Seriously? No. Nothing much has really happened since I last wrote, which was on Monday, I believe. I just like illiteration and there aren't too many times that you can pull that off with W's.
Tonight I decided to spend some time over my parents' house. I had a few loads of laundry to do, so I've been doing that all night. I know what you're thinking, that is fucking fascinating, please tell me more. Ok, I will. When I was folding my clothes, I discovered that I probably have one of the most strange habits ever. It has to do with my underwear, I will not stack the same pattern of undergarmet or the same pairs of boxers that I know that I've bought at the same time, back to back.
In other words, if there are two pairs of polka-dot undies, I need another pair to act as a buffer ... like a pair of stripes. And say I bought three pairs of boxers at the Gap one day, aside from the first three days of wearing those pieces of clothing, I will not consciously place them next to each other ever again.
As I was doing this, I tried to think of the genesis of this insane fixation that I have. I've come to the conclusion that while no one, with the possible exception of Aly, sees me in my boxers, I still think that someone may see me wear the same type of undies and chastise me for (what they perceive) as me wearing the same pair two days in a row.
Strange, I know, but there is no other way of explaining it ... though there is that theory that I've been kicking around that I'm screwier than a shit house rat, but that hasn't been proven yet. Or has it?
In other non-underwear news, Aly and I are signed, sealed and delivered to our new place. We move next weekend, so if anyone wants to help, you know my email address. We originally wanted to move in this weekend, but Pauline (who is the liason between us the landlord) said that they wanted to redo the floors.
That's awesome news, because they really looked like shit. We asked them to redo them last week and they said they would, for an extra $100 a month in rent. We told them to pound sand. BTW, that's a really funny expression, and we didn't really tell them that, we actually said, "No thank you." But, they're doing it for free anyway.
The strange thing about tonight, is that it's probably my last night ever staying at my house in Amesbury after work. Not like I do it every week or something, but I do it maybe once a month. It's sort of nice to get the old inflatable bed and sleep in the room that you spent almost 20 years of your life in and has since been turned into an office.
The funniest thing was on the day that I moved to Somerville about two years ago, I had everything on Central Street, but I forgot something. I flew back home (I wasn't even gone for five hours) and my dad had moved all his shit in MY room and erased every last vistage of who I was. That dude wastes no time, I guess.
It was sort of shocking because I always felt that my room would always be the way I had it ... sort of a museum to me. That's not the way it was though. And now that I think about it, I can't blame them. It's not like my father is Aaron Spelling and we live in a 100-room mansion. My parents' house has eight rooms (including a bathroom), why would you keep a bunch of crap on a wall that was considered tacky 15 years ago?
My boss has been going like crazy this past week. She's running around at a million miles an hour at all times of the day, and she's a stress case. I have no idea why, but I'm trying to stay the fuck out of her way. Even though I got an awesome review last week, in the back of my mind I'm waiting for her to call my in her office and bitch me out.
I don't know why, I've settled in quite well at my job, I know what's going on ... more importantly, I'm on top of shit, but there's that nagging suspicion that I have the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head just waiting to drop. I remember when Ryan and I worked together at the Journal, I told him that I work better when I'm paranoid.
At the time, I thought I was joking, but it's true. When I think I'm in trouble, I work better. It sucks though, because when I'm paranoid, I'm obviously nervous and that makes my stomach feel like shit. Apparently, have to feel like shit in order to succeed. Like Rye said when I told him that, "Paranoia will destroy ya."
I almost punched him in the face for that, but then I thought that my boss might be watching and got right back to work.
So my brother got his wisdom teeth out yesterday. He said it wasn't too bad though the right side of his face is swollen like a balloon. He was in the dentist's chair for no more than 20 minutes. And he didn't seem to be in a lot of pain when I saw him today.
When I got my wisdom teeth pulled, I was about 19-years-old and they were really impacted I guess. I went to the hospital and they knocked me the fuck out. The first thing I remembered was waking up in a hospital bed with my mom to the right of me. I said, "I have to piss" and just whipped it out and started peeing. My mom grabbed a bed pan and caught whatever was coming out of me.
So not only was I in terrible pain but my mother saw my junk. That's just fucking wonderful. The next three days were a complete blur except at night when I awoke with a gigantic pain in my mouth that took a handful of perscriptions to kill.
Not Jay though, he's full of piss and vinegar and is "bored out of his mind" because he's been stuck in the house for two days. That's what happens when your favorite thing to do is watch TV. I told him to read, he told me he hates reading. I told him to draw or paint a picture, he told me to drop dead. So I told him to go cry, that'll take some time.
Two other things, Jay doesn't have any insurance, so he paid for this entire operation out of his pocket. That has to be a kick in the balls. And according to the dentist he has 16 pin-prick cavities. SIXTEEN! Unless he's been eating sugar packets for dinner and washing them down with Jolt for the last five years I have no idea how he got 16 cavities.
After I reread this, I guess I did have more to say than I originally thought I did. Good for me!