- A friend of mine has been in my car twice, which is about as much as
any one person has ever been in my car. (Having a two-seater discourages
lots of people from sitting in your car). The first time, I locked
my key in my car in front of 7-11, and he had to pay the locksmith to get
Saturday night was the second time. I bumped a parked Honda Accord hard at Starbucks when I was backing out. No damage besides a black mark on the white bumper, so I just took off. Heh, now that poor shmoe's car looks a little like Jenny's car.
In neither instance was I under the influence of any drugs.
both instances, I had a resin-stained bong behind the passenger seat.
Speaking of drugs, I went to the temp agency today. More fun than falling asleep, which I almost did. Before I had to begin sitting and staring holes in people, I had to tackle the folder of applications and notices I had to fill out. Particularly orrisome were the frequent mentions of drug use. "Have you used any illegal drugs in the last seven days?" I lied and wrote "No". I signed a consent to be drug screened. I might as well signed my own death warrant.
During one of the several periods where I had to wait and stare at either the temp receptionist (yes, the temp agency had a temp working the front desk) or the blue-on-blue paintings of a Mediterranean coastline, I noticed a sign next to the front desk, like: "(Temp Agency Name) screens for Drugs and Alcohol". It was positioned like a "Please Wait to Be Seated" sign at a Denny's. (Or a "Please Wait A Long Time to Be Seated If You Are Black" sign at Denny's). Great. Not only had I smoked up Thursday night, but on Saturday I dug through my car's floor mats to find every single shred of weed remaining from my previous bag of nasty weed. I smoked that up, too. (Yes, that's pathetic. I am a loser, thank you very much). The guy who referred me to the agency had said that they didn't test for drugs. OK, they hadn't tested HIM. But me? I'm fucked.
So I was sitting there getting majorly depressed. My mood is as black as nite. I was fucked, there was no way out of this one -- failed drug test numero uno. Just the right mood to be in before a job interview. So I finally meet with the chick. She asks me about why I got fired. Great, nice to meet you, too. So I reply 90% truthfully about that. Then she asks me to name three qualities about myself that I want to improve. Heh, here I am, ripping myself everyday, having everyone and their mom tell me that I'm too hard on myself and that I find too many things wrong with me. So when someone asks me what's something I want to improve on, I draw a blank. I couldn't think of anything wrong with me. Well, at least nothing I'm gonna tell a job interviewer. So I bullshitted through that part, deciding to ditch the "I think I am a worthless loser sometimes", "I never score," and "My penis is too big" for some more natural bullshit answers.
Then I meet with her boss. I have to tell HER why I got fired. Then they realize I hadn't had a typing test. So I took that and ba-BAM! 79 words-per-minute. When I took one a few weeks ago, I had 68 wpm, and that was uncorrected. Too bad my SAT scores didn't improve at that rate - I would have been into Harvard in no time.
OK, so Harvard would want an essay. Maybe Berkeley.
OK, so about that drug test thing. After I take the typing test and the results fail to print out (the last, no the SECOND-to-last fuck-up I witnessed during my 3+ hours there), some other blond chick comes over and writes them down manually from the screen on a post-it note. A post-it note. My future income may depend on one post-it note, written in illegible penciled letters with "DAVID" written at the bottom. So I gathered my things from the computer room, she gave the crucial post-it note to her boss (hopefully), and then that was it. That's what she said, "That's it." I shook her hand and walked out, my urine still in my bladder and not some plastic cup. The retards didn't give me a drug test.
have smoked up tonite to celebrate. But here's something impressive;
I could have gone down to Cerritos tonite to have smoked up, but I didn't.
Hey, I'm impressed with myself.
Final Fantasy VIII is dragging me down. I sold back a bunch of Playstation games and got it on Saturday. Like I had hoped, it's taking up a lot of my time so instead of fiending for weed or wasting money doing something else, I sit around and play that now. I know, it's ironic or something -- I buy a video game so that I DON'T waste time or money doing something else.
But I remembered something else; when I was playing Final Fantasy VII last year, I had some weed up in my room; I lost interest in it, because I was too into Final Fantasy VIII to care.
Fantasy -- the cure for pot smoking.
Should I ramble on about how depressed I've been? Well, I'm out of my place at the end of October. Dunno where I'll wind up. If I was really smart I'd move back home to Jacksonville. But I know I wouldn't be any happier there, especially b/c I'd be away from the few remaining friends I have. So what if they all decided, "Y'know, Haole, for your own sake we don't want you around here anymore." Then what would I do? Run back home to Bumfuck, FL with my dick between my legs? Fuck em' and try to make it out here anyway? Hang myself from the shower curtain? Ok, that last one isn't a possibility -- c'mon, no shower curtain can support my fat ass.
I feel like shit b/c I was hurt by Jenny and I didn't do anything to defend myself. Jeezus, I need therapy with a good therapist, except now I have no medical insurance. A therapist to help me deal with people! Me! Had Jenny come at me with a rolling pin, I could have taken it away. Instead I'm just running away. But she's not a good roommate, and she's hypocritical. Oh well, let somebody else deal with it.
Don't pity me, though -- it's my own doing, my decisions, my life that I've screwed up. I'm just afraid of dragging other people down with me at this point.