The Pussy

Hangover Diary: Rocktober

Fuck. God damn man. Still hung over. 2 days later. I did cocaine and took valiums and drank a fifth of brandy. OK. It will be fine. Tomorrow you will feel better. Tomorrow. Go to work. Have a productive day. It’s cold, feels like winter, it’s sixty eight motherfucking degrees. Jesus Christ man, you have to stop getting drunk, doing hard drugs. You have to stop this shit. Eat a fucking salad and perform vigorous compound exercises. Read quality literature, watch birds in the forest. Clean your motherfucking act up and be a functioning human being. This is what happens. This is why people have to have kids. To have something to do all fucking day. Keep the thing from squirting roach spray in its gullet. Run around making sure he doesn’t jam his finger in the outlet. Or your wife does that, I guess. You go to work. Sit on a train in a suit and a stupid hat and read the financial papers. Martini at the end of the day, golf on weekends. Anyone under 40, your concept of normal life is from TV. A dead dream.

The other guy stole the second gram. I was pissed at the time. Now I think: good. I hope it’s really gone. Never again with that shit. From now on, fruits and vegetables. A nice beef broth. Put me in one of those FDR wheelchairs with the plaid blanket and park me in front of an old timey radio. Jesus Christ. I am too old for this. I’m too old for drugs, liquor and pussy. But what else is there. Jesus. Gardening, I don’t know.

Hold it together. Get in the car. Some nice NPR playing. It’s the stupid mid morning show they have, with “A. Martinez” or “Kye Risdall” or whoeverthefuck, they all sound the same. Milquetoast yuppies from Brown University. Their stupid bullshit show about business and finance. The Dow is up seventeen points, on news that congress is close to reaching a deal. Seventeen points out of fifteen fucking thousand. What use is this to anybody. “It Don’t Mean a Thing if it Ain’t Got That Swing” plays saucily on the piano, since the NASDAQ is down. News of a disappointing IPO from a company that helps you send dick pics. Didn’t find enough suckers. Money you don’t have is being made by people you don’t give a shit about. Switch to music.

The classic rock stations are playing a cut from the first Boston album, something by the Steve Miller Band, something by Styx. It is Rocktober. Every single person in every single car on the freeway would be a million times happier if you loaded up some AC/DC you dumb sacks of shit. On the AM dial it’s sports or Rush Limbaugh. Ladies and Gentleman, the LIBERALS in this country… this is what happens when you do NOT have a real, conservative opposition. The LIBERALS in this country, well… I wouldn’t go so far as to say they EAT white infants. I would catch a lot of flak for that, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t want to go so far as to say that the NEGROES want to cannibalize your grandmother and shit on the bones they’ve picked clean while playing jungle drums and sacrificing your baby to an idol of a giant welfare check, but… Barack Obama, you have to understand, he has a plan here folks. You can get in a lot of trouble for saying something like Barack Obama HATES this country, that he worships the European Socialist model. That he wants to turn this great nation, ladies and gentlemen, into DENMARK, where black folks are encouraged to SKULLFUCK little blonde haired girls with their… ladies and gentlemen, the sheer girth of the, uh, the adult male members of this population, is, wow.

Back to NPR. Larry Mantle is having a roundtable with experts on Women in Tech. Why aren’t more women entering STEM fields, they ask. They have a point. There are more women talking about the lack of women in STEM fields than there are women in STEM fields. It is the sexist culture, they will conclude. Well no, I yell into my instrument console. Engineering is horrible. Coding is horrible. Math is horrible. Why aren’t more women hanging off a high steel beam shooting red hot rivets into a skyscraper frame — because it SUCKS to do that, I tell the windshield. Women are smart enough to avoid it. You think the Googleplex is all hipsters high fiving each other over ping pong– that building is a giant sweatshop of the unfuckable and it smells like unshowered fat people and farts. Women don’t want to work there. Me neither. Good for them. What then will they do in the coming knowledge economy, the panel contemplates. The same as the rest of us. Watch as the jobs are shipped to India. You want to talk about a sexist culture, by the way, go climb onto your husband’s burning corpse, I tell my glove box. A 22 year old tells an anecdote. A male manager didn’t like her code once. Mantle burbles sympathetically.

Relax. Thank God the valiums put you out before you could stay up till 4am jerking off to horrendous sexual tableaux out of Bosch. Be grateful. It’s just a hangover. This empty feeling, vulnerable feeling. Despair and fear. It is a sickness. It will pass. Get out of the house and do something. Put on your adult dress up pants and look at a spreadsheet and call phone numbers and discuss industrial real estate transactions. Permits for spray booths. Truck height loading docks. Power needs; recent improvements to the sprinkler system. A man needs twenty thousand square feet of refrigeration for his citrus packing operation. Let’s find it for him. He is doing well in this world. He packs so much god damn citrus that his existing Great Pyramid sized citrus cooling facility is inadequate. He is a success. When the world goes apocalyptic you can camp over there and live off tangerines. Nice guy. Immigrant too. The American Dream lives on.

Emily is moving in with some guy. She’ll be gone. Nikol got serious with some guy. She posts about him on facebook the way my aunt posts about abortion. The way a baby bird won’t shut the fuck up about wanting a worm. There is no one now. I will have to get on OKCupid and really try this time. You OKCupid girls are the worst of human schwag, you know. I hate having to talk to you. But you’re still better than what walks the streets.

Jesus man– if they’re schwag, what the fuck are you. You’re sitting here shivering over a 1000 word screed about your coke hangover and your eyes look like a fucking horror movie. Get up man. Go outside. The day awaits.