So today I wake up — very reluctantly I might add, after a 3 day weekend — and head into the shower where I had my 15-minutes of fame, and when I finish, I open the door to find a nice pile of dog shit on the rug outside the bathroom. My life is dominated by feces. So I got dressed, picked up the prize and put it out on the curb with the rest of the trash, then walked the dogs who provided me with some more gems to deposit.
On the train I got a nice empty seat and started reading my book (The Gold Coast by Nelson DeMille), and at the next stop 2 guys get on and sit down across the aisle from me. As usual for New York they do not speak in a quiet voice so I heard their whole conversation. Apparently one of them just got back from a trip to some kind of a resort (he mentioned 6-hour jet lag so I’m assuming thailand or Europe?) and his exploits there. As the story progresses it becomes obvious that he and his buddies were hanging out at a whorehouse. One of the hoes came out buck naked and yelled at him that “your friend need more money!” And he ended up giving her another $50 because the friend “needed more time.”
Long story short, the guy spent about 4 or 5 minutes bragging about how many whores he fucked. This has to be one of the worst things to brag about that I can imagine. I mean really, who could consider that an accomplishment?
I started getting sick last Wednesday and my cold or whatever it is peaked around Saturday, and by Sunday night I was starting to feel ok again. I stayed home from work on Friday (yay for VPN) to keep cow-orkers from getting sick, but I did manage to get everybody at home sick, which has made me unpopular there.
Also I found out my credit rating is no longer as wonderful as it once was; I guess being unemployed for 6 months took its toll in more ways than one. Also the motherfucking US Postal Service keeps fucking my mail up royally and I frequently don’t get my stuff, so I missed a bunch of bills.
Puffs Plus with Lotion = win for blowing the nose.