Thursday, March 10, 2005

Woahwuz me.

You're probably thinking I'm a pussy when I'm sick. You're probably right. Fuck you just the same. I'm headed to the office. I'll steal some corporate time and update this shit shortly.

******* Holyshit, he updated!********

In honor of St. Pat we'll be heading over to Papa's tonight, a local
karaoke bar. I even talked Jasmine into going and mingling with the
office folk. The BM stopped picking up the tab for office outings two
quarters ago but that also means he stopped showing up for as long so
it's still a winning scenario. Flaccid sack of shit.

I've been practicing in my truck on the way to work, clearing my lungs
with a little a capella. Sing it loud, sing it proud. I'm an
amazing singer. As far as you know. Jasmine will probably sit with
the boys and try to remain inconspicuous, like I'm gonna let that
happen. I'm'll have to get my groove on tonight. She'll hate it.
I'll love it. Damn, life is great.

Odd, the sickness is all gone. Raging high fever, little mucus,
pounding head and 72 hours later perfectamundo. That's how it is,
right there. Fucking virus screwing around with my T-cells. My
T-boys whipped some ass.

Our neighbor across the street suddenly moved this week. Not one damn
word was said to me. He's a pro-golfer and has invited me to shoot
some holes with him several times. Hell, free golf is worth a few
hours of bad jokes. His wife was all right, little bitchy about his
sports car fetish, but hell it's better than a hooker fetish. Gotta
pick your battles, ya know. I would have expected him to say
something any of the dozen times we talked over the week about the
fact that he was moving. But nope. Motherfucker snuck out during
business hours and vanished. Turns out the wife came back a day later
to get some things and told Jazz they moved up to a big 3500 sq ft
house a mile away pricing in the quarter mil range.

"Why didn't Dave say anything to me?"

Jasmine shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't like you."

That hurt. And even though I think she's wrong, (who wouldn't like
me?) it's been bothering me all week. After six years of
living side by side, the son of a bitch up and left without even a
"bite my ass, half breed." This po' white trash redneck ain't upscale
enough for him? Allow me to pick my drawers out of my ass while I
send him a big "up yours, bitch." See if I accept another offer of
golf from him again. Unless it's at Tour 18 in which case I'll be the
bigger man.

Maybe I'll sing Madonna's "Like a Virgin" to Jasmine tonight. At 20
weeks along, she is unmistakably not.