It’s Sunday, and I have a book review due in a couple of days that needs to be finished. I should have done it yesterday, but deadlines be damned. I swear to god I’m going to review this book.

After work.

Showing up at work at 9am is great. It’s sort of like waking up from the dead and realizing most of your organs and blood are totally gone yet knowing you’re gonna have to deal with an endless stream of morons all day long before you can go die again. Add in that whole “groggy” thing since coffee is the nastiest shit ever and fuck I might as well be dead when I go in. Sundays are especially bad since there’s only two people in the entire store working, that I’ll be forced to stand on the register all damn day. I hate the register. It is, and always will be in my mind, a girl’s job. I don’t care what you say about it, it is. It’s a bitch job. I’ve always felt that if you’re gonna make me be on register at least let me sit in a monster truck and wear a football helmet while doing so. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel like I should be explaining to customers why I’m not the feminine, diminutive high school girl they were expecting to ring their porcelain scarecrow up.

This picture makes me want to die.

Anyway, work. So work sucks on Sundays. People destroy me with their stupidity unlike anything else on Sundays. It’s like a parade of stupidity from open to close. You’ve got the old woman that can’t figure out where the gift wrap aisle is even though she already has five goddamn rolls of it in her cart. You’ve got the fat guy that obviously doesn’t want to be there with his wife, so he takes it out on me by having wondrous conversations with me while he waits…

Him: So you guys are open how late tonight?
Me: Six
Him: Man that must suck
Me: Yep
Him: So…
Me: …
Him: So what time you guys open in the morn-
Me: JUST STOP

You also have the children. Oh the children. You special, special little sons of bitches. I hate you all. You see, we have these things around the register as all stores do. Completely useless shit. There’s a name for it..it’s…IMPULSE ITEMS. Yeah, the shit you’d never in a fucktillion years buy unless you were standing behind twenty people in a checkout at your local store. Yes, we have those. Mostly in the form of bagged candy because we’re old fashioned like that. The unfortunate thing is that these impulse items work on children sort of like how crack works on a crack addict that hasn’t had any for a week. Like, these kids, it’s insane. I can’t even describe it. They’ll fucking KILL over this candy. They scream, they fight, they cry, they cry, they CRY. I get to the point where I can’t take their screeching banshee shit anymore and just go to the back for a few minutes and hold my head between my legs, hoping for all the blood to rush to my head and explode out of my face. Of course the parents, god bless their retarded selves, will of course bow into everything their little I-WANT-THIS machine wants, which only makes the other kids worse. This is why special occasions should be made that would make it legal to kill people with your bare hands.

Thankfully, work always eventually ends, so as soon as I get home, I swear to god I’m going to review this book.

This is seriously damn close to what that TV looked like from behind.

Ronnie calls and asks me if I want to help him move a giant TV that I just helped him move not three weeks earlier. I’m not much on moving. I’m not good at it. My body isn’t really made for it. I am a skinnyish sort of frame with maybe a few muscles here and there my body developed to ward off predators. Sort of like a natural defense thing like bugs and fish develop. So moving, I love it so much. I have the distinction of having been injured every time I’ve ever helped anyone move, especially large objects like TVs, which are usually heavy. One of my favorite times was when I was about 15 and I was helping my Dad move his giant TV down to the basement living room. To do this, we had to go down about 6 steps. No big deal right? Of course this is one of those giant fucking prehistoric projection screen TVs from the early nineties, which was heavier than most full-sized trucks. It also had about six thousand wires in the back, all connected to other wires I think. This bitch was big too. I could barely see over it. So of course my Dad is like “Hey let’s move this shit downstairs that will be the coolest thing ever and you’re gonna help”.

I was at the top of the TV, and my Dad was moving it down the steps. Naturally, I’ve got my hands underneath the TV, and being stupid and afraid for my life, I naturally forgot that when heavy things move off an incline, they unusually go down. And it did, straight on my fucking fingers. Of course my Dad reacted in a quick-thinking manner:

Dad: YOU WHAT?!
Me: MY FINGERS ARE UNDER THE TV
Dad: JUST DON’T FUCK THE TV UP
Me: I NEED MEDICAL ATTENTION

So I have this big fear of carrying heavy shit now, and Ronnie’s TV qualifies as that. But it turns out the TV wasn’t that big of a problem, so much as actually avoiding his cousins. I know I talk shit about kids, and I really do hate them and all, but rarely am I ever frightened of them, to the point where I want to just stay motionless so that they don’t spot me like some rabid animal and come charging at me and headbutt my cock. To give you an idea, the first experience I ever had with these children was having the smaller one run up to me, look at me, and stomp the living FUCK out of my foot. Of course, I tried to look like “aww aint that cute” as he drove his heel through my bone for the fifth time. It was hard not to just start screaming that I was probably bleeding internally from the sheer force of the stomps. But that’s okay, I’m a man. And I can cry later.

Everyone is busy moving the shit I’m supposed to be moving. There were more people than I expected, so I backed away and sorta just stood around. Ronnie’s friend Brad had came along so I let him do the grunt work. His hands seemed much less likely to break in half. But the children were doing their usual thing of causing havoc by throwing rocks at each other. At one point the smaller one starting throwing them at Brad, as I just cowered in fear waiting for one to come upside my head and cause massive cranial damage. A few seconds later I see a grey streak fly past, and hear an audible “CLUNK” from the direction my car was parked in. Brad turned and looked at me in that shocked sort of look you’d expect the kids to have if they had any sort of understanding of what they hit. I knew what they hit. I knew exactly what they hit. And somehow, I suddenly wished that rock had been upside my head.

But that’s okay, dented car and all, I swear when I get home, I’m going to review this book.

A friend of mine calls. She’s crying. “Oh fuck” I think. I’m a huge sucker for dames crying. Call it a character flaw, but any time a girl turns on the waterworks, I’ll sit and listen to what they have to say forever. I don’t know why. This time she’s going on about how, this is it, she’s finally broken up with her boyfriend. I’ve heard this before, but this time she actually seems relatively upset about it. I could have probably told her for months that it wasn’t going to work out, since the guy she was seeing was one of those types of guys that only see themselves in a relationship, and only bother to look at their partner when they’re horny or need their laundry done. You would think girls wouldn’t like that, and hey, they even say they don’t like it. They’re like, god I hate men like that’ I’d NEVER put up with that shit.

Women are lying whores.

STOP. YOU DESERVE YOUR PAIN

They’ll put up with it and they LOVE it. They fucking LOVE IT. It’s the only thing I can even gather if they’ll put up with it for months/years/decades on end, while continuously bitching about how much they hate it. So why not go out with a different guy, maybe one that isn’t a fucking ass? NEVER. That is not an option. Such speak is like the MADNESS.

So yes, this girl, is like, god she’s so upset. But I can’t tell her that, you know, maybe when your boyfriend moves an hour away from you, into a house with ANOTHER GIRL that perhaps she should TAKE THE HINT. But no, I can never say such a thing, as I am a friend, so I respond with “Man that sucks”. I say that a lot. It’s all I can think of. Perhaps she will be able to find another man that will treat her like a retarded step-child soon, like every girl does, and things will be happyhappy again. Just please stop crying, I need to try and stop caring.

Now, with relationship crisis #6743 out of the way, I swear to god, I’m going to review this book.

I decided to get some food so that perhaps I could think in some sort of way that doesn’t make the rest of my body hurt. Taco Bell seemed like a good idea, I think they still sell something close to food anyway. At least that’s what I remembered. Can someone tell me when Taco Bell started to substitute shit instead of meat for their menu? For real, it tastes like a Taco Bell employee just squatted and took a huge shit in my taco supreme, which looks more like the undead zombie equivalent of what a taco supreme should be. I was tempted to try the chicken taco thing, but god only knows how much cat testicles are in that. Burritos aren’t bad, but I’m thoroughly frightened of any food that I can’t see, so burritos are like a treasure trove of horrors. Every bite ends with me looking shocked and exclaiming GOD WHAT IS THAT and it turns out to be a bean or something. I also saw someone eating one of those Mexican pizza things, and I just sort of laughed, as those are nothing more than crispy discs of ass that the empoyees must hang on the wall and just throw random shit at it and then give it to the customer once enough has accumulated on it.

Your tacos are made of sad

I’ve not been a big fan of Mexican food since I realized that just about any Mexican food you eat has the chance of slicing your neck open if you tend to not chew food up too well, which I don’t. I learned in High School how to eat fast as hell in my ten minutes I had to eat lunch, so chewing became something more of a thing I do when I eat with other people and simply don’t want to look disgusting and make them vomit. This was further backed up when I went out with my Aunt and my two cousins once to one of those fancy Mexican resturaunts. Like the ones that don’t have value menus. It was bullshit cause I didn’t know what half the shit on the menu was and I think I accidentally ordered a dog the way the host looked at me. So our food gets there and I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m eating, when I start to hear my cousin begin choking wildly.

She’s got something stuck in her throat. She can’t breathe. She’s got that whole wide-eyed “I’M DYING” look on her face. The entire restaurant is now firmly concerned. I even stopped poking my dog entree. My Aunt, being the concerned, in the know parent (Taking after my Dad I think) does the only thing she knows to do:

She starts punching the living fuck out of her.

Like, straight in her stomach. Just, fucking punching her. My cousin’s eyes went from “I’M DYING” to “WHAT THE FUCK” in a matter of seconds. To her credit though, it worked. Too well. Because not only did that nacho come back up, but everything else my cousin had eaten in the last week. Forcefully. All over the table. Like, the kind of puke that you could only dream of. I think I saw some come out of her eye sockets. I think the best part about it all, was that after she was done punching the shit out of her daughter and watching her vomit through every hole in her face, my Aunt acted like nothing had happened. All in a day’s work. The rest of the customers just looked at each other as the waiters scrambled. Needless to say, I didn’t finish my dog.

But enough of this, I have work to do, and I swear to god as soon as I eat my zombie taco, I’m going to review this book.

Tomorrow