I don’t like using bodega ATMs, but not because I’m afraid of getting my account hacked. I don’t practice caution in any area of my life and ATM selection is no different. I use the first ATM I see, whether it costs me $5.00 or it’s actually a dude in a pirate costume with a box over his head. If it’s there and I need money I’ll use it. There’s a reason why I’m poor.
What I hate about bodega ATMs is that even when I decline the receipt they still show me my balance at the end of the transaction. I declined the receipt because I specifically didn’t want to think about my lack of funds. What kind of fucked up monster programmed these things? He should be prosecuted for war crimes. We kill Osama and dump his body in the ocean but this guy walks free? What’s the difference between the two? There’s no justice in this world.
I’m not a fan of The Day You Realize Your Fingernails Are Too Long. The realization always happens in the morning, forcing you to walk around all day fidgeting with these long, disgusting reminders of your inability to care for yourself like an actual adult. I push on them with my thumbnail over and over again until they get these weird indentations in them. Then I rub my thumb over the indentations, completely disgusted with myself.
I don’t like doing this but I can’t help it. It’s like when you touch a canker sore with your tongue every five seconds even though it hurts worse than thinking about the love and guidance you never received from your father.
The other awful thing about this day is that it makes me feel like a fancy lady. I don’t like feeling like a fancy lady. In my mind’s eye I am a handsome man’s man, but it’s hard to keep up that illusion with my au naturel Lee Press-Ons. Do those still exist?
I love it when I unexpectedly catch a whiff of a good smelling female as she walks by. I could be thinking about some awful shit like my place in the Universe and the possibility that when I die I will cease to exist in any capacity, but if a pretty girl walks past me smelling good all that shit is out the window. It’s a total reset button situation.
And you know, I realize that’s a pretty creepy admission, but who are you to judge me? Look inside yourself. Deep inside. DEEPER! Yeah, right around there, next to the time you jerked off to late-night HBO programming while your brother was asleep in the same room. I think you’ll find you’re every bit as repugnant as I am. Probably more so!
Have you ever held in a poop for too long because you didn’t feel like getting up and expending the negligible energy it takes to shit? Then you get constipated because the poop is like “fuck you, now I’m never coming out”? You have, right? Does that mean you’re depressed? Should I see a shrink?
You know how you won’t jerk off for a few days if you think you’re going to get laid so you’ll be able to finish while you’re wearing that hideous bear trap known as a “condom”? I used to hate that, but it’s really not that bad once you get used to it. You can still think about sex and get hard-ons, which has its own merits, you just can’t finish. It’s only when you have your mind absolutely set on busting a nut that not busting a nut makes you want to napalm the local animal shelter. It’s all in your head, my friends.
That being said, it’s always a bitter, unsatisfying jerk when you have that first “I didn’t wind up having sex” jerk. “Yeah I guess I’ll touch myself while I watch three chicks blow a dude. Whatever. Go fuck yourself, Universe.”
Last Friday night I got a ticket for public urination. I was shit faced, obviously. I don’t think a sober person has ever gotten a ticket for public urination. The cop tapped me on the shoulder and said “Are you serious?”
I responded, “Oh come on, man.”
Then he said, “You’re seriously going to take a piss across the street from a parked police van?”
I obviously didn’t see the police van, and I was obviously completely hammered. Was this his first night on the beat? What kind of a question is that? I distilled these feelings into the response, “Go big or go home,” which seemed like a good idea at the time. If I could just charm the pants off the fat slob, maybe I could get out of it.
Unfortunately he didn’t find it hilarious nor did he let me off the hook for being such a chill guy. If this country made any sense at all they’d let you off for crimes up to and including armed robbery if you were witty enough while you were being arrested. It’s only fair. What are we, barbarians? I bet they’ve got this figured out in the Netherlands. And if you’re funny enough they probably up your state mandated paternity leave to two and a half years. The moral of this story is that we need socialism and we need it now.
WHERE IS MY BAILOUT?