Editor’s Note: In honor of the tenth anniversary of Fight Club being released, Jeff will be quoting wisdom in Durdenese for the duration of this episode of “As the Sober Movember Turns.”
“I ran. I ran until my muscles burned and my veins pumped battery acid. Then I ran some more.” I woke up really late for work yesterday. I mean I woke up at 7:10 and have a meeting every day at 7:15 late. Eight minutes later I was out the door after having put on pants and the bare-essentials of desmellification. And then I ran. I ran up the huge hill by my apartment, stopped for a second, pondered the idea of vomiting, and then ran up another hill. As it turns out, when you’re out of shape with a respiratory infection, your body doesn’t particularly seem to like the idea of running up steep inclines right away to start the day. Or ever. Let’s go with ever. Suffice it to say, I was still absurdly late to work. This is why I don’t work out—it obviously does nothing for me when I really need it. You know, the important stuff that I really need…like time-travel.
“He was full of pep. Must’ve had his grande-latte enema.” Despite the epically bad news I got at work yesterday, I’m in an absurdly chipper mood today. Cracking jokes, telling funny stories—you know, usual Jeff. Just the calm before the storm, I suppose. We’ve been informed that we have to start wearing absurdly neon-yellow high-viz vests in areas of high traffic at work. On the bright side (Get it? Get it?), they had hoodies of the same safety-classification at the Carhartt store, so at least I’m really fuckin’ cool while looking like a dweeb. Maybe this will be the next trend onto which the goddamn hipsters in this town will latch.
“A house full of condiments and no food… how embarrassing.” In a time not-so-far from now, I’m going to be cooking one of my standard “trying to impress a girl” meals. Let’s see what food I have in my fridge right now: turkey, mustard, horseradish, and individually-wrapped slices of cheese. A romantic dinner, this does not make. At least when the first gets here, I’ll have beer in there to help fill the void. Oh well, I still got six weeks.
“Hey, even the Mona Lisa’s falling apart.” Apparently this mustache stands out more now that I’ve started to regrow ye olde bearde. (After typing that sentence, I’m wondering why we don’t end nouns and adjectives with extraneous e’s more often—we’re gonna test it out for the rest of this paragraphe.) Anyway, I suppose that means that by “stands out more” they mean that it’s visible at all. Howarde told me that I should dye my mustache and sideburnes jet-blacke. That sounds like a fucking brilliante idea. Let’s me make me look even more awkwarde than I already do. Great. Thanks, asshole. (The grammarian’s ruling on the field stands as called. There shall me no superfluous e’s on the ends of words. They’re bothersome.)
“When you have insomnia, you’re never really asleep, and you’re never really awake. Everything’s just a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy…” I haven’t slept worth a damn in the better part of two weeks. When I have slept, and I hate my subconscious for this, I’ve had dreams about work. Last night, por ejemplo, I dreamt that my soon-to-be new second-level supervisor was here, but had a mangled, badly burned hand that he touched you with when you fucked up and it either turned you to stone or killed you (I don’t remember). I’m blaming this on being sick, but part of me wonders if my liver is just packed full of energy, having not had to act like a diesel-refinery in well over two weeks, that it’s keeping the rest of me from sleeping soundly. Fuck you, liver. Great vengeance shall be served for this injustice.
“All the ways you wish you could be, that’s me. I look like you wanna look, I fuck like you wanna fuck, I am smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not.” I was asked recently what I thought my personal tragic-flaw was. Naturally, as the guy who posts a picture of himself on his blog every day, I had damn well better say narcissism. I mean, let’s be honest here: I love me. A lot. Seriously, I just wrote 765 words comprising: a) my out-of-shapeness; b) my new hoodie and mood; c) how good of a cook I am; d) mustache and e) sleeping ability. It’s all me, all the time. But do you know what the worst part is? You’re validating it by reading this. So look at my mustache in all its narcissistic, self-aggrandizing glory!
Also, check this out. Coolest shit I’ve seen all week, even if it is about the Yankees.