angry recidivist

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 20:14:00 +0000

It's pretty amazing how not-nervous you can be when you're interviewing for a job you don't give a shit if you get or not. Satan came through for me, getting me an interview in hell itself. The hospital who turned me into Frankenstein needs help desk bitches. I have no interest at all in this position except that I really want a job so I have a good reason to not be at home besides going to the gym so I can get everything off my mind. I need to get my grandpa's liver cancer out of my head, even though they've given him less than a year to live. I need to stop thinking every bad thing that happens is my fault. Worry leads to stress which helps cause the paunch that makes a flat stomach nothing more than a pipe dream. I very nearly broke my resolution when I found out grandpa has cancer. I decided that drug free means nicotine free, so I quit the Lucky Strikes again. My two a days helped calm me down and ease my mind while coming off the mind control drugs, but not smoking saves me about $10 a week. I'd still shiv a man for a Chesterfield, but I'm usually not missing my smokes until shit gets real like my grandpa having cancer.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 20:59:00 +0000

So I'm doing the incline treadmill so I get myself sweated up enough to be able to leave and not feel guilty that I didn't work hard enough. This girl comes up to me, stares for a second and starts telling me that I really should get some workout shoes. I wear my shoes with the retard laces every day because I can get them on and they stay on. I've thought about getting comfortable shoes for the gym and finding retard laces for them, but I don't like the way shoes look anymore. Skate shoes have giant tongues so that they look like clown shoes and all the cross trainers I see are ugly with giant logos and bright colors. She then digs into my choice of attire, telling me I really should get some workout pants. Are shorts not good enough? Is the gym a fashion show now? Am I supposed to give a shit about my appearance in a place where old hairy dudes roam around the locker room balls naked?So the first person to actually talk to me in a week was some chick negging me. I don't know what the hell that was about but it really bothers me and it probably shouldn't.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 21:54:00 +0000

I was doing my four miles on the cardio wave machine, when the man came on my Zune and made me happier than being 137 pounds made me by saying:
Why do you do the things you've done
and how dumb would you have to be
to do them again like I know you're going to?
If you're the poet you say you are and beauty's in everything you see,
then how can love exist in a world run by people like you?
Because when there's suffering, you're there.
From southern trees, you hang them in the air.
The world screams out in agony and you don't care,
but should the shit hit the fan,
I just pray.you will not be spared.
FUCK YOU.

I had to listen to that beginning part four times in a row to make sure it wasn't that "runner's high" making me smile. I don't believe such a thing as a runner's high actually exists except in people who are masochists, but I had to make sure. Four miles a day on that damned thing gets me raising my fist in anger at everything I see. My times are getting faster, though, and it helps with my walking until I stiffen up again.

Even now I curse the day, and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse,
Wherein I did not some notorious ill:
As kill a man, or else devise his death;
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it;
Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself;
Set deadly enmity between two friends;
Make poor men's cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears,
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' doors,
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,
Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.
Tut! I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly,
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.

I don't think that Titus Andronicus guy was such an asshole. They all deserved what was coming to them.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 19:35:00 +0000

They ruined the illusion for me today. There's a trainer at the gym who looks like House's doctor Chase but with fuller hair. I've got his story built up in my mind. This trainer thing is only his day job. By night, he isn't forced to listen to a radio station that's contractually obligated to play Katy Perry twice an hour. In fact, that radio station kills him as much as it does me. He saves lives at a hospital, but not the one here in town because they have their heads in their assholes here.This dude removes tumors, appendices, and limbs with the precision of a pro.
But this all revolved around him having an Australian accent. Dude does not have that. Dude sounds like a bro. I'm tired of bros. He probably is the one who programmed that radio station in there in the first place. He soldered the tuning button so that it can't be changed to something that isn't shitty and repetitive. He doesn't save lives during his off hours, he's off with the cute redhead who wears a sorority shirt, dealbreaker by the way, not that it matters, because, let's be honest, dead left side is a dealbreaker, too.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 06:58:00 +0000

I now know what MTV smells like. I got to spend time situated between two dudes wearing too much cologne. One named Broseph, one named Broham. Turns out light beer CAN make you fat. Wheelchair Jimmy dances and sings on the TV while I sip my Hamms faster than normal so I can make my way out of this situation. I'm hoping the voodoo priests are right about the luck bestowing properties of Hoppin' John on New Year's Day ans skippin' Jenny on January 2. I look behind me at the one legged dude and realize things could be worse as he kissed the biggest woman for blocks.That woman is going to rock his world and pass out on top of him tonight. I'm glad times like these don't cost more than $1.25.

I'm sipping my celebratory whiskey, I busted my ass at the gym this morning because there was a cute redhead there who didn't want me to talk to her, reminding myself that here's to another god damned new year while I try to figure out if there's a place where I can karaoke that Gladys Knight and the Pips song about how she'd rather live in his world with him than in her own world alone.It made me happy to spend part of my new year with Charlie Brooker take the piss out of the previous year better than any other person, British or American, possibly could.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 23:07:00 +0000

I guess it's that time to form resolutions for the coming year. I don't like these kind of things because they become a reminder a what I didn't accomplish over twelve months. I didn't accomplish much over this twelve month cycle apart from fucking up everything that I touched and I want to forget that as much as possible, but I haven't found the way to do that. Drowning sorrows in alcohol doesn't seem to work anymore. Not that it ever did, but I liked to try to fool myself into believing it.

A year ago, I never thought I'd have to be resolving to do this, but I want to get my hand back to normal. I feels weird these days, it feels like it's clenching down when it's not. I don't think that means it's getting better, despite using my glove contraption that's supposed to fix things. I want to be able to use the rowing machine at the gym because it looks like fun. I can't say that about any other machine there, which all look like they hurt and they all do. I want to get myself up to 70 pounds of resistance on the ab machine. I started at 20 and am up to 40 now, which hurts a whole lot. I make sure not to leave until I have sweat going down my back every day. The incline treadmill helps a lot with that when I put it on what I call the Seattle setting. You climb a hill and then there's another fucking hill 30 seconds later. I attribute most of my weight loss to that thing. 138 pounds as of this morning, I still want to shed 8 more pounds to get back to normal. I've got bones again, ribs and a collarbone, which makes me happy. If I can get my hand functioning again, I can start using the upper body machines so I can get ripped like the guy in the Shrute Farms Beets shirt. I also want to be able to safely ride a bike again. I use the bikes at the gym, which works out okay when I can get my foot to cooperate and not kick out when I'm pedaling. When my balance gets good enough, I want to skate again and I'd like to do some geocaching. I'd have to dust off the GPS and make sure it still works, but that shit was fun while I did it.If I can get myself to the point of using the rowing machine, I figure I can do some kayaking or canoeing, which I thought about when I was dying in the hospital. I did it when I was in high school in gym class and I loved flipping the kayak, much to the chagrin of my buddy Mike who was in the other seat. I should find Mike, he dropped out at the beginning of the fourth quarter our senior year. I never understood that.
I need to lose some more weight to fit into some pants that haven't fit for a while. I always hated people who made resolutions to lose weight, but now I'm one of them. I'd like a flat stomach, but I eat, so I don't think it's possible. Perhaps if I can get my metabolism back it'll happen.
I want to be drug free for the year. I haven't taken any medications for over a month now and I haven't died yet. Coming off of anti-depressants really sucked. It made me very anxious and I almost bothered Hanna until I realized that would end very, very badly.
I want to get back to Fest in October. I think to make that happen, I have to finish my computer certifications that I've been meaning to do for the past couple years. I don't want to do it, but if Satan is making computer work my life sentence, then it's what I have to do.I need to move out of my place into a new city. There's too many memories in this place, some good, a lot of them painful, all of them I want to forget.
I want to start making my own pizza at home. Nothing here compares to Sal's in Appleton. Pizza Fridays are starting to suck. No pizza I try is all that good these days, they either have shittySt. Louis style crust or bad toppings. I want to perfect a Philly cheesesteak pizza, one that doesn't include a ton of provolone cheese because that stuff is horrible. Every cheesesteak pizza I've had tastes like someone vomited cheesesteak onto focaccia. If I can perfect a good cheesesteak pizza, I can go about figuring out how a burrito pizza will work and if a poutine pizza is viable.
I've been tossing around the idea of getting a plot at a local community garden and growing som vegetables. I've got some varieties of tomatoes picked out already and I'd like to do some purple or red carrots and I'd like to do some okra so I can have fried okra like I had in Tennessee at the soul food restaurant.
I think that's twelve months worth of shit. The worst is going to be getting my hand to work again, I think, because it hasn't been working for so long. Hercules himself had to overcome something very similar, so this is officially a hero's trial, akin to cleaning the Aegean stables. In his book, he says it only took him eight years to get back to normal. I don't have that kind of time, I'm still going to die the day I turn 40, so eight years is too long to achieve normalcy.
Unfortunately, until I get my hand working, culinary anything is all but out of the question. I managed to tie a tie one handed last night, which surprised the shit out of me. The hardest part was re-buttoning the button on the collar with one hand, which took twice as long as getting the tie right.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 01:51:00 +0000

I used to be a hurricane, now I'm just a breeze

Yes, Joe talked to Jimi. Turns out god is Hendrix. Or maybe Hendrix is god. I guess it makes sense, The Wind Cried Mary, Purple Haze, both about Jesus Christ, both the best songs about him ever. So Satan sat me down and said "We have to make this quick. Turns out there really has been a mistake, you're not supposed to be here just yet."

And Hendrix appeared. He wasn't black, though, he was violet. I don't know. He was smiling, still had giant hair.

Satan spoke up. "Okay, here's the terms of your release. You're doomed to a life of being a computer janitor. Alone. Forced to be a cup of Sanka in a Starbucks universe.What's the best feeling you've ever had?"
"When I got to be little spoon."
"Never again. And don't come back here before your time."
"What if I don't accept those terms? I don't want to go back. I don't care, I'm not down with that. They want me hooked on drugs back there. Drugs that don't do anything but fuck my body." I find it odd that they spent years indoctrinating me with "drugs are bad" but then that's their cure for every goddamned thing under the sun. That's all we can expect from the boomer generation, though, I guess.
"Those are your terms. There's no negotiation. You're going back."
And before I could say anything more, Hendrix grabbed my bad arm and we took off flying.
"Hey, hey, slow down! I want to negotiate. Those terms suck! I don't want to work on computers anymore, I'd rather be a zompire."
"No time! We've got to reach exit velocity or we're both stuck down here. As great as the first circle and the void sounds, I'm not staying in this dump any longer than I need to."
"Then leave me behind. This isn't so bad. It's at least as good as being trapped in Wisconsin with a bum arm and hand and gross ass stretch marks doing work that I completely disdain around people who are complete shit."
"Who's shit?"
"All of them. I don't need them."
"You need all of them."
And we headed back up the entrance. The music was the same going out as it was coming in, but they added that fucking song about the boots with the furs.
"See, this is what I don't need, you've got to hate this music as much as I do, Hendrix."
"Yeah, the ones that make that trash will be here soon enough."
"So is there anyone cool on your end? Besides you?"
"We got Ray Charles and Johnny Cash. They got big fucking expansive estates. Ever heard of Mojoworld? It's kind of like that, complete with the loop-de-loop water slides."
God actually said fucking. We were going pretty damned fast by then, my clothes melted off my skin. Exit velocity isn't slow, that's for sure.
"But I'm still looking for #1, the worst person ever. Do you know who it is?"
Now, I could cop out and say he told me it was Bono and it's an easy line to say it's Hanna for hurting me, but it's not ans she's most definitely not the worst person ever, she's pretty damned cool, in fact.
All he told me is "It's not you."
And I was saved. By Joe Strummer. Doesn't that make him a saint now according to the rules of catholocism? I guess punk rock really did save my life. Punk rock can keep it for all I care. I wound up back in my place sloped over the toilet filled with whiskey vomit. How is this any better than hell? I've got a beard going now. Some people have house plants, I guess I'm cultivating hair this winter. Satan still didn't place me in a job, so I've got to continue my search for computer janitorial work on my own. That's not going to be fun. At least I don't have to drink Sanka anymore. But being a cup of Sanka in a Starbucks universe is sure going to suck.

throwing garbage down the beach into the bay. For I have brought the wind for you and I have brought the rain and I have never asked at all to be repaid

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 03:35:00 +0000

The marquee says tonight's horrible movie is the Punisher movie. I've always hated that one because I know I could make it a much better movie by completely removing any attempt at a plot and replacing the lead actor with Henry Rollins. Give him the shirt with the skull on it and give him some big guns. Blow some drug dealer's shit up for an hour and a half and you've got the perfect Punisher movie. I'm skipping it tonight, I'll spend my time in the void. I was worried it was going to be Rude Boy tonight, to get back at me for talking with Joe.

We're still lighting candles every night of Hanukkah. It really pisses Hitler off, which is always fun. I'll sometimes pass the time by going back to the entrance and watching the new arrivals get their kick in his groin. It's a good way to kill some time. Satan tells me she's getting close to finding me a job. Not really looking forward to it. It would be better than spending time in hell's gym because the Januaries will be there soon, the ones who resolute to drop 1000 pounds, join the gym and nearly kill themselves by over-doing it and then quit by February. I figure that, if I time it right, I could be getting fired by the moment the last of the Januaries is quitting, so maybe working on Satan's computers will be a good thing. I shouldn't talk, though, expressing hope and optimism is expressly verboten down here. I could be forced to wander the void more often or, worse, forced to drink more of that damned Sanka coffee. Nothing like drinking shitty brown water.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 03:03:00 +0000

While patrolling the void, I found my way to the first circle and I ran into Joe Strummer, nine years exactly since he died.
"What in the hell, no pun intended, are you doing here, Joe?"
"All the coolest people are here, where else would I be? Besides, did you listen to Cut the Crap? That one did me in."
"Yeah, it sucked, but it certainly isn't worth eternal damnation!"
"Straight to hell, boy."
And then he played my favorite Clash song ever."Thanks, Joe. That was always my favorite, but I never expected it to be literal."
"Well, it's all for the better. I get to visit Woody every week."
"Wood's here, too?"
"You jam Woody? No one does that!"
And I had to show him my tattoo.
"You ever killed a man?"
"No one besides myself, Joe."
"You a fascist?"
"No, I just couldn't take it anymore. I lost everything."
"YOU lost everything? I fronted the greatest band ever and I didn't give up even when that ended."
"Sorry, Joe, I had enough. You're clearly a better man than I and I'm not afraid to admit that. But, really, 'My body, my choice.'"
"You don't really believe that applies to you, do you? Because it doesn't, you have balls, it's not your choice at all. You don't have a choice in the matter. What you did was selfish."
"Yeah, that's what everyone was saying, but isn't it selfish to make me stay in a place that I really don't want to be?"
"No, you've got to be better than that."
I showed him that I'm number 2 and he showed me his number which is in the billions and I told him about my personal quest to find number one. "It's tough, Joe. I lost it all over the course of a year. My job, my girl, my passion. All I had left wasn't worth keeping."
"Your girl?"
"Yeah, I didn't treat her right. I fucked up bad. Really bad. In the end, she wanted to move to a new place and I wasn't in it.I hate moving more than anything because it reminds me how much crap I have. So I didn't help much with the move, which helped push her to the edge. I should have said something, but she wanted to move so I didn't have to navigate stairs with my gimp status. She had good intentions. That's not the whole reason she gave up, but I tell myself it certainly didn't help."
"Your passion?"
"I loved to cook. With my gimp status, it became a huge burden and I began to really hate it."
"You lost your job because of your gimp status, too, I suppose?"
"Yeah, for the most part, but I hated that job. It was just a paycheck and decent benefits. Career Opportunities and all."
"Okay, so you didn't want your job back, then. Did you want your girl back?"
"Not really. Her friends and family all hate me almost as much as I hate me, so it wouldn't work ever again."
Joe then showed me a trick that I never want to see again. It's one of those things designed to make hell a place of real torment and anguish. Turns out we can see people on earth, much like watching a television, the Truman show or something. He showed me how she was doing. Quite well for being trapped in central Wisconsin because of me. Plugging away and doing her best at taking claims from gimps like me.
And then Hank Williams pulled up in his baby blue Cadillac. He stepped out carrying his guitar in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. He and Joe started playing sad songs while passing the bottle back and forth. Joe went into No Children and I screamed along with the lyric I am drowning, there is no sign of land! You are coming down with me! Hand in unlovable hand! I hope you die, I hope we both die and I grabbed that fucking bottle and took a pull.
"You think you'll see her again?"
"No, she'll make the cut. I spent my last days avoiding any place where she might even possibly be, which was a pain, but not as painful as seeing her again."
And Joe asked if I was supposed to be there. "Probably, but they told me they weren't ready for me, so it was a bit of a clusterfuck at first."
"I've got to check something with Jimi." And he disappeared, leaving me to hang with Hank Williams, whose number was also in the billions. Good times. Hank's got some good fucking firewater in that Cadillac. Unfortunately, I've got little musical talent so he went on his way to sing with Leadbelly.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 21:24:00 +0000

The Tuesday night movie night was a double feature. Two movies that should never have been made, Boondock Saints II and Green Street Hooligans II. Both terrible in their own rights, follow ups to movies that ended without the need for a sequel. Unfortunately, both appealed to the UFC warching, KFC munching moron crowd who clamor for horrible sequels. It's because of those people that the Transformers franchise is doing as well as it is. Some blame Satan for it, but he deserves none of the blame, actually. Satan has impeccable taste in movies and knows exactly what to show on movie night to truly torture the rest of us. There's musings from the fourth circle of there being a showing of Black Swan one of these days.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 00:00:00 +0000

There's a big party in hell today because we received Kim Jong-il. He was moved to the front of the processing line right away to get his torment started immediately. He was given his number, 15, and shown to his office in the ninth circle. They trucked in cake in celebration from the third circle, where all the gluttons go. Sad place that, all the fatasses from Wal-mart, the diabetic ones who lose a leg because they're so fucking fat and can't control themselves from eating just one more caramel apple. So there's all these blind fat people forced to eat shit-tons of food while laying on the ground. Why are they blind? So they're forced to spend eternity unable to see shit, living like they spent their lives only looking out for themselves. It's a stinky place. All that food and no one to clean up the shit. Cleaning up shit is G.G. Allin's job and even he doesn't go into the third circle because of an eternity's worth of fat people shit piles up in there and no one wants to clean up chimichanga shit. They feed the fatasses cake, Chinese, pork fat and all kinds of processed food. Whatever they can find that has little to no actual nutrition. No veggies if they can manage it.

Kim's job isn't going to be much better. The ninth circle is a cold place. Really fucking cold. Winnipeg cold, where all the damned are encased in ice up to their necks. He's going to have one heck of a time when it comes time to Zamboni that sheet of ice his body is encased in. Satan's the lucky bastard that gets to Zamboni that shit and you better believe he smokes a cigar and beeps his horn with a smile as he passes each of the damned.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 02:06:00 +0000

Satan doesn't celebrate that holiday that happens this month. Rather, he decorates for Hanukkah. I thought it could be just to piss off Hitler, but I think he doesn't celebrate that other holiday for the same reason I hate celebrating my birthday: He hates the guy born on that day. We're not allowed to say the name of it because he hates it so much. I guess this means Satan is a Jew, so this could technically be Sheol. I don't know. It's not a cool place to be, though.

Some of the damned use hell's gym. It's also not a good place to be. Naked dudes crowd the locker room and won't get out of your way to allow you access to your locker. They don't wipe their sweat off the seats, either, despite there being towels designated with signs suggesting you wipe up your mess on every one.

The Turbonegro songs that they keep playing at the gym are getting old, too. I mean, Hank von Helvete is pretty badass, but he gets old fast.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 02:46:00 +0000

They gave me a hut of wood and mud in hell. It doesn't smell good, but it's got a bed. I don't know how to get back to it from the blankness, but I'll find myself there when I wake up.

The bed they gave me is filled with rusty nails and shards of glass, but I make it work with my pillow stuffed with rocks. I'll wake up thinking there's someone next to me and start talking like there's someone there because the best part of sleeping with someone is when you wake up next to them and talk to them. I'll talk and a demon will commonly answer me. I've seen one of them being born, demons. They're born through mouths. The demon's mouth dilates and the spawn gets puked out covered in blood and mucus. It's enough to make you puke. The smell and sight of it all is pretty vile.

Every room here has a television in it, but there's no remote which I think has to do with the whole eternal torment thing. But the only thing playing on the tele is weird ass Bollywood movies and not the hilarious ones they show on The Soup, so a remote is pretty useless except for the weather channel. "Today in the void: nothing!"

I've still been searching for the soul with #1, the worst person ever. They're having trouble placing me with a job because I don't have enough experience in anything. I cooked for some demons today. Fried chicken. Didn't turn out very tasty. They won't be mistaking me for Colonel Sanders anytime soon, that's for sure. No one said shit, though, because operate by the same rule as rail roaders, as explained in moose turd pie. So I have to make them food again tomorrow. Satan didn't give me my left arm back so I hate cooking now, it's just not fun anymore, but, again, that's probably part of the eternal torment and suffering.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 22:31:00 +0000

Why do I call Satan a her? Not only does she look like my fifth grade teacher, but she has five boobs. Not moobs, she's pretty ripped otherwise. The penis hands kind of throw you off, though.

She told me the easy part is over now. Meeting Miles Davis, John Coltrane and hearing about Charlie Parker is just part of the initiation. It's just something she does to get the morons who think Miles, John, and Charlie are the dudes from It's Always Sunny. I can imagine their disappointment when they find out those dudes are black jazz musicians and it makes me happy seeing the looks on their newly initiated faces. You're not supposed to be happy here, but I'm finding my niche in this place. I ran into Warren Zevon and asked him to play me something other than his song about Werewolves and he breathed a sigh of relief because that's what they all want to hear. So he played me The hockey song with the only piano that's somehow in tune down here and followed it with my favorite song of his, Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner and he reminded me to enjoy every sandwich. It's a little late for that at this point. Supposedly, my job starts soon. I'm tasked with keeping up all the 486 computers they've got around here. They've even got the turbo button which doesn't actually do anything, it's more of a placebo to get you over the fact that you're still on old dialup. I'm told if I do well, I can possibly move up to troubleshooting issues on the token ring network at hell's bank.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 17:45:00 +0000

Tuesday night is movie night in hell, so Satan picked out a real stinker to show the patrons at his coffee shop, Turd Burglar's. Her movie pick of the week was a newer movie which had me excited for a moment because it starred Miranda July. But The Future was a real let down because the protagonists were entirely unlikeable Generation Y Bother pieces of shit. If you didn't know how this was going to end after the first five minutes, you're probably retarded. Two entitled morons rescue a feral cat, drop it off at the shelter and tell it they'll pick it up in 30 days. They then decide that these are the last 30 days of their free lives because that's just the way so-called bohemians think, so they decide to live the next 30 days to their fullest, which involves sleeping with a creepy old guy, stopping time and wandering aimlessly to try to find meaning in everything. They waste their 31 days on nothing and return to the shelter on the 32nd day to find their cat was put down. End movie. Yes, I just spoiled it for you. That's how we operate in hell.

I spoke with Satan afterwards to give suggestions for next week's movie, telling her that perhaps Blue Valentine would fit her requirement of showing only torturous, shitty movies, but she let me know that seeing Michelle Williams' boobs is too uplifting for the the citizens of hell, so that couldn't possibly be shown around here. I tried, I guess, but next week's movie is probably Manos: The Hands of Fate or Night of the Lepus or possibly that animated Adam Sandler movie about Hanukkah.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 16:57:00 +0000

Greetings from Hell!

Turns out I was wrong and I wasn't dead yet and indestructible. I'd like to say I'm sorry for how I went out, but I'm not. There will be no mea culpa. I gave it much thought and decided I didn't want to participate in the human race anymore. Where you pieces of shit are racing to, I could never figure out. Why do you insist on worshiping celebrities and pay them to have fun for you while you watch? It makes no goddamn sense. I'm glad to be rid of you all. Words can't convey how much I hated you all.

It took them a couple days to process me here, they apparently weren't ready for me yet. The first order of business when you get here is to kick Hitler in the nuts, which I know seems cliche, but that's how they roll. They next gave me a number, 2, that they tell me signifies how big of an asshole I am. #2 on the whole planet ever. Surprisingly, Hitler was only #3. I'm trying to find 1 so I can shake her hand.

They got a lot of things wrong when describing this place. The ride down was unimpressive. I had always figured they'd play the drum part to the Stones' Paint it, Black and there'd be demons dancing. That's not to be. They played the same radio station they played at the gym, so I got to hear that fucking overplayed Adele song, followed by that Rihanna song that samples Avril Lavigne. I imagine it could be different for everyone, so maybe they realized I'd hate that most and that's why it was chosen. Also, the devil isn't some little red imp guy with horns, a goatee and a tail. She bears a striking resemblance to my fifth grade teacher. Weird. There's also no three headed devil dog guarding the gates.

They gave me a tour of the place and they gave me my assignment, I'm in the fifth circle of hell, as described by Dante as the place for the angry. It's not so bad. It's not hot or cold, just average. But, the thing is, it's like that cartoon where Bugs Bunny was torturing Daffy Duck, where it turned out Daffy was on a blank page and Bugs was just drawing shit. It's like that blank page here. Nothing going on at all. Every morning, they brew us a pot of coffee. Sanka. Shit's worse than the burned to shit stuff they serve at Starbucks. And the creamer is curdled. No sugar, either. The internet access is only 2400 baud here, remember the 90's?

They do pipe in music in my circle, but Costello was right, my favorite things are playing again and again but it's by Julie Andrews and not by John Coltrane. I actually got to meet Trane, nice guy. I asked him what he thought of all this and he let me know that it gets old fast. They won't let him play his saxomaphone, so he and Miles Davis have to find other ways to pass the time. They say they're looking for Charlie Parker to find out how his drug addled ass has to spend eternity. They figure he's been relegated to Kansas City, the place he despised the most. Meanwhile, I have to continue on my quest to find #1. Don't cry for me, Argentina.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 05:59:00 +0000

So it's here once again. I turn 31 and I'm nowhere near having my shit together like I hoped I would by now. I've had my share of setbacks, all of which are entirely my fault. This has easily been the worst year of my life and I'm pretty sure things aren't going to get any better, so I'm hoping this bottle of whiskey gives me alcohol poisoning and kills me.

I lost the use of my left arm and hand. The doctors don't seem to have much faith that I'll get much back, even with work. The look on the doctor's face when asked that very question said it all for me.

As a result of the arm thing, I've basically lost my job. They're paying me to not work and look for a new job, but I don't like being a bum and accepting money I haven't earned. The job search really sucks because I don't want this kind of work anymore.I don't like being blamed for shitty, out of date equipment that won't get replaced due to budget constraints.

My girl left me. This hurt the most. I still wake up crying most mornings, which she's going to think is hilarious. At this point, I'm fairly certain I'm already dead. I think the doctors allowed me to die like I begged them to do when they told me my sodium level was too low and they wouldn't bring me McDonald's french fries or one of those P.F. Chang's microwave meals that have a billion percent of your daily sodium needs. I could've used a Double Biggie w/Che meal from Chips, right Ryan? Marshfield's Chip's fries are better, sorry man. Bad Religion asks the question How could hell be any worse and I'd like to know, as well. They put me on anti-depressants, even after I declined to take them. My family had Hanna ask me to take them because I wasn't about to say no to the girl I loved and they knew it. What they didn't know was that she was planning to leave me. I'm not trusting any of those people again. I'm pretty sure I'm in hell because Hanna won't even respond to me anymore. I don't know who this fucking shrew is, but it's not the Hanna I know. She's not a bad person, really, but hell's version of her is.

My dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He told me shortly after getting out of the hospital and I choked on my sandwich when I heard it because I didn't need that at that point. He got his asshole removed and the doctors say he's doing well now. I don't trust doctors, though, they don't know what the fuck they're talking about.

I gained 4o pounds, 31 of which I've lost at last check this morning. I'd like to believe that remaining 9 is muscle. I'd like to believe that, but my muffin top says otherwise. I've got some kick ass stretch marks out of it, though, which ensure no woman will find me attractive ever again. That doesn't matter because I haven't found any of them attractive for months, either.

My dad is getting divorced. Again. I owe my brother money, because I bet him 12 years ago they wouldn't make it past 5 years. How this is my fault, I don't know. Perhaps I'm a virus infecting everybody else's lives and making them shitty. Yeah, that's it.

So, if this bottle succeeds in killing me, if I'm not already dead and in hell, I'm sorry but I don't want to do this any more. I don't like going to the gym every day and having the trainers with the chiseled bodies, even the women, scowl at me because I don't drink those disgusting whey protein drinks. If I wind up in a coma, have them unplug me and play Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma with a video of cops beating hippies with truncheons and I promise I'll leave exactly when Pavarotti hits the crescendo.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 16:23:00 +0000

I don't know how that just went. I want to say right now that I did okay, but self doubt is going to continue to analyze it and remind me how an intelligent person would have answered those questions without stumbling.It felt like there were dead air periods where I could hear her typing my responses, hopefully not with the uhhhs and errs because, despite trying to convince myself I'm as ready as Spongebob and that I'm guided by a force much greater than luck, my nerves were getting to me.I probably fucked up her question on how to troubleshoot a printer issue because I haven't done it in so long. I could clearly picture one of our customer service ladies having a printer issue and what I'd do to get her going again, but I couldn't easily relay my though process through the phone. My job was to fix shit with whatever band-aid was afforded to me and let the talkers keep on talking while I placated them and pretended that what they were saying was relevant. From there, I can see the machine supervisor with the perfectly coiffed square head haircut prattling on like a moron about how our computers had too much stuff running on them and how it was my fault that all our computers sucked. Here I go over-analyzing again. It's going to be a fun ride.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 23:56:00 +0000

I'm trying to stay positive about this impending interview, but I'm nervous. I shouldn't be and I'm telling myself I'm above this because I'm fucking good at my job, to the point where, when I showed up to fix something, they breathed a sigh of relief because it was me and not the angry fat guy. I'm only hoping I can convey that to the lady on the phone.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 20:40:00 +0000

After successfully fixing the old computer, I've got a hankering for more nail biting excitement. Possibly by working to get Linux to work on my new machine to add one more boxen to the herd. It's a shitty day, so it's a good one for brewing a pot of coffee and pulling my hair out trying to figure out how the hell to get sound and everything else to work without fucking my Windows partition. After all, I built this new one specifically with Diablo III in mind. I've still got to figure out what video card will handle the cramped space of an unorganized mini-ATX case.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 20:58:00 +0000

I've secured a Tuesday morning phone interview with the bank mere blocks from my place. I'm pretty excited about this one. They need a second tier help desk guy, which is a step up from the shit I was doing, I think. second tier means I'd be dealing with the shit the first tier noob couldn't figure out, so it could be some actual interesting stuff that doesn't include password resets, messenger installs for customer service ladies, or computer moves for those very same customer service ladies. I've got to think of questions to ask in the interview, which seem to be coming along easily. Questions like "how often will I be on call?" because I hated that shit the most because, if they were paging me, it's because something was on fire. I'm thinking positive thoughts because the job went up only a couple days ago, so they got back to me right away, which I assume means they're interested. I have to trump up my daily tasks that included Citrix installs and VPN troubleshooting for sales guys who couldn't figure out how wireless internet works.
And today is pizza Friday, which I love. What I don't love is that my weight loss has stagnated at 141 pounds. I'd like to lose this serious muffin top I've got going on, which looks really gross. Tonight I'm creating my character Filo the hippieslayer, which should be interesting considering I've not done this D&D thing before. And I've got to troubleshoot whatever the hell I did to my linux box to make the keyboard and mouse unresponsive when I start the X window manager. Fun, fun, fun.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 23:53:00 +0000

The lady who does my hair told me that I have a lot of new hairs sprouting on the back of my head, which she says means I'm getting healthier. I guess I hadn't noticed a lot of hair loss but she told me this kind of thing happens when you get sick. So the positivity from that got me using my terminator glove again to pick up nerf balls to get my hand working better. 100 balls were done with relative ease once I got the damned glove on. So it appears I am getting better. My hand won't be good until I can use the pepper mill again, which I miss because I like pepper on my eggs. I'm not looking forward to teaching my left hand to type again, but I already know how I'm going to do it when I need to. Countless hours of mudding(text based online role playing[I have to see if Zod the Druish Noble still exists and to see if they fixed creeping death to make it worth its once every 24 hours and incapacitation penalties]) and giving my website a much needed facelift.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 21:28:00 +0000

Antagonize all you like, you're not going to beat me down any harder than I beat myself down. I'm my own worst critic and I can tell you, your words won't get to me until she completely blows me off on my birthday. That's gonna hurt. I know it's coming, though, so I've got time to prepare. I'm not supposed to speak of her anymore because I was asked not to in a message not written by her(I know because anonymous was spelled incorrectly and she wouldn't make such a glaring spelling mistake because her spelling and grammar are so much better than my own, it's not even funny). Berate away because the things in my head are far worse than the shit you spew. I have to accept that she's with another guy because she's moved on far better than I can ever hope to. She gets to accept that she's the kind of person who leaves when the going gets tough without ever communicating her dissatisfaction.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 20:50:00 +0000

The recruiter man called me back to let me know of an open position in Wausau. The position I applied for is at the insurance company a mere block from my place, but I don't need to be there dealing with a man named Tron. I'm not sure about this Wausau gig, it's all remote support and my foreign accents aren't very good, so I won't be able to piss off people who are already pissed off because their icons are no longer sorted by penis, but the pay is right. Granted, I don't really want to be in the Wausau area, but I don't particularly want to be here any longer, either.

noreply@blogger.com (Tommy T.) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 01:00:00 +0000

Hanna, you should probably not read this one because it will only annoy you and make you hate me even more and I'm doing my absolute best to not annoy you, but it's difficult to let go, particularly with my hand clamping shut like it does.

I had a dream yesterday during a nap that Hanna was in bed with me and we were talking, just hanging out like when things were okay. We were cuddling together after watching some degrassi and then I woke up terrified that I'm not going to find that again, someone who likes just hanging out. I'll admit, I'm not terribly exciting but I liked the times when we weren't doing anything at all. It felt good to have someone around that was into the same thing as I am. Yes, I do have my times right now where I'm terribly bitter and hate her for leaving me when I needed her most, but then I try to remember her voice and that calms me down until I realize I won't ever hear it again because she refuses to talk to me.

It kills me to think of her doing nothing with somebody else, watching movies cuddled up together. It makes me sick to my stomach knowing some other lucky son of a bitch gets her time and not me. If she's reading this, she'll probably think "yeah, right. You're just an asshole.", but as I type this right now, I'm getting very close to vomiting and it's not that I'm hungover because I'm surprisingly not hungover, just exceptionally lonely after trying to talk to everyone I can, which is what she last told me to do.