LIFE OF MY STORY

I just started to work at a fast food restaurant in Tinton Falls, NJ and want to make public that I hate my fucking boss already.  This cock-sucker watches everything I do and instead of helping me figure shit out, he writes my mistakes down on a chart and then has the nerve to report it to his boss.  I’m not fucking up because I’m dumb.  This is my first time doing this dog-shit work and I sometimes forget shit.  Keep pushing me and see what happens.

In summer of ‘94, I was doing construction inside a NYC subway station.  It was the night shift and I was practically alone, allowing me to get away with anything.  So I began getting away with just about everything: indoor barbecues that we blamed on the homeless, drinking on the job and cheating death by coming ever so close to the third rail.  The third rail in subway tunnels is the one you’re not supposed to touch because it will electrocute you.  What we used to do was get drunk and shit on the third rail.  It was our thing… and we were proud of the stink we created.  A stink so bad it could wake the dead.  Oh the summer of ‘94.

I was in a friend’s car a few nights ago when I discovered she’s been using her center console as a garbage since 2002.  “Have you emptied it out?” I asked.  “No, and I don’t want you to go through it because there may be incriminating photos.”  It turns out when she was in college, someone took pictures of her performing a particular sexual act on a guy that she threw away in her center console.  Some days following the sexual act, she found purple spots on her throat.  Fearing an STD, she was both relieved and embarrassed to discover they were bruises.

We all presume that picking your nose in public is rude and uncalled for.  I personally don’t find anything wrong with it.  I even like to pick my nose hairs out with my two fingers.  If I don’t have tweezers on me, I will obsesses for the rest of the day about getting that nose hair out.  Can picking your nose be an exception for what is deemed as civilized living?

I once spent an entire week thinking I had herpes.  On a Monday a few redish, mosquito-like bumps popped up on my junk.  By Tuesday, the colony had grown and began making its way down to the scrotum/grundel area.  Itchiness began on Wednesday and by Thursday, I had scratched the area into a bonafide chew toy.  Everything seemed to point to an STD, so I decided face the music. I explained to the doctor lady that I was not currently sexually active.  After inspecting the situation, she asked, “Have you been camping recently?” No (but i did pass out drunk in the woods on Saturday night). “Reason I ask… this isn’t herpes Sean, it’s poison ivy.  And from the looks of it, an infected case. I’m gonna write you a prescription for some clinical Hydrocortisone.  Apply once in the morning and again before bed.” “Oh wow, that’s great news; I was so nervous,” I exclaimed. “You’re going to be fine Sean.  In the future, make sure you wash your hands before masturbation.”

Every time I go to Penn Station in NYC and go to buy a ticket back to New Jersey, I’m in a terrible hurry because it’s in my nature to be late.  And every time, as I’m fishing for my money, some fucking homeless woman comes right up and tries to spark a conversation about why she needs the money in my hand more than I do.  Fuck them.  I don’t care if you think I’m a dick.  I give homeless people money when I have the money to give and I opt in to give it; not when they come up and annoy the fuck out of me when I’m in a rush to make the 3:14 train to Long Branch.

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Last night, I made a trip to Christopher Llyod’s Fun House in upstate New York.  When you get there, the ride starts off at the front door and ends in his bedroom.  Once in the bedroom, Christopher Llyod molested me and everyone I came with.  Telling people about this dream is not getting the sympathetic reaction I hoped for.

I keep getting into this situation with girls where for some reason, I fool them into thinking I have a twin.  It’s the lowest way possible to fish for compliments… if they say your twin ‘must’ be attractive, that reflects on you.  This past time, I noticed something new.  When I describe my phantom twin, he possessed the following qualities: being reserved, works for a charity and lives at home with my family.  Only tonight did I realize I have been describing who I want to be.