Oh Lord, oh Lord, why do you send me these calamities. The car died. I broke my hand. I rolled my ankle. Grasping objects and walking upright are out. The two things that define a human being. Might as well be an invertebrate. I work twelve hours a day and it’s an hour there hour back and I can’t even get home and have a god damn drink. Gotta go to an AA meeting. Or my sponsor will yell at me. Gotta have a long phone call with my sponsor, tell him yeah: look at all the AA shit I did. I went to this meeting, I read this chapter of Bill Motherfucking W, I took a commitment. It’s a good one at least. I hand out the chips at Cafe Tropical. Someone doesn’t drink for sixty days, I give them a keychain. People clap. The person says “Name, Alcoholic” and I hug them. Some day it will be a hot chick. I will feel big warm titties on my chest. The other commitments are shit like picking up trash. Oh Lord, thank you for that one. Continue reading
Waiting Room Diary: Affordable Care
2 Mar
image stolen from cromedicor.com
At the doctor’s office. The primary care physician Healthnet assigned me. Cesar Vialpando MD, of the Mi Familia Medical Group. Off Alameda south of 62d. The way here was all Chinese frozen squid warehouses, giant chemical silos.
Waiting room is packed to the gills. Artificial pine paneling. The guy’s desk at reception is just a mass of random papers. They don’t have a computer. It’s Mexico in here. I’m stunned no one has a goat or chicken. Except in Mexico I could have just gone to the Farmacia and bought the cheap pills I need. I have strep throat. All I need Cesar Vialpando MD to do is write a script for penicillin. All I need Healthnet to do is cover this simple trip to to the guy they assigned me. I will leave here with neither of these things. Continue reading
Coffee Shop Diary: Power Outage
1 Mar
image stolen from gecoders.com
Fucking shit. Storm knocked out the power at home. Had to go to the coffee shop. Bought my fucking chai and the wireless doesn’t work. Everything is a hassle. At least the girl next to me is pretty. Model face, like Chelsea. Broad nose, blue eyes. Fat pink top lip stuck out like Jimi Hendrix ripping a solo. Black yoga pants with a little zipper on the top of her ass crack. Chelsea’s eyes. Smart enough that you want to talk to her, dumb enough that you have a shot.
I have fucking shit to do and the power will never come back on. We will revolt and starve and die. I should have bought a gun. If society collapses, at least I can rape this broad in the tight black pants.
And of course, she walks behind me; sees my screen. Sorry. Continue reading
