Man, I really love that O. Henry story. You know, the famous one. Where the couple loves each other so much that they get rid of their most prized possessions for one another at Christmas? I just think that’s SO the way me and Joey are. We would do ANYTHING for each other, ya know? We would so be the kind of couple where I would end up cutting off my ARM or something to buy him a pair of shoes, and meanwhile he went and donated his toes to science or something to get me that Tiffany’s bracelet I love so much. Get it? So then we have no arm to put the bracelet on and no foot to put the shoes on!! Total lovefest! Sometimes I wish we could do more dramatic stuff like that to show our love for each other – writing on facebook walls and stuff is nice, but cutting off your toes for someone? Now that’s forever.
I sincerely forgot how much I despise going to dinner with Roger when he has his reviewer’s cap on. One second we’re having a perfectly intelligent discussion about the dearth of ethical responsibility in the GOP, and the next thing I know he’s whispering into his sleeve, “Capers taste like they’ve been in embalming liquid for 30 years.” We can transition from a brief interlude like that fairly easily, but an especially egregious entrée can distract him for 4 or 5 straight minutes as he runs through a thesaurus in his mind, trying to find exactly the right word to insult the chef, staff and ingredients at the poor place. “Chicken is nefarious…no, flagrantly offensive…no, I said that about the mashed potatoes…chicken is ARRANT, yes, yes, it’s arrant, that’s good…need to think of an alliteration…” Meanwhile I smile passively at the poor server who has been assigned to hover in the corner, waiting for the slightest sign of need from either of us, and she rushes over to fill my water glass one inch. Roger ignores her completely, already having spoken about the unacceptable looseness of her bun and dirty fingernails. If the meal weren’t free, I would have left after the soup.
Tia was always threatening to come into his house and drown him in his bathtub, so Colin wasn’t particularly worried this last threat. Granted, this time she had done it in front of other staff members and a few clients, but her voice had been fairly affectionate and mellow at the time. He still didn’t think that HR needed to be involved. Everyone at the company knew Tia was a difficult genius. She needed to be coddled and understood, not reprimanded for her unique motivational techniques. Colin himself had increased his sales 400% since coming under Tia’s jurisdiction, and he didn’t doubt for a second that it was because of her threats of extreme violence when he didn’t meet her sales goals. And since he had no desire to drown in tepid water, get his head stuffed in an oven, or fall down twenty flights of stairs, he did his very best every second of the work day (and beyond!). And really, wasn’t that the mark of an excellent boss, inspiring that sort of work ethic in her underlings? Colin thought she should have her own line of books and maybe a motivational speaking series. He would bring it up during the next office-wide meeting.
There is just something about an empire waist shirt, man. And yeah, I know it’s gay that I know the name of a certain kind of ladies’ shirt, but I had to look that shit up online, I like it so much. Just the way it puffs right out like that under the chest – just make everyone wearing it look so soft and comfortable, like just a female pillow you could lay your head on and relax forever. I see in my roommate’s lady magazines (yeah, I read them in the bathroom, so what?) they’re supposed to be going out of style because they make everyone look knocked up. I hope to hell they don’t. Maybe I could start a collection once they start showing up at thrift stores and then could give all the second-hand empire waist shirts to a new chick I might be seeing. Although I know from reading Cosmo that that shit would probably be a warning sign and all her friends would tell her to dump me. There has to be some way to make sure these shirts stay in my life until I have a female to put them on.
This is a free write. This is a free write. This is a free write…JFC my therapist said it would get easier if I just kept my pen to the paper and didn’t judge what I wrote but this is some serious bullshit so far. Fuck I went back and read the beginning again something I wasn’t supposed to do. Looks like I’m just as bad at this freewriting stuff as I am at work as I am at relationships as I am at my intermural kickball league. Is there ever going to be anything I’m good at? I guess my therapist might say that I’m good at therapy since I always do the exercises and take the drugs and cry all through my sessions and then wipe my tears away and say I feel better when really I just want to leave because all the crying has made me feel like I have to pee.
Paragraph break is supposed to be good to separate your thoughts and teach you to leave behind negative thoughts and looking back at that first paragraph, again a no-no, I have primarily negative thoughts. Jay would be so disgusted with me if he ever caught a glimpse at this notebook even though I plan to hide it thoroughly between my cook books and avant-garde play scripts and he never looks there because let’s face it, he doesn’t care about any of my interests. Sometimes I think maybe I should break up with him OK that’s cheating you’re not allowed to cross out but some thoughts should always be below the surface and never come pen to paper because they bring up really bad feelings of abandonment and make me want to crawl into a ball and die. You think whoever started freewriting would know that but whatever they’re rich from inventing it anyway so they don’t care. That’s three pages thank god I’m done for the day.