January 14, 2003

There's a big bloody cut on my wrist, and here's the part where I say it's over, done, kaput, goodbye, they'll all be sorry now.

Unfortunately, I'm not that blogger. I'm not draped in black and I'm listening to Hey Mercedes, not Skinny Puppy. The cut is from a four-by-four piece of timber that decided to put its big sharp woody corner right in the tender part of my pale wrist this afternoon at Loew's, where we were buying wood to build the set for the next show. Then when we got up to the "Commercial Sales" register, lugging about a national forest's worth of lumber and a cart full of discount drills, the cigarettey old woman said someone at the district hadn't paid off the P.O., and no, we couldn't take the wood if we couldn't pay for it. Fair enough, old bird, but if I'm going to slice open my wrist I want it to MEAN something.

Like, say, for punishment. Like, say, for somehow misplacing a seventy-eight dollar paycheck. Which I actually, I think, did this week, if you can believe it. You ever think to yourself "Remember that you're putting this here! It would be awfully easy to forget!" Yea, one of those things. I think it's somewhere in my room, but finding a tiny scrap of paper in my room is like finding a specific cracker in the ol' cracker factory, that is to say: THOSE FUCKING CRACKERS ARE EVERYWHERE, G. I don't think my room has pesky theiving rodents, but if it does, some mouse probably dashed off to the mouse bank, cashed it, and is currently blowing the wad on mouse-coke and mouse-whores.

For some reason, the idea of mouse-whores makes it seem not so bad. Wait, who the hell am I kidding? Seventy-eight fucking dollars. Of course it's bad. That's twelve hours of work I'd rather not have disappear in a whisp of absent-minded smoke. I've already lost way too much to that damn smoke, sometimes it seems like I have nothing but.

Seventy-eight fewer dollars for a digital camera, or college tuition, or real whores. Damn. Of course, I suppose if I look at it the right way, I never had the money at all. Why, if I'd worked more that week, it wouldv'e been a HUNDRED dollars, and then I'd be even more pissed off, if only because a hundred has three digits instead of two. Or the fact that I'm losing money right now by not having a fabulously well-paying and glamorous job putting shoes on horses or calling field hockey games, or whatever it is the kids are doing to earn pocket-money these days.

I feel like I should stop looking at things "the right way" and start "not forgetting shit all the time." Yea, sounds good.

Posted by DC at January 14, 2003 10:54 PM
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