Fried-Daze: I'm Drinking Milk

Monday night was pleasant and somewhat cathartic. You should never underestimate the rejuvenating abilities of spilling your guts to someone who absolutely does not give a shit. The entire mental health profession is built on the concept. I prefer for my therapists to be barely dressed and have Eastern European accents. To each their own.

I have absolutely no recollection of Tuesday at all. None. I remember being in the office at three in the morning while the thunder shook the entire trailer and then I remember Wednesday. That's all.

Wednesday I hit the youth room, taught the kids to play Farkle (although the voracity of my score keeping can come into question), had a much needed long overdue conversation with Mrs.K, and then stopped at the Wiz for a quick drink. (Lesson to be learned, you want me to buy a round of shots all you have to do is send me a text message that says "Wiz?" and wait fifteen minutes or so. I didn't even know who texted me, yet within a half hour I was knocking back a shot of Knob Creek and moving on to whatever was next.)

Thursday we took a look at some new busses, I was proven right about something I knew I was right about all along, and I ducked out a bit early to go to High Mountain for my sister's lip-sync. Back in 6th grade I did a lip-sync when it was student council only activity. It was fun, but we actually lip-synced. These kids just dance around and make asses out of themselves. There were a few good ones, but for most of the night Rookie and I sat in the back and cracked jokes. Last week at my sister's dance I saw Rookie and a couple of his buddies sitting on the steps. I jokingly admonished them for their ridiculously long hair and told them they all needed haircuts. Last night I saw two of them, one had buzzed his head and the other had cut his hair really short. I chuckled. Afterwards I wandered for a bit and commited a sufficient number of sins to ensure that my final judgement will, at the very least, be interesting.

This morning I was at the liquor store (more on that later) and on my way out I saw Forti and his wife walking with their new baby. I hadn't seen the baby in person yet, but now that I have I can assure you that she's just as cute as the pictures. After a few minutes of chatting I was off to the bakery to pick up a cake. See it was our yard guys 50th birthday last week and we'd missed it. He's a good guy, little slow, drinks too much. But a good guy. So to make up for it we bought everyone lunch, picked up two birthday cakes, and I stopped at the liquour store and bought him two cases of Heineken and a mini-keg. It gets time to cut the cake and we give him the beer and my father hands him a small black bag. When he opens the black bag inside is an inflatable sex doll. I don't know what creeps me out more, that my 70 year old father thought it was appropriate to give one of his workers an inflatable sex doll for their birthday or that he apparently knew where to buy one. After lunch I hit up the bank, and stopped by the barbershop. My hair had grown into an unruly mop in the past month and I needed to get it chopped down to size. I haven't really shaved my head since I started balding so today I figured fuck it and had it buzzed to a 3 1/2. I figured the baldspot would show pretty clearly (and it does) but what I wasn't figuring on was the gigantic bald patch below the baldspot. The barber pointed it out before he cut there so I wouldn't think he did, and then reminded me that I mentioned last time that my hair had been coming out in clumps before telling me that I should probably get that looked at. Fuck. I thought I was past that. Either way I'm not worried about how it looks. I'm a fat old balding man. My haircut is the least of my worries.

And now I'm sitting at my desk drinking milk for some reason and wondering what I'm doing for the next few days. Whatever it is I'm sure it will be a blast...and somehow end up costing me thousands of dollars just like everyone else.

And a final note before I go...to whoever (if they do exist) was so kind as to worry about me out loud to a common friend in the past weeks, good looking out. Totally uneccesary but good looking out. I've never really restrained myself in the stupid little things I write here, even when I know people are reading. It just would seem sort of dishonest. Sometimes I reword things, or dance around others, but I rarely restrain myself. Sure there are no longer posts with titles like "Things To Masturbate to While Drunk" and no longer stories that start with lines like "So there was this deaf girl with a gigantic dildo.." or "There I was, trying to get this Jehovah's witness to blow me..." but that largely reflects my ever mutating sense of humor, and not some new found late blooming sense of self-restraint. I am, as I always have been, an intensely and passionately honest and upfront person. There's nothing about me that the whole world can't know if they don't ask the right questions. I've got nothing to hide and plenty of (mostly shitty) stories to tell. But do not let this barely edited, rarely censored, often unfiltered slice of my mind confuse you in any way shape or form about the voracity with which I attack every aspect of my life. My name is Christian Palomba. I am many things. But above all...I'm still here.