I came to the realization today that, because of the way I act, I can never be sick. "Oh don't be ridiculous, the fuck?" you might be thinking...but it's true. I have been coming down with the sickness (owwahhahhahhahh) for a few days now, and today I have reached my functional limit. However, when I went to work this morning and told my co-workers I was feeling ill; they suggested coffee and fast food....to which I replied, "I am sick, not hung over." Those doubting fuckers looked at me much like Mrs. Bloomberg did in the 4th grade when I said my dog ate my homework.
I left anyway. Fuck them. I have been sober for a month today, and gods way of patting me on the back is by giving me lung AIDS and a crew of coworkers who have about as much faith in my word as I do in the above referenced deity.
A month ago today I was so fucked up that I had a 20 minute conversation with a house plant. And it was the best god damned conversation I'd had in months. Unfortunately for sobriety, it remains the best god damned conversation I have had to date. "So what is the point, the fuck?" Good question. What the fuck is the point?
I woke up today feeling and looking like the bottom of your shoe after you've tip toed through some electric boogaloo. Why? I've thought about this question long and hard...for at least 13 minutes...and the only explanation I can come up with is this: I must have killed a pope in a past life. Quite frankly, I wouldn't put it past past me to be capable of such dumbassary. Past me was probably all yacked out of my mind and drunk on christ's blood and thought the pope was the house plant from little shop of horrors.
Anyway, I'm still sober. I'm still zick. And I'm still employed. Two of these things had better change soon...for my plants sake...I think she's lonely.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment