I’m not quite sure how I’m doing it right now at work. But somehow, when deadlines roll around, I’ve developed the ability to just sit down and bang out stuff that the middle managers I answer to seem to love. I keep waiting for one of them to grab me by the shoulders and scream in my face “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Are you on drugs?!?!” But they never do. Instead I get “great job” and “I like what you’ve been doing lately.” I pulled off a couple of impressive feats today at the office, even though I’m not quite sure how I did it.
It makes me wonder if all of the weed and blow have been somehow beneficial. Huh. Imagine that.
Farrah Fawcett died today. When I was just a wee lad first discovering the joys of masturbation, I absolutely saluted Ms. Fawcett with the left hand on more than one occasion. I’ll always have a soft place in my heart (and hard place in my pants) for her.
Now we hear that Michael Jackson has had a heart attack and was found not breathing today. While I never jerked off to him (lol), his music has played a considerable role in my life. I mean, no more than most, I guess. But when I was really, really little, some of my first make-out sessions (up against the back wall of a certain ‘teen club’ in the suburban outskirts of a certain Midwestern city) happened while his songs played in the background. I remember really getting into this one girl, Tracy. We were tongue-locked for what seemed like an eternity, when the DJ finally relented and turned the lights back on and played a fast song (which in this case was MJ’s “PYT”). Tracy and I just stood there looking at each other in a daze, my bottom lip throbbing from her sucking and biting on it.
Fuck, sometimes I honestly miss being 15.
UPDATE: TMZ is reporting the Michael Jackson is dead. Fuck. I don't know why this is fucking with me so much. I saw that freaky bastard in concert once when I was a kid. It was all special and magical and every other cheesy thing his fans say about him. He delivered big-time. Fuck.
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