Don’t Take Me Home Until I’m Drunk

With the recent amount of actual news and reporting on KAB, I imagine the bullshit they let me put on here will seem even more out of place than usual. 

“I sabotaged her computer so she would have to call me to fix it.  That way I’d get to talk to her.  Oh, and I connected to her computer and went through all of her stuff of course.”
“What?  Really? Why don’t you just go and talk to her Matt?”
“Lopez, I don’t want to seem like a creep.”

I think I still have a bit to learn about this whole courtship thing.  In my defense, if the other help desk guy hadn’t shown up to work early that day and fixed her computer before I had the opportunity to, it may have worked out.  What can I say?  I’m a romantic.

Actually, it wouldn’t have worked out because as it turns out, Cute Girl Who Works In Sales has a boyfriend, which makes sense – most cute girls have boyfriends.  I found out about the boyfriend situation when, two days later, her computer broke all on its own, and I came skipping in to fix it with bright eyes and a big stupid smile on my face.  I felt like a fucking butterfly I was so happy. The stars had aligned for sure, I thought. And oh boy, they aligned all right. They lined right up to fuck me in the ass.  Thanks stars.  In the end I got turned down for lunch through an email. It could have been worse I suppose; she could have sent me a fax.

I think I need to find out how to differentiate between when a girl is flirting with me, and when she is trying to giggle at my bad jokes in an attempt to cope with how terribly awkward I am around pretty girls.  What I’ll do is start hitting on ugly bitches.  Wait, hear me out.  Trust me, this is scientific; I’m not lowering my standards.  I’m doing research.  Stand back while I attempt science folks…. If I go and make my bad jokes around the unattractive chicks and they act the same as the hot chicks, I know the hot chicks are flirting with me because I won’t have the “talking to a pretty girl awkwardness” about me.  I’ll just be normal semi-awkward Matt.  This is legit.  I’m serious.  I’ll wear a fucking lab coat when I do these studies.  There will be charts, graphs, and lots of arrows pointing at things.  I was a hard science major.  I rocked an A in advanced physics lab.  This will be as easy as pushing an old lady down a flight of stairs.

All of this is to build confidence.  Bitches loooooovvve confidence (bitches also like it when you put a lot of repeating letters in words to emphasize them). Then I’ll be able to continue my research even further.  More charts, more graphs, and even bigger arrows.

It will all culminate in a formula.  It’ll probably be logarithmic – it’s always fucking logarithmic.  It won’t be some bullshit unification theory formula either.  I don’t give a shit about the four fundamental forces.  This will be way better. This will be the equation to women, and therefore the equation to ultimate happiness.

Want to know why your girlfriend left you?  Solve for x asshole.  Bam.  There you go.

Hey, why does my girlfriend seem to ask me questions there is no right answer to?  Integrate with respect to time motherfucker.  Boom.  There’s your answer. Ah yeah.

Then I’ll just patent it, sell it to the highest bidder, and make many men happy. It will be as if Rogaine fucked Viagra – better than curing prostate cancer.  Life solved.  I’ll die happy for sure.

And thus we come to the end of the formula – not the impossible formula for understanding the eccentricities of the female mind, but the formula for everything I ever write for KAB.  Start with something outlining a serious point, expand on it to the point of absurdity, and hide it under a wrapping of profanity. When the dust settles, conclude with a short paragraph of honest inner reflection.  Mention how you drink too much. Allude to how despondent you feel.  End with a few words of apathetic observation.  It’s an easy equation to solve, though the answer is hardly worth the effort.

… until I’m very drunk indeed.

I’m Trying To Find This Girl

There was this girl in middle school who was pretty, and nice, and she talked to me once.  That was enough for me to fall in love with her.  I’d like to think I’ve matured since then but that’s still about all it takes.  By my count, I fall in love on average about four times a week.  Sometimes I sneak in a stipulation regarding intelligence in an attempt to augment my standards but I often find my regard for it muddled in the sub-conscience desire I have to put my penis in, on, or at least next to the girl in question.  It’s not a conscience choice because I’m so self deprecating that even in a state of reverie I can’t get laid.  In my imaginary world, that I have complete fucking control over, I somehow manage to shit all over everything.  I end up with a modest fantasy about getting coffee with a girl I know nothing about, and with Pygmalion like control, shape her as I see fit, chiseling away the imperfections and filling in the cracks until she is perfect.  Having carved a woman from ivory who is far too good for me, I am of course rejected and am forced to go home and masturbate myself to sleep.  But that’s in my fantasy.  In real life I’m actually masturbating fantasizing about masturbating after rejection.  Rejection itself seems great but I never get that far.  It’s very confusing.  It’s like watching Inception but with your dick in your hand and considerably more crying.

I blame all of this on Marry Poppins of course.

You’d like me to explain that wouldn’t you?  Okay.

Every person around my age or younger had that one movie they would watch over and over again as a child.  Usually around the age of three or four we would come across a cartoon, fall in love, and that’s all we’d ever want to watch for the next year.  I think this might be the first thing we ever love actually.  I didn’t know this until about a month ago, or maybe I had banished it to the deep, dark recesses of my forgotten nightmares, but when I was four years old my cinematic love affair was with a retarded musical by the name of Mary Poppins.

Sweet merciful Christ, there’s no way that didn’t fuck me up, right?  You might be able to watch that movie a couple times and still maintain your sanity, but not everyday for a year straight.  This rosy cheeked nanny, who clearly dabbles in cocaine as much as she does witchcraft, comes down from the clouds on a fucking umbrella, blows a bunch of little old ladies down the street, and then has the audacity to declare herself perfect in almost every way like she’s the the second coming of the messiah.  She’s a selfish, disciplinary bitch who is about as pompous as the pope and is so implausibly happy she can actually sit through a fifteen minute dance routine between five animated, indentured penguins and a lunatic chimney sweep pretending to be a penguin.

I’m surprised I have my shit together as well as I do now.  It should be considered child abuse to let that happen.  Make me watch racist shit like Dumbo.  Hell, make me watch Dwarf Goes Fishing or Ernest Scared Stupid.  Anything.  But Mary Fucking Poppins?  Really?  Children are very impressionable at that age.  It surely messed with my developing brain.  I have undoubtedly been carrying around some serious mental baggage from it that will stick with me until I die, like one of those nasty STDs you get from banging a Tai hooker.  Instead of letting your kid watch Mary Poppins, do them a favor and just give them herpes instead.  They’ll be better off.

But instead of having a parent who loved me and would never do that to an innocent child, I was subjected to a crazed musical countless times over and now I am incredibly attracted to Marry Poppins.  That’s the amazing part.  It freaks me out but I can’t help it.  Maybe it’s something about her outfit and the way she speaks.  She’s all proper and has a nice British accent.  She has really great hair too.  And nice hats.  That has always sort of done it for me.  It’s enough for me to excuse the fact that she probably abuses LSD on a regular basis.  In my defense, when the film came out Julie Andrews was only 29, so not all that much older than I am now.  I tested to see if maybe I just have the hots for a young Ms. Andrews.  I threw on The Sound of Music.  Nothing.  I actually sort of hoped the Germans would kill her whiny, singing ass.  Victor Victora?  Too old already.  Cinderella?  She was my age in that film but I’m not feeling it.  No, I don’t care for Julie Andrews.  That’s not it at all.

While I was visiting Albany over the holidays, one of my best friends had me chart out my ideal woman.  He thinks I’m a sad, lonely bastard who drinks too much and needs a nice girl to make me happy.  This activity was supposed to help.  It involved describing this elusive damsel’s disposition, personality, interests, tastes, desires, and of course her body.  I had to come up with places I might meet her, the first thing I’d say to her, and how I might go about seeing her again.  It filled up several pages of a Moleskin and took multiple cups of coffee to finish at the Ultraviolet Cafe (trying desperately to relate this to Albany somehow).  Of course I just had to run Mary Poppins through this gauntlet of dissection.  She didn’t do too well.  She got points for her looks and having a fashionable wardrobe.  I figured she can cook pretty well and probably has a nurturing side even if she is a total cunt.  Personality suffered a dreadful loss however.  I doubt we’d have much in common.  I definitely wouldn’t be running into her outside a Scorsese flick.  But I don’t care.  I still want to do nasty, perverted things to her.

This has been a difficult revelation for me to live with.  For the longest time as a child, being raised by an athiest, whenever people talked about God, I thought they were talking about Godzilla and they were just abbreviating it.  When I found out what they were actually talking about I was very confused and my insides felt funny.  That’s how I’ve felt the last month.  Maybe I’m overreacting.

I think this might have leapt the boundary from comical into bizarre.  Actually, I think it sprinted across that boundary naked almost five paragraphs ago.  I’m writing this with my friend Jim Beam and he whispers peculiar things in my ear while I’m trying to think – stops the dogs from barking at least.  I suppose I’ll just end with a warning: If there are any pretty, nice, optionally intelligent girls out there (preferably with a Mary Poppins costume), who are willing to talk to me, prepare to be fantasized about in really weird ways.

Where You Went Wrong

Up until this point in my life I had been working towards something.  The only time I remember differently was as a small child but as I’ve grown older and started drinking like a total fucking lunatic almost every night, I find myself resorting more towards that infant state.  Drunken Matthew and Matthew circa 1988 have remarkably similar habits.  I fall asleep in positions that no one in their right mind would describe as comfortable.  I can’t form a coherent sentence.  Get grumpy for no reason.  Storm out of rooms mumbling. Talk to stuffed animals.  Yell at doors.  Throw things.  Drool on myself.  Wake up and can’t find the bathroom and cry about it, or even worse, wake up covered in my own urine (at least I hope it’s my own urine).  The more I drink the more I have in common with toddlers.  The only possible conclusion is that I’ve found the fountain of youth, out of which pours forth a time traveling elixir known as alcohol.  I can’t say I have a lot of substantial evidence or logic to back this as a scientific theory but I’m prepared to continue my research with an utter disregard for my own health.  I do it for the children.  I’m sure there will be doubters. But people doubted Newton and then he invented the cat flap.  I very possibly didn’t make that up.  I think he did some other shit involving gravity too but the cats didn’t fair as well in those experiments.

I’ve had various goals just about my entire life.  I wanted to learn to read, I wanted to escape elementary school, I wanted to escape middle school, I wanted to have sex with almost every girl I went to high school with (I failed to attain 100% of that goal by the way), I wanted a car, I wanted to get the fuck out of Gloversville, I wanted to graduate college, I wanted to leave New York…. and then something happened.  I hit a brick wall and it all stopped.  I don’t even know what I want for Christmas anymore.  I guess I’d like to want again.  It’s an odd emptiness, not really unpleasant, just a little funny feeling.  It’s like I’m missing out – some party I wasn’t invited to but all the cool kids are going.

I am all of a sudden skeptical of my “alcohol as a facilitator of eternal youth” hypothesis – you know a theory is good if it only takes you eleven sentences to start questioning it.  Drinking to solve your problems is a bit like trying to kill your enemy by shooting him through your own head.  It is impressive looking and oftentimes hysterical for sure, but you do wind up with a rather large and unpleasant hole in your skull.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to quit drinking.  My mamma didn’t raise no quitter, but perhaps I’ll consider other ways to occupy my time.  They say a man needs a hobby and by they I mean idiots.  I’m thinking either model trains or not collecting stamps.

Besides bestowing feline society with the great flappy door entrance, Newton also suggested this notion that light was made up of these tiny so called corpuscles and that matter was made up of grosser corpuscles and they interacted on some chemical level.  Personally, I think he should have slapped a patent on that cat flap invention of his and retired.  He was totally wrong about those corpuscles of course, postulating these ideas well before our modern quantum understanding of the wave-particle duality of light, and unsurprisingly, likely pulled a mad hatter in his later years, dying of mercury poisoning from his experiments with alchemy.  So I know a few things I don’t want, e.g. dying of mercury poisoning is remarkably low on my New Year’s resolution list.  I hope that’s a start.

I am looking forward to returning to New York for the holidays.  I have a rather miserable car waiting for me and a handful of people who make me smile.  Somehow I managed to convince myself I needed to move to Austin because I had something to run away from.  Turns out no matter how far or fast you run, yourself has a nagging habit of catching up with you.  I thought I needed to get further away, so much so I wrote a terrible song about it and made my friend sing it, but I think I missed some crucial truth in my panic.  Of all the things I should want, I suppose I ought to want to be me first.  Maybe I’ll work on that and while I’m at it I’ll try to be less of an emo pussy who says things like I should want to be me.  I need a new haircut.  I part it but then it falls down on the one side and I look like an assbag.

Despite a haircut that seems to fit right in here, Austin continues to exist only as a backdrop to my empty set.  The audience never showed, likely because I never invited them.  It’s only me on stage, sitting atop my throne of alcohol.  It makes me forget for a while but I can’t seem to escape the fact that returning to Albany feels like going home.

How To Leave Albany

nycPhoto Andrew Franciosa

If you find someone you like I highly suggest you ignore that person as best you can.  It’ll make this easier.

Think of all the ways you could die.  Decide on the the worst one.  Then think how much worse it would be if when it happened you were in….

Poughkeepsie.  That’s how far I got before my road trip to my new and exciting life had become a long and boring car ride through the depths of hell a.k.a Pennsylvania. The fog and blinding headlights of oncoming traffic took their toll and my head began to throb.  When I finally stopped at a Denny’s in Virginia and watched the sun rise over a strip mall it was quite possibly the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed.  But to be honest, I could have stepped out of my car and seen two cats blowing each other and I would have been just as happy.  Also, Pennsylvanian roads are constantly under construction.  I think when they get to the end of one they just start back at the beginning again.  Big fucking mystery.  Been losing sleep over it.

I think we all reach our Poughkeepsie at some point.  And this is where I’m supposed to say something inspiringly lame like you need to keep driving and wait for the sunrise.  Well the sun rose over a Denny’s.  It was about as poetic as passing a kidney stone.  It’s just that I was so delirious from sleep deprivation I practically became the double rainbow guy.  Fuck double rainbow guy.  And fuck rainbows for that matter too.  The refractive index of a raindrop does not impress me.

So how do you leave Albany?

I suppose the first step is to realize that there’s something better somewhere else.  That’s certainly easy enough but the rest gets considerably harder and it helps if you start warping your vision of the world.  Take everything you see and view it through the lens of apathy, depression, or if you’re a real sick puppy, optimism.  I say this because the first two leave a whispered possibility of being better than you had anticipated.  Optimism or hope or whatever positive outlook you manage to twist your aspirations through will just end in sad realization.  It is best if you just embrace being unhappy and decide maybe it’d be interesting to be unhappy somewhere else.  There are so many people and things not to like there’s no reason to limit yourself to one place.

Also, make sure you realize the reason you’re unhappy and want to leave isn’t because you live in a shitty place but because you are in fact a shitty person.  People love to say Albany sucks.  Well, chances are, you suck.  You’re probably not a very interesting person and there’s a fair possibility everybody thinks you’re frightfully unattractive.  Don’t leave because you think you’re better than the place you’re leaving or better than the people who live there.  You are very likely not.  You are statistically mediocre in every way and only a small handful of people will truly miss you when you’re gone.

So, now that you’ve gotten yourself in the right mind set, it’s time to pack your bags.  If you need instructions or help with this I highly recommend you shoot yourself in the face.  I will give some advice though: everything needs to fit into the trunk and backseat of your car (you do have a car right?), if you own more than two trash bags worth of clothes and shoes I hate you, don’t bring any furniture or anything large and completely unnecessary like a three foot framed picture of your ugly ass dog, and if you’re going someplace hot please remember vinyl records can easily melt.  Lastly, before you pack your car, toss a fat man in the passenger seat.  Do this because, either like me you brought a fat man with you on your trip, or because I figure that’s how much spare room you’re going to want for all the cases of Red Bull and Hostess cupcakes you’re going to consume on your journey.  Be careful with the energy drinks and cupcakes by the way, if you drink three of those things and pound four cupcakes in a one hour period, you will shit out your soul at the next rest stop.  You might also want the room for picking up hookers, serial killer drifters, or possibly but unlikely, a nice boy/girl you meet on your way.

Give yourself a month to announce your departure, quit your job, and say your goodbyes.  Get everything sorted out sooner rather than later so you can spend your last week without the worries of traveling.  Don’t try and see everybody.  Most of your so called friends aren’t worth it.  Focus on the few people you actually care about and leave the rest to show up at your going away party at a crappy Albany bar of your choosing.  Most won’t show and you shouldn’t care.  If you do then maybe you’re not ready to leave yet.  Try and have sex with everybody you have been wanting to have sex with.  The going away forever thing seems to be an effective ammunition for gettin’ laid.  Have sex with someone regrettable while you’re at it too.  Give yourself one last thing to be happy to see fade away in your rearview mirror.

Hopefully you’ve settled on somewhere to go at this point and you’re not just running off to get raped or killed in the moonlight of an unfamiliar city.  I recommend giving Seattle a shot.  People tell me it’s great and it has a high suicide rate.  Get in your car and leave at night.  There’s something calming about driving away in the dark.

You have started again, but when you arrive at your new home and gaze upon its buildings and its people, remember, everything ends.  If you’re lucky you’ll be somewhere nice when it does.

How to get a job, move to an awesome city, and not care.

[tweetmeme]I have never been surrounded by such a pervasive horde of happy people than I have in Austin. I have not caught site of a frown, a tear, or even an unsettled face in the month I’ve lived here. Folks go about their days in such a blissful state I thought for a while the government was dumping Zoloft in the water. This likely medicated pack of giddy Austinites hold doors for you, say please and thank you, and would probably blow you on demand if you asked nicely.

And I kind of fucking hate it (though I haven’t tested the fellatio theory yet). What exhilarating phenomenon are these people partaking in to engender these moronic looks of glee? Is there no sorrow or loss here? Maybe they need a good flood or some good ol’ fashioned fire and brimstone, blood in the water, locust in the sky apocalypse.

They’d probably let it slide right off. Might not even notice. I mean it. There’s a man who collects the garbage from the IT room everyday before I leave. He’s pretty old and I think he had a seizure at one point because one side of his face is a little fucked. This man is happier than me. He’s probably happier than you. I make twice an hour what he makes. I have my youth, my health, a full head of hair, and oh yeah, the side of my face doesn’t look like I lost a fight with a bear. And yet he accelerates towards oblivion with nary a look of woe. Some sort of cosmic balance is off here. I want to tell him he shouldn’t be happy. I want to tell him when I look at him I’m convinced nothing will ever work out and happiness is a pretense, a masquerade we partake in, and under our masks we are all scared and alone. But in this Twilight Zone world the words get stuck in my throat.

I miss Albany in a way. I miss being a sarcastic asshole and having that be acceptable. In New York we’re often total dicks to one another because we know the other person, deep down, is a giant dick themselves. It’s great. Really. I love that. This subtle respect and consideration for one another down south makes my insides feel funny.

I’m not sure what I’m missing about this city and the euphoria it apparently induces. Austin is nice but Albany is….. not really that nice at all now that I think about it. It’s kind of a big garbage dump – not like Troy bad (I think a fucking shitbomb went off in that town, seriously) but it’s a far cry from heaven. Strangely I miss that. I mean, I actually miss how shitty it is. Something about me feels at home in its shadow. We fit.

I think people move to Austin because they are happy while I moved to Austin because…. well, I’ll have to get back to you on that. It was for much the opposite reason though. I did make some world record for landing a job upon arriving in a city with zero job prospects. In five days I was working doing help desk and network administration for $17 an hour. Don’t worry, I realize how absurdly lucky I am. Funny enough, Apple gave me a call two weeks after I got here regarding the transfer I had put in for months prior that I was sure I hadn’t gotten.

Telling the manager he should hang up and proceed to fuck his own face was by far my most joyous moment in Austin to date.

My move here should be hailed as a financial success. Yet, you find out far too quickly, that without anyone you care to spend it with or anyone you love to spend it on, money is about as useful as a windshield wiper on a goat’s ass (that’s an old Texan analogy, I think Davey Crockett said it first).

But let me end with a glimmer of light and a whisper of truth, a solitary moment of optimism. Life is not all misery and despair. I see the night fading and the sun spilling over the horizon. The moon will sink and a warm….. nope, I actually have no idea what I’m saying right now. I’m rather drunk at this point in my writing and thought I’d try and end it on an uplifting note. That’s not going to happen. Nevermind. Life is shit. Always has been. Always will be. But you know, I think I’m okay with that.