100 Days of Misery Project: Chunk Four

#100daysofmisery #Day31 : I have never ‘texted’ once in my entire life and with any luck at all I will die without ever having ‘texted’. Typing with ones thumbs is not typing, it is an abomination which leads to the excessive and grotesque overdevelopment of the thenar eminence. Take a glance around a ‘bus’, ‘subway’, ‘Starbucks’ or some other sad place ‘texters’ congregate and you will never again unsee the misshapen mounds of gristle easily mistaken for fried chicken wings except in that they are where human thumbs ought to be instead of cozying up to a spare rib on a pu-pu platter. Did anyone ever say to Rachmaninoff “Say, you play that piana thing real good, but wyncha do it with just your thumbs?” No. No, they did not.


#100daysofmisery #Day32 : In photographs I appear a good ten years older than the face I see in the mirror. Either photo me or mirror me is lying to actual me. I hate both those bastards.


#100daysofmisery #Day33 : Time was when you saw a person coming toward you on the street gesticulating wildly and yelling at someone who wasn’t there, it meant they were crazy and you took appropriate precautions. Now you have to guess if it’s insanity or Bluetooth. It could be both. On the plus side I can now talk to myself in public and people have to mostly pretend I’m probably not dangerous.


#100daysofmisery #Day34 : You know those class action law suits against pharmaceutical companies that said some drug was safe and later it turns out it hurt you way worse then whatever it was supposed to be helping you with? Where’s my generations class action lawsuit against H.R. Puffnstuff? Remember? Jack Wilde as Jimmy? And he had a magic talking flute named Freddy? And Witchypoo was always trying to ‘steal’ Freddy’s ‘Flute’? And now forty years later I can’t look down when I shower?


#100daysofmisery #Day35 : Anytime a superior at work requires you to high five them for allegedly benefiting you in some way when in fact what’s happening is they’ve decided to screw you marginally less than their original plan called for, a part of you dies. I don’t mean a part of your soul, I mean a part of your kidney or liver or brain, something you actually need to continue living. The average worker can sustain between five and seven of this kind of forced high five over the course of their career. My strategy? Faking a rotator cuff injury.


#100daysofmisery #Day36: I’m not certain where I stand on the nature of God vis-à-vis judgment and punishment, but I do know this: The person who came up with the idea of selling Jeans with holes already in them is going to hell. The whole reason beat up clothes look cool is because they reflect the character of the clothed, they are visible markers of a life lived. Pre-distressed clothes are an unearned shortcut to a nonexistent destination, and as such, an abomination.


#100daysofmisery #Day37 : I feel like there isn’t enough pollen in the air today. I don’t think I can be truly satisfied with the pollen count until an obese gentleman sits on my chest and rams fistfuls of dusty yellow crap down my throat and the cuts open my chest cavity and stuffs it with flowers like I’m a friggin’ build-a-bear.


#100daysofmisery #Day38 : Growing up I always wanted tattoos, but was concerned I hadn’t earned them. Tattoos were the province of Carny Folk, Sailors, Artists and Criminals. By the time I felt I had proved myself worthy, every jackhole in spitting distance had full sleeves, generally applied with the same aesthetic sensibility as an unsupervised toddler left alone in reach of their day care sticker bin. My only solace is that if I get some now, mine will still be brightly colored, their imagery recognizable as I stare at the wall in the poorly funded old age home of my children’s choosing. As opposed to yours, which will look like IV line bruising, pureed carrot stains or both.


#100daysofmisery #Day39 : “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” is a damn stupid saying. Yes, okay, Lemons are sour, but if they weren’t good for a lot of stuff they wouldn’t sell them in supermarkets. If life gives you lemons and you don’t have to buy them, you are doing okay. How about when life gives you sh*t? And I know what you are saying, when life gives you sh*t, make compost which is a smart ass thing to say, but also kind of exactly what the lemons/lemonade line wants to mean but doesn’t. So I guess I grudgingly respect you. Bastard. Also? I am very much afraid I have already made this post. Also also? I used a ‘*’ instead of an ‘i’ in ‘sh*t’ again. I have no self-respect at all.


#100daysofmisery #Day40 : Do people yell at you from passing cars? I bet not. They yell at me, and have since I was in my teens. In middle school a young lady leaned out her passenger side window and shouted “Hey, kid, you walk like a frickin’ robot!” In my early twenties when I was sporting rather large sideburns, people frequently yelled “Yo, Elvis!” as they drove by. Even in my leather jacket, I don’t look much like the King. Once after calling me Elvis someone threw something that hit me right between the eyes. It turned out to be a gummy bear. A gummy bear. What does that mean? Someone yelled ‘Go get ‘em, Spidey’ when I was wearing a Spiderman T-shirt. Lots of people wear Spiderman T-shirts. I bet no one yells ‘Go get ‘em Spidey’ at them. I don’t think there’s anything that provocative about the way I walk around, but I’m forced to assume there must be.


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