This week (and last week) have been mind-numbingly slow and boring at The Bank; to the point where I've nearly outright told my coworker (Biggie J.), "dude, shut the door, I'm taking a nap in the storeroom." Though not quite ballsy (yet) enough to go that far, I stayed fairly true to the regular schedule of (non) events and routines at work. Merely add in more smoking more coffee, longer lunch breaks, more minutes of (literally) staring at the ceiling/floor/my scuffed shoes, and minus the thinking about the Lebanese woman and you get a pretty true picture of my past five to six days at work.
My eyes are starting to bug and burn from surfing the Internet. I looked up Harvey Milk and Rastafarian on Wikipedia (to give some learning to Z. who happened by to hang out for his lunch break (Ramadan, he's fasting). Mainly been listening to a lot of Peter Tosh and
Jimmy Cliff and The Cure on the way home. Put that in your Freud-blender and analyze the smoothie which comes out, eh?
Bottoms up, face down, right?
So, anyway, I'm doing the regular cruise through Gapers Block, Chicagoist, and Gawker, half reading and half nodding-off, and I leave a comment on a Gawker Post. I click "SUBMIT," and watch the usual "your comment has been received and will appear shortly" and mumble "yeah, right! douchebags" [kidding, I totally love you sexy beasts!] knowing that it won't.
But then it does! My comment pops right-the-fuck-up immediately! I hop back into my chair, yelping "whoa!" which causes Biggie J. to look over and say, "somethinghppnnskurry?" (sorry, he talks as if his tongue is 3 times too big for his mouth, like translating an undead mummy some days).
"No, man, every thing is cool, just something happened I was hoping for, but wasn't expecting."
Thus, when I got home:
FUCKING GAWKER ACCEPTANCE (fake) DANCE PARTY USA!!!
I don't know what/why/exactly when this happened, but Awwww Yeah! After months of "auditioning" (Holy Peter North, I'm happy it didn't include the "editor's couch"), I am here/er-there!
Maybe an intern had a really great bathroom lunch and clicked the wrong button; maybe My Cock was holding me back (add that sentence to the above Freudian Smoothie), but then he left Gawker; maybe Krucoff had his way (he likes Punk, maaan, he gets me) and signaled a GO; or maybe Choire took pity on a drunken Chicago schlep.
Like I said, I don't know what caused it, but I make a vow:
I will be witty. I will be snarky. I will be shallow. I will compose snipes and gripes to the best of my ability. I will make people I don't know proud!
And then I found a bug in my salad and nearly vomited in the breakroom.
Yin and muthafuking Yang, people!