Blog Death

I don't anticipate posting to this with any regular frequency in the upcoming months, thanks to my attempt to focus on studying for some arbitrary test. Think of it as a quarter beat rest in the composition that is my life. As the saying goes: I'll see you on the other side. Adios.

Foot Fetish

I have heinous feet and toes. I would be willing to bet you do too. I think that shoe salesman job during college scarred me permanently because I can no longer look at them. Some resemble meat hooks; others resemble long piano-like fingers. Some are stubby and others bring to mind little pigs in a blanket. Few things on Earth make me as ill as looking at a woman’s feet and toes as she enters the train. For some unknown reason after the month of May, women are required to wear sandals, flip-flops, and open-toed shoes. They are unseemly! Don’t get me wrong; there are some nice feet in the world but they don’t travel the subways in Gotham. Most of them are so disgusting that you get ill when you look at those little aliens hanging over the side of the shoe touching the filthy ground, but like a car crash I cannot divert my eyes. I’m getting nauseated just thinking about it. My gag reflex would appreciate it if autumn would hurry along and cover those mutants in boots.

Baffling Bullsh*t

Your blog is slightly more tolerable than mine; mine is the gum that you step in during your walk to the subway. I won't be fooled! I refuse to be baffled by your bullsh*t. It may have worked at that small New England University, where you were a journalism major, but I can't stand reading it anymore. It's sloppy. I know you think you're being creative but the result is superfluous, loud, and void of substance. Try being concise. Try saying what you mean. You have cleverly disguised countless run-ons, incorrect comma and semicolon usage, and excessive exclamation points with allusions to old scotch and typing in your bed. I'm no better. Despite claiming that our relationship is over, I'm compelled to read you. You're like the Real World for me. Damn it. I hate you and the grip you have over me.

Pet Rock

Some brilliant business man, and I use the phrase generously, placed a bunch of rocks in a box and sold them as Pet Rocks. The sale of many of these pets proved once again that people hate money and are willing to part ways with it. If your money burdens you, give it to me. Easy enough.

7 Train

John Rocker's disparaging remarks, while grotesque and deplorable, were not entirely inaccurate.

Still Life

There's something heartbreakingly beautiful about fruit set on a table top, or even in a bowl, depicted on canvas unveiling imperfections and discolorations. Don't even mention flowers in a vase...Oh, how you mock me Vincent, with those sunflowers teasing and reminding me that it's summertime.

Some People

...get so uncomfortably lucky that it suffocates me. These are the people that hit the genetic lottery. I'm not talking about people birthed with Brad Pitt or Megan Fox looks. I'm referring to the super mediocre human beings that have no outstanding traits aside from being birthed by uber-wealthy parents. They are neither a liability nor source of pride to their parents; they just are. It could be disastrous; they could be like Michael Douglas's son. They usually wander through life with a menial job and barely noticeable social skills. Then the fateful day comes, which is simultaneously the most tragic and financially liberating day of their lives, when their parents die. Instantly their normal lives are transformed into those of lottery winners. I can't really fault them for never really knowing how much their family had socked away over the years, or maybe they veiled their riches with their choice of occupation. The end result is the million dollar apartment, paid for in cash, located on 57th and Park. Excuse me, I don't think I can continue writing this entry. I need to go to the restroom to battle this involuntary sickness that's suddenly come upon me.

Holocaust Fears

"Did you know that the president has his own private military?" Steve questioned in lieu of his normal morning greeting. "No, I had no idea," I replied. "Go ahead and Google it. Google 'President Obama private military'."

After I had eaten my lunch, Steve and I cordially met in the bathroom. I hoped he had forgotten his suggestion of that particular search topic and continue relieving myself at the urinal. He intentionally waited at the sink for me to wash my hands, and at the sight of my blue shirt remembered his greeting. "Did you Google what I told you?" "Yeah," I said. Waiting for a response, Steve pushed, "Well...?" "Oh, that doesn't really surprise me. It's not like he has them sitting around the White House and Camp David playing capture the flag. I think they are stationed in high tension areas all over the world." Infuriated, Steve raised his voice, "What is this Nazi Germany? Hitler had troops throughout Europe. Obama is Hitler." Simply shocked I stated, "I wouldn't go that far, Steve." Steve walked away disgusted, mumbling things to himself under his breath, completely aware that I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction he was so desperately seeking. I cannot understand his reaction. It was as if someone had told him that Santa Clause doesn't exist.

This is why I hate discussing politics. Compound the topic of politics with the Holocaust and mix that with the work environment and you've got yourself an explosive HR Bomb. How about them Yankees?

Currently Reading

I am currently reading The Elements of Style, by William Shrunk Jr and E.B. White, which confirms my defeated libido.

Less Tired

"TIRED OF BEING TIRED?" is the slogan that Lance Armstrong endorsed in an add that was adjacent to the Bill Simmons article I was reading. The truth is, I can't remember the last time I wasn't tired. Tired of work. Tired of my routine. Tired of not sleeping soundly at night. Tired of my future. Sometimes I feel like this constant state of "tired" hamstrings me. I could probably be one of those famous people that gets profiled in that famous magazine that you read, if I wasn't always tired. Recently the spectrum has ranged from tired to the point of fatigued and borderline exhaustion and less tired at best. I no longer wake up feeling refreshed and eager to tackle the day. I now wake up and try to determine whether today should be a green tea or coffee day and which crutch would be more appropriate. I'm guessing this is partly attributed to the fact that I haven't exercised in a long time, but you know how that can be, so tiring. In addition to the lack of physical exertion, I haven't necessarily been eating well, but then again there's the point that I'm too tired to make anything other than pb&j. At a quarter century I'm starting to accept that maybe the best I'll ever be is less tired.

Fashion Accessory

For the life of me, I cannot understand why any male or person other than a 13 year old girl would wear a cell phone, on a belt in a pleather case, around his waist as if it was a fashion accessory. Maybe it compliments his spectacular khaki, button-down, and Sketchers ensemble that he has perfected in the name of "business casual."

Proposed Legislation

The following is a suggestion for the proverbial suggestions box: if an employee, dwelling in NYC, earns a salary of $55k or less per annum [regardless of profession] he/she is subject to "Summer Fridays."

Study Habits

Confession: In approximately two weeks I will commence studying for the GMAT. I realize this is a complete 180 degree turn from my prior stance on the merits of business school in this type of economic climate. I also realize that my life will become unavoidably depressing in upcoming days, but maybe I like that. Maybe I take comfort in sulking. Maybe I'm just masochistic, or more accurately find pleasure in the torture.

I keep telling myself that I need to hit the reset on this Nintendo game that is my life, and studying for this test appears to be a logical first step. There is only one problem. I have no idea how to go about studying. I haven't formulated a plan, and as you well know, without a plan there can be no attack. I didn't exactly own the SATs, and I'm positive that scoring above 700 will take nothing short of an act of God. So in preparation of my, well, preparation, I've been obsessing over GMAT blogs and forums, which only adds to this nauseating feeling that is festering in the pit of my stomach. Surprised aren't you? My obsessive and neurotic behavior rules the day, yet again.

At least after this 3-4 month process I'll be able to rule some options out. If I score over a 700, I will continue the process of applying to business school. If I don't score quite as well, I'll just scrap the whole idea and start again from scratch. What can I say? I'm a slave to futility.

Serendipity & Apartments

I cannot conjure up anything more irritating than searching for an apartment in NYC. To add insult to injury you always hear tales of these lucky floozies, who magically procure an "amazing" space either rent free or close to paying nothing. It seems to always be women that experience these serendipitous events or people that need least to have such fortune bestowed upon them. We minions are left to sorting through the tedious craigslist postings as if we were shopping at TJ Maxx for that item that our friends will never believe we have found among the rubble (read, racks of pilled sweaters and irregular-sized pants). I remember living in my grandparents' basement and drowning my brain in beer describing my "NYC apartment hunting" experience. I tossed out phrases like rentdirect.com, urbansherpa.com, individual management companies, and the hours spent scouring the dreaded CL. With a smile the girl would say something annoying, as she sipped her cosmo, like, "Oh, I was so lucky. I just got this job at a hedge fund and moved into my parents friend's loft in TriBeCa. He's a traveling musician and said I can stay there as long as I want, rent free." Excuse me while I go spit up blood because that smile may as well have been a swift kick to my almond shaped reproductive organs. Am I jealous and bitter? Absolutely. If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.

Roommate Love

Dear Meal Matrix,
I'd like to buy your parents a beer for copulating and birthing your peculiar ass. Happy Birthday! In honor of you, I will parade around our apartment shirtless, only wearing my sweater.

Yours Truly,
S.A.

Man Basket

Very few things are as emasculating as carrying the ultimate sign of bachelorhood around the grocery store, the man basket. It screams: I'm a little boy. Roaming the aisles with the plastic container means that you aren't wed and lack the super sperm required to reproduce. You shy away from that attractive woman that came directly after work and is wearing her pencil skirt and Rainbow sandals. Hopefully she doesn't see that you're a phenomenal chef when it comes to heating Bagel Bites or crafting one of your signature pb&j delights. A single man does not labor behind a cart. He doesn't have mouths to feed. Avoid the awkward stares that you'll receive and just go out 7 days a week for meals.

Spelling Errors

Usually when I type these entries I'm in a fog, and the result is a mess of words with unacceptable punctuation (or the lack thereof), spelling mistakes, and grammar that is usually likened to a kindergartner. In the past, I prided myself on being a capable speller but all of that has gone out the window. Here I am, a quarter century, and my spelling has become incomprehensible. I've tried to combat this downward spiral by voraciously reading. It hasn't worked. I sit here at work and misspell the same words on a daily basis. No matter how many times that little jagged red underline pops up, I can't spell beginning or address correctly. For some reason my mind sees beginning as correctly spelled: "b-e-g-i-n-i-n-g" and variations of address include: "a-d-r-e-s-s" and on certain days "a-d-d-r-e-s" appears correct. When I was younger definitely was an issue for me and I regularly receive emails that misspell the term. I guess certain people suffer from this affliction. My grandfather, a man I consider intelligent, struggles with apartment. I guess even brilliant savants have human flaws.

7 Years

I'm not superstitious, but I'm convinced that today is going to be uniquely awful for me. I don't believe in signs and think voodoo is the punchline of some horribly rehearsed joke, but today I'm thinking more about their merits. I took a shower later than usual. She yawned and stretched her arms over her head and out to the side and broke a mirror in my bathroom. At least I know what to expect for the next seven years of this sorry excuse I call a life. If that didn't confirm the curse, then surely it was dropping my 47 cents in change on the floor and scrambling to pick it up, already five minutes late for work. I grabbed my book, the cookies, and had put the keys in the door, when I remembered Weather on the 4s calling for a vicious downpour this afternoon, which caused me to double back for my umbrella. That's just bad luck, right? The cookies that she had baked and put in a Ziploc bag for me had fallen victim to the heat and humidity on my walk to the subway, and formed an unrecognizable smear of chocolate and peanut butter. Maybe it was my hurried jaunt to the subway that caused the bucket of perspiration to soak my undershirt and seep through certain unflattering parts of my cream shirt. This is beyond bad luck. This is destiny and I hope it's just temporary. I'd encourage you to avoid me at all costs, I wouldn't want you to "catch" what I've got, this disease. Like Ace of Base said, "I saw the sign."

iPhone Lust

On Saturday I signed a two-year contract. As a result, AT&T (with all of its dropped calls and shortcomings) owns the majority of my life, with Steve Jobs claiming the remnants. My phone, unlike me, is now smart. Here's to iSheeple.

Make-out Marathon

I had consumed three quarters of the Charles Shaw Shiraz she had left at my apartment, the remainder of a good night. I settled into my half of the couch, reserving a spot for my roommate on his half despite his absence. At approximately 9:10PM she sent me a text, inviting me to Williamsburg for drinks with her and her friends. She had taken the red eye back to Bradley, driven to White Plains, taken MetroNorth into Grand Central and met up with her good friend in Brooklyn. I battled the lethargic urge to wallow in my Shiraz drunk, and made it to the other borough. We exchanged pleasantries, caught up, she downed shots and beers, and then fessed up. See, I had always believed her when she maintained her posture as an asexual. I really had no reason not to, but then she shattered that notion with a simple sentence.

Friend: I had a make-out session with a 19 year old for 8 hours on a Lovesac.

S.A.: What the f*ck? [I look at her friend and confirm the fact as she displayed a laugh] No f*cking way. I'm going to call bullsh*t on that. I've known you since I was thirteen... Also nobody makes out for 8 hours. I'm sorry.

Michelle: What's even more ridiculous is that you timed this 8 hour make-out.

S.A.: Yeah, absolutely no possible way. Who does that? I mean when I time myself it's fairly simple. Eight seconds, and she's completely unsatisfied.

Friend: I made out with another boy for 6 hours after twelve hours of drinking and a softball game.

S.A.: Alright, I've heard enough.

The night stumbled on, and bottles of liquor were emptied, but nothing was really notable beyond that exchange.

Same Topic

While we are at it, why not discuss people that pronounce mature like "muh-toor." Last I checked, it was simply mature. Negotiate is another favorite of mine. It's not "neg-oh-see-ate," it's negotiate. I'm surely going to burn in hell for this, but I'll be laughing all the way to Hades.

Enunciating Days

It certainly is not "Mondy" or even "Tuesdy." Can't you speak, you degenerate? It's Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. These minor infractions have recently seized hold of me, and I'm not sure why, but can no longer be ignored. Of course I didn't correct the offender, I just jotted it down in this terrible little blog that nobody ever reads. I epitomize the term coward.

Pondering Veganism

Politics aside, being a militant vegan is awfully boring. It's like playing z-pong, when the rest of the world is playing PS3. No. Wait. That's a terrible analogy. You spend the majority of your life justifying your lifestyle, sitting on your stoop in Williamsburg inhaling toxic nicotine and tobacco. The alternative is eating at a vegan-friendly restaurant for what seems to be eternity, because the only thing waiting for you outside of the restaurant is that uncomfortable stoop. You're so strict and intent on this political statement that you can't even go to the local pub, like Clem's, to enjoy a pint with your friends and other hiptsers. You are destined to spend the prime of your life on that god damned stoop. Give me jail because I don't think I could handle militant veganism.

King's County

You do not need a passport to visit Williamsburg, a hipster enclave of Brooklyn, but be sure to dress appropriately. For girls, that means: skinny jeans, bangs, and an ill-fitted (read, baggy) top. For extremely skinny boys, that requires: at least one sleeve of tattoos, skinny jeans, Chuck Taylors Converse, a beard, and thick glasses that would make Woody Allen envious. When drinking at a bar, a woman thumbs her nose at cosmos and gulps a whiskey or gin drink. The hipster boy spends $4 for a Pabst Blue Ribbon. What did I order? Brooklyn Lager. I believe they call that "hipster fail."