries take their soccer very seriously. There is a lot at stake. Should England lose, they will be forced to turn over Elizabeth Hurley. And the islands will rejoice.


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