Scene Man

OH MY GARD THERE IS SO MUCH RESEARCH AWAITING ME TODAY.

Got to work still drunk and what did I find but an effing drawer full of requests awaiting me, including these gems:

Occupational interests:

Floor sander and polisher
Railroad worker
"helpers installation" (I have no idea what this is)

and the guy's disability is that he has to perform sedentary work. So obviously a railroad yard is a good place to put him.

FUCKING IDIOT! FUCKING STUPID STUPID STUPID IDIOTS I work with!

Here we go:

Last night one of my new landlord/roommates invited some 18 year olds over. Did anybody care if 18 year-old girls showed up? No! No, we did not! And so they showed up, toting a bottle of Bacardi 151, and mocking me instantaneously—I overheard a conversation not unlike this very one:

Her: Yeah, that guy is so "scene."

Him: . . . what?

Her: Your scene friend. The one with the glasses.

Him: . . . what?

Her: Your friend with the emo glasses. That's so scene.

Him: . . . what?

Her: Like the emo scene. That's so scene.

But listen, woman! I am not part of your emo scene! I am not part of any scene because, as Andy can tell you,

I HATE MUSIC

all music. Burn it. If I could start a concentration camp for musicians I wouldn't because I wouldn't pay state funds to keep them alive even if they were kept alive via the vital nutrients of moldy velveeta and badger meat.

The only thing I associate these glasses with is Grant Tracey, a prof I had who claimed not to drink but who left mysterious whiskey-colored stains on Andy's and my papers along with such comments as "excellent work! Brilliant!"

I could really go for a velveeta and badger meat casserole right now . . .

My gloriously hot girlfirend is coming to town tonight and I look/smell/feel like a hobo. Wonderful. Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.