I’m not saying that I don’t care about anything, because apathy that extreme is a trait shared only by the most hardened of sociopaths and the most idle of potheads.  What I mean is that I really don’t care about possessions.  As long as there is no emotional or sentimental value attached to them, it’s just an object with which I can have my way.  Now, if a friend or loved one were to give me an object for the sole purpose of keeping it safeguarded, then I would be on high alert for any nick or scratch that it may attract.  However, that’s only because I want to be trusted, not because I actually give a shit about what happens to your PS3 while you’re on vacation.  For the thing itself, I have zero fucks, but for a friend’s emotional attachment to that thing, I have a plethora of fucks to give.  For actual human beings, I have a whole Santa Claus sized satchel of bottomless fucks which I will gladly distribute amongst men, women, and children alike.  Not that I don’t appreciate material possessions for their practical uses, as living in a crappy apartment has made me nostalgic of the days in which I had an operational dishwasher; however, I have never understood the value of aesthetics.  Who cares about water rings on the coffee table?  Why does it matter if there’s a fist-sized hole in the dry wall?  So what if my bed sheets have bloodstains?  It’s all secondary nonsense.

The other day, I was enlisted to help a friend of mine  move him and his girlfriend (who I will call Myrtle) into a new apartment, because he didn’t want to pay for professional movers.  I’m not complaining about that part, because taking advantage of your buddy’s free time to exploit him for manual labor is what friendship is all about.  I’m on board with that.  Then, what I came to find out was that I was the only one who had actually responded to the request.  Still, no complaints.  I told him I would help, so I’m going to suck it up and do just that.  It was right around the time that the two of us were carrying a very heavy dresser down a steep, and narrow flight of stairs that my friend says to me “Be careful with the edges.  Myrtle is going to kill me if we scratch this thing.”  I swear to you, If I didn’t have a 250 pound dresser sitting squarely on my neck at the time, I would have cocked back and dick-punched him right then and there.  Fuck your dresser.  I’m going to have ten years of spinal issues from this day alone.  With that in mind, the true depth of their materialism didn’t really sink in until later in the day when we had the moving truck all loaded up on our way to the new apartment, and there was a slight crash followed immediately by a jarring of the box truck.  Being that I was in the middle seat and had zero visibility, and therefore no awareness of what was going on around us, I was forced to draw conclusions from the reactions of my two cohorts.  My friend had a frozen expression, but Myrtle’s eyes shot open in horror as she covered her mouth and let out a slight moan of anguish.  Now, judging by her terror-stricken reaction, I thought it was safe to assume we had just run over a small child, or at the very least, a dog or cat.  As I sat there with my heart suspended at the base of my throat, she says, with tears welling up in her eyes  “Oh my god, was that the dresser falling over?”

Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I’ve always been a firm believer in the philosophy of “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it.”  That’s why my car looks like it was driven through a riot:  dented hood, scratch marks down the side, caved in rear bumper.  As long as the thing continues to serve the purpose for which it was created, I see no reason to fret.  On that note, even if it is broken, nothing that is devoid of feelings is worth your anger, spite, or despair.  People (and sometimes pets) are the only things worth serious emotional investment. Everything else is replaceable.

My god, she’s adorable.  Even in the midst of a dimly lit house party, the blue of her eyes is as clear as day.  I need to get some one-on-one time with her.  I need to get her some place that isn’t blasting Ke$ha, not only for my own sanity but for the sake of carrying on a conversation without straining something.

“Hey Erin, do you want to step out for a cigarette?” I yell over the din.

“Sure, as long as I can bum one.”  She puts on a coy smile.  “I ran out earlier today and haven’t had the time to get a new pack.”

No need for excuses.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, “the less I smoke the better.”

I nod my head in the direction of the back door and start walking towards the kitchen, assuming/hoping that she’s close behind.  As I weave through the crowd, I feel her grab my hand.  I know it’s just to keep from losing me in the maze of our inebriated peers, but I can’t ignore the sudden burst of light in my chest.  We find ourselves stalled in the doorway leading outside because a pair of muscled up meatheads decided to block our path and engage in conversation. They’re sporting interchangeable button-down shirts two sizes too small, but while the guy on the left has a fake tan and stud earrings, the one on the right is wearing enough hair gel to choke a small child. I glance back at Erin and arch my eyes across my brow.  I turn back to the two gentlemen and clear my throat, preparing to excuse the two of us for interrupting their conversation.

“Hey, douche bags,” Erin’s squeaky voice flies over my shoulder.  I freeze, unsure of who she’s talking to or why they’ve earned such a title.  I look back at Erin, assess her line of sight, and realize that she’s attempting to get the attention of the guys blocking our path.  They don’t notice, so she speaks up.

“Hey! Douche bags!”

Their conversation halts and their attention shifts in our direction.  “What?” is all that their testosterone-addled brains can manage to push through their mouths.

As my mind races to catch up with the unfolding altercation, I stand stock still and silent like I’m staring into a pair of high beams. In contrast, my 110 lb. associate seems to have no problem finding her words.

“Get the fuck out of the way.”  Her mousy voice makes the words almost comical. As the eyes of the guy with the ungodly amount of hair gel begin to narrow, I snap out of it.

“Come on now, Erin,” I say with a forced laugh, “there’s no need for hostility.”  Yeah, especially when I’m the one who will be dealing with these guys should this confrontation turn physical. “Be nice.”

I know I sound like a pussy, but I really don’t feel like getting my ass kicked tonight.

“Hey pal,” Hair Gel says pointing a threatening finger at me, “you better tell that bitch to shut up.”  I open my mouth to tell him to take it easy and that she’s just drunk, but once again, Erin beats me on the draw.

“Oooh, what are you gonna do, roofie me?  Why don’t you kill yourself, you date-raping retard?”

Ho-ly shit…

Hair Gel hands his orange-skinned friend his beer and steps within a few inches of us.  “Fuck you, you stupid slut!”

Now he’s shouting. Great. There’s nothing like talking down an alcohol-induced asshole. I put both hands up to his chest, still trying to defuse the situation, but this guy’s toxically altered brain is obviously transmitting nothing but red, because he quickly knocks me aside.  Erin opens her mouth to return his sentiment, but before she can fully articulate the thought, he shoves her back into the crowd.

I turn just in time to see Erin fall, and now, all I can see is red.  My right hand tightens into a fist before I can form a clear thought.  While Erin is stumbling back, reaching for random party-goers to steady herself, I’m shifting all weight to my right foot and cocking back my arm.  A split second after, I plant my left leg and whip my torso around with as much torque as my Irish temper can render. The knuckles of my middle, ring, and pinky fingers connect squarely with Hair Gel’s jaw, creating two identical shockwaves: one travelling through his face, and the other back down my arm.

Hair Gel’s legs give out and he crumples to the floor while I struggle to regain my center of gravity.  Unfortunately for me, Fake Tan’s reflexes are even quicker than mine, because he immediately throws a right cross to my face.  Fortunately for me, he doesn’t strike with much force. His fist catches me just below my left eye, shutting down every brain system except the one that processes pain: not quite a knockout punch, but enough to feel like a fastball to the cheek.

Thankfully, Fake Tan either decides I’ve been properly punished or is held back by a merciful bystander.  I can’t say for sure, because as soon as I regain my senses, I find myself staring up into a pair of crystal blue eyes hanging over an ear-to-ear grin.

I flex my right hand and then stretch my jaw in a crude attempt to assess the damage. “Enjoyed that, did you?”

“Hell yeah!” Erin shouts as her eyes fly open. “I’ve never seen anyone get punched in the face before, let alone two people. It was crazy! Ahhh.” Erin draws out her last inarticulate syllable before breaking into hysterical laughter, a reaction at which I can’t help but smile.

It’s amazing. I can’t even be upset with this girl.  All I can do is get off the floor and shake my head in disapproval.  “You’ve got a couple screws loose. You know that, right?”

“A couple?” she says helping me up. “More like five.”  I  fight off a sheepish smirk and stare down at my throbbing hand.  “So, how’s your face?”

“Eh, I don’t think it’s anything serious,” I say as I test the budding bruise on my cheek.  “I may have broken my hand, though.”

“Aw, bummer brah,” Erin holds her Cheshire grin.  A few moments pass in silence, in which I become uncomfortable under her persistent stare and decide to glance around the room, as if I’m interested in anything else besides her.

“Well,” she says, and stops her sentence there.

“Well, what?”

She rolls her eyes and giggles before nodding to the back door. “How about that smoke?”

As I explained on the About Me page of this blog, I can be somewhat of a….what’s the word….a dick.  I’m not sure why I act this way, and honestly the only reason I classify my behavior as “dickish” is because the majority of people to whom I express my inner thoughts objectively agree on that fact.  In my opinion, a knack for tactless confrontation should be a respectable skill set, and everyone should be able to endure criticism without taking offense; but alas, I’m one of very few who hold that conviction.  I assume that it’s just coded in my DNA:  I’m a blunt person who doesn’t understand how to gauge levels of personal sensitivity in a social setting.  Therefore, the thought that forms in my head seems fine, but only because my brain, with it’s distorted perception, is the only one analyzing it.  He just gives it a quick once over, shrugs, and says “looks good to me” before going back to his newspaper.  It’s not until I process the wide-eyed and open-mouthed reactions from my peers that I realize a line has been crossed and I should begin apologizing to someone (if not everyone) immediately.  Sometimes I wish I had a split-personality, solely for the sake of proofreading.  That way, I could talk it over with one or more different people (depending on the severity of my schizophrenia) and hold a little workshop before I open my mouth and send a thought out into the world.

I really don’t mean to be discourteous, but it just comes to me naturally.  I analyze people’s behavior and call them out on it if I think they’re being dishonest or out of line.  They don’t always take it well, especially those pretentious ass hats who are in such a  magnificently ignorant denial of their faults that they’ll be offended if someone even suggests that they have any.  This list features, but is not limited to, assholes, dimwits, douche-nozzles, and dumb sluts.  Now, the first three could be lumped into a venn-diagram where all sectors converge on a single point, because while they have their subtle differences, they are interchangeably stupid and almost exclusively male.  However, there is a specific subset of the concave gender who can be classified as “dumb sluts” because they are self-centered, irrational, morons with so little self-confidence that they will do just about anything for attention. Even anal. Especially anal.  As soon as some testosterone driven shit skull realizes how vulnerable D.S. is, the B-hole will be an immediate topic of conversation.

Unfortunately, it’s not polite to point out these types of character flaws in other people, and on most accounts, it’s downright rude, but I see flaws as a necessary part of the personality and assume that everyone else on the planet should do the same.  If you’re going to sleep around, sleep around.  If you’re going to be cynical, be cynical.  Just don’t pretend like you’re not.  Fucking own it.  I feel like there are so few people who are willing to take a step back  and question their own motives.  Do I dress this way because I like it or because I see other people dressed this way and want to feel included?  Am I unjustly generalizing the opposite sex as the result of a handful of bad personal experiences?  Is my temporary happiness coming at the expense of those around me?  But hell, I don’t think any true born, heart-and-soul douche bag would be able to get past the most important question:  Is there any chance that I’m not really this awesome and am living up to an ideal that I’ve subconsciously constructed in my mind?

I’ll admit right here that I’m a cardinal offender of living up to an ideal.  I idolize fictional characters like Ferris Bueller, Hank Moody, and Stephen Colbert (I know Colbert isn’t fictional, but he plays a character, so eat a dick).   I admire wit and charm, and unshakable confidence, which is probably why I feel the need to be a jerk-off in the first place.  I’m trying to be witty and bold, when I’m really mistaking arrogance for confidence, and picking apart other people’s insecurities in an effort to distract from my own.  So, in reality, I’m equally, if not more hypocritical than the people I judge.  I’m just more articulate.

This is an idea I had during my freshman year of college when high school graduation was fresh in my mind, and in particular, the hundreds of thank-you cards that I had to write following my graduation party.  As I sat there in my dorm room, ready to spark a freshly packed bowl, I thought about what those cards would have said if I had been less ideal about the content, and more realistic. In essence, what if I told my friends and family the truth about how I would spend their money instead of just what they wanted to hear? Naturally, I embellished in some areas, but this is what I came up with.

Dear Uncle Jeff and Aunt Mary,

I just wanted you to know how grateful I am that you were able to attend my high school graduation party, and for your investment in my future.  I would like to inform you that it will be put to good use and assist me in furthering my education, but I would be lying.  In reality, your donation will encourage the opposite.  Along with a collection of hard-earned money from various other relatives, I will be taking your generosity straight to the smoke shop to purchase an unnecessarily over-sized bong with more chambers than a human heart.

I promise to spend hours of valuable study time smoking myself to the borders of mental paralysis, and watching South Park reruns interspersed with internet porn. On the days that I am able to fight off the soothing ebb and flow of apathy and assemble the motivation to attend class, I will be waaay too high to pay attention but will instead doodle and admire the aesthetic perfections of my more motivated classmates.

Now I may not always have sufficient food or the proper classroom materials, but there is no doubt that, at any given time, I will have more weed than a Mexican cancer patient. While I know living in a smoke induced haze doesn’t seem to be an efficient use of the short time I have in college, it will help me to tolerate the morons and assholes; and with an undergraduate population of over thirty thousand, Ohio State is guaranteed to be infested with them. Therefore, any dreams you may have had about me gaining a respectable occupation and achieving fiscal success, I will be forced to crush. But look on the bright side: at least I won’t be an asshole.

Sincerely, Your Nephew,

Andrew

P.S.  I may not be learning, but I’ll always be burning.

When I graduated from college last year, I did what any 23-year-old with an English degree would do and got a job waiting tables.  Luckily, I had a couple of good friends who were in high standing at a fine-dining restaurant in a nearby suburb, so I got to skip the soul-crushing ladder climb that was sure to be waiting for me at Applebee’s.  For the sake of exposition, a restaurant that’s categorized as “fine dining” basically means that the food is over-priced and the servers are required to do everything short of tonguing your sack (though some of them do that just for fun).  However, I justified this job choice to my inner over-achiever by rationalizing that I could find a service job pretty much anywhere in the country, and should therefore hone my people skills so I always have a back-up plan.  What I’ve come to find is that when someone says they have “people skills,” what they really mean is that they’re good at suppressing anger and keeping a smile despite an overwhelming urge to light a stranger on fire.

Like any employee who values their sanity, I try to take refuge from this seething pit of despair as often as possible, and my reprieves come in all shapes and sizes: from praying away impure thoughts of my teenage co-workers to locking myself in the cooler and screaming to curb a violent impulse.  They all have their benefits, but my favorite one is the mid-shift dump.  No amount of meditation or yoga can beat the level of inner peace a man reaches when he’s locked in his throne room while the world collapses around him.  Sadly, I have to share this room with the other 35 employees on staff, all of whom appreciate the inherent rebellion of pooping on the clock as much as I.  So, at any given time there are a handful of people looking to exercise their excretory demons, which inhibits both the duration and frequency of open opportunities.

Now, I’m not a man so unreasonable to think that other people shouldn’t have to use the restroom when I need to use it, but whenever I do manage to find that perfect window and secure my cheeks to the porcelain horseshoe, I’m never lacking for potential intruders.  Luckily, the door’s lock is a sufficient deterrent, but the part that baffles me is the fact that almost everyone goes straight for the handle.  The door is obviously closed, so what possible harm could come from knocking first?  Let’s compare.

Knocking first

Best Case Scenario:  no one responds and you try the handle.

Worst Case Scenario:  you bruise a knuckle and have to come back later.

Handle first

Best Case Scenario:  the door opens and the room is empty.

Worst Case Scenario:  you walk in on someone masturbating while smearing poop all over themselves.

You will note the significant gap between what could (theoretically) go wrong. I understand the latter case is an extreme and unlikely scenario; however,  it is still within the realm of possibility.  You may even be wondering who on Earth would do such a horrid thing in a public restroom?   Well, I would answer that rhetorical question by contending that it would be the exact type of person who would want a stranger to catch them in the act.  Is going straight for the handle really worth the risk of seeing something that can’t be unseen?

Every time I go into that 3’x3′ sewage asylum, I’m tempted to leave the door unlocked, bend over with my pants around my ankles, and wait. It will be a hard lesson to teach, but an even harder lesson to learn.  Will it ruin a friendship?  Maybe.  Will I ever be able to make direct eye contact with that person again?  I doubt it, but regardless of who my unsuspecting victim may be, I promise you that after that moment, they will never ever forget to knock.