You know how it's 99% disgusting to throw-up? It stinks, burns, splashes everywhere, makes your eyes water, and cramps up your stomach muscles. BUT, there is the 1%. That far corner of your mind that you don't want to admit is there in the middle of your five alarm fire of hot mess. It is the part that is enjoying the vomiting process. Hopefully, my blog is that 1% .

Monday, December 7, 2009


Ever notice how time slows to a crawl in the midst of an adrenaline rush? All of your senses are heightened and in tune. Your eyes grow to the size of hockey pucks to observe and process as much information (for example how in the hell some white-trash-farmer-tan-redneck-thinks-”I-have-culture-because-I-read-the-entire-label-on-my-bud-light-suitcase” is driving a fucking 7 series BMW?) as quickly as possible to reflexively help you survive. Like when you are behind the wheel and you realize that you haven’t watched the road for almost 1 full minute (maybe you were making eye contact with the she-male prostitute that was giving you road-head) and you look up only to realize that there is no way to avoid an accident (that’s twenty bucks you’ll never see again).

Your brain’s insistence of turning each second into an eternity is God’s cruel joke (along with making you suffer at a dead-end job with no potential for advancement because you refuse to laugh at your asshole boss’s lame homophobic “jokes” that Jerry pretends to find hysterical because, after-all, that is how he got a corner office and key to the executive lounge, while you just keep your nose down and work your ass off and consume a steady diet of Hot Pockets in your drabby, devoid-of-life gray cubicle while nobody notices. Well that’s enough of that shit, from now on, I’m just gonna thoughtfully gaze at my computer as I update my Facebook with bullshit statuses of weekends in Vegas getting comp’ed the penthouse at Circus-Circus with a stable full of fine ass slims and a mountain of coke so big I needed a Sherpa to help me reach the summit all the while pretending to work on the Gilmartin Account) of giving you just enough time to be conscious of the fact that you just shit your pants. I wonder how many people have been fatally injured in a car crash with last thoughts that their limp bodies were soon to be discovered with full loads of poop in their britches? Yoga and meditation asks us to live in the moment and I guess that these lucky crappers were doing just that.

No comments:

Post a Comment