June Twenty-Nine: Two Years Gone

Jesus Christ – I drink a lot. It snuck up on me. Drink some beers after work, run out, drink some Seagrams 7 and bitters, go into work hung over. Repeat. I have to quit smoking because it’s given me some weird sleep apnea shit and I feel sick all the time. I do pretty well at not smoking until I get drunk – so I have to stop both. It’s the most unoriginal problem ever and thus, the most unoriginal blog post. I hate my job and so I am literally killing myself when I get home. My neighbor does the same. He works in a warehouse where they sell building supplies. Doors mostly. He manages ex-cons for ten to twelve hours per day and then comes home and drinks gin and tonics and smokes American Spirits. I keep saying “we’ve gotta quit doing this” and he says “yep” and then we don’t.

Technology is a series of petty frustrations. Nothing fucking works right and if it did, it would still be stupid. I’m an AV integrator. That means I struggle with stupid bullshit all day; wireless mics drop out, switchers crash, transmitters stop transmitting – there really isn’t anything in AV that works consistently. I’m constantly hanging giant TVs (ninety inches minimum to see an Excel spreadsheet clearly) on walls and getting my hands cut up from running cables. And I hate TV. I don’t even have a TV. People ask why and I say “to keep the Jews out of my head” but honestly, I’m too lazy and unenthusiastic to watch anything. Or too drunk.

I’m about to have my second yearly review for this job and I’m about to turn twenty-eight. I cannot remember the last two years at all. It’s because I’m inexplicably tired all day, every day. I wake up early and I’m tired. I force myself to the job site and I’m still tired. I got to lunch and get more tired. I go home and drink and smoke and briefly don’t feel tired, then I go to sleep around ten because I’m tired. I  keep my bedtime consistent in order to get nine hours of sleep which doesn’t do anything to make me feel better. I’m still tired. I dream I’m drinking water at Nigel Farage’s house – right out of the sink. My subconscious is telling me I’m dehydrated. I need to get up so I can get on this conference call. “State your name” then that creepy beep. “Let me give you the elevator pitch. We’re gonna to revamp your huddle room…” I hate these words. They make me ill. I mute my mic and projectile vomit last night’s Heineken and ground beef into the toilet. The girl I’m banging cleaned the bathroom while I slept. It wasn’t dirty.

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