Just Off Center

Recently I was asked what it was about schoolgirl uniforms that turn men on so much. There’s no use denying that we men turn into wolf-headed lust dogs at the sight of that plaid skirt and the knee socks. But why? What is it about this particular configuration of cloth that makes me so horny? How does even the homeliest of women turn into a sweet piece of ass when she dons the tucked in blouse and hair bow? Well, I’m afraid I can’t speak for all the members of my gender. But I can tell you why I personally am so nutso over this little outfit. Fade to the past…

Kindergarten was the only grade before college that I attended public school. Since the day I left Caze Public School I’ve been surrounded by girls in uniform. Of course at that point girls weren’t even gross yet. They were just the kids with long hair who played with the stupid toys. (Psychic Mike says you’re thinking “Not me. I loved playing with the boys. The girls were boring with their dolls and tea parties”) Boys wore uniforms too: navy blue or khaki dress shorts with a red, white or blue polo shirt, belt, dress socks, and uniform shoes. I can’t recall if the girls were wearing skirts yet. I think the teachers were just trying to get all the girls to keep their legs together, so maybe not. Who knew this lesson would go on in futility throughout their scholastic careers?

As we moved up in grades the class stayed relatively the same. In parochial school, enrollment is small and classes move through the grades together. There was only one John, one Kyle, one Rachel, and one Ashley. There were two Jennifers though. And a new student was a thing of great mystery and intrigue for all. Eventually though, we were all assimilated in the same class. Up to the point that these girls started to develop I had known them as classmates and playmates for several years.

So when fourth grade came along I was getting pretty proficient at drawing big, circular boobies and curled hair on my stick figures. Then one day I got my first boner! Yay, I was becoming a man. But why? What did it mean? Sex education wasn’t exactly a priority for Catholic schools. But for the next year or so I went from having girlfriends because that’s what adults did to not having girlfriends because I was too intimidated to speak to them. Every month I noticed that another one of these girls I’d been in the same classes with was starting to bulge in certain areas and become altogether misshapen. And those uniforms were there for the entire transformation. By the time I graduated from grade 8, those same uniforms had transformed from the way we tell the girls from the boys to the thin layers of cloth that separated my hands from what my brain was telling me I absolutely had to make mine.

Around the eighth grade, the girls started speaking up about sex, a previously unheard of act. For years prior the boys had been making all the crude and retarded jokes that came with a theoretical knowledge of baby-making. Everything was up for mockery. In Biology, the day we learned of the human coccyx chuckles erupted from the back of the class. Boys gathered in groups to listen intently to the lucky fellow who had felt a girl’s boob. The most fortunate and studly of us encouraged the rest of us to smell his fingers. But through all of this the girls remained quiet. Some would show open disgust, which was great, but most just kept to themselves. Until just before high school when the now “fully” developed girls started joining in, usually by tormenting one or more of the girls who had allowed a boy to touch her naughty parts. And even though they were cruel, they were still sexually budding girls, bursting out of those tight little blouses, talking about sex. And that made them all the more commanding of our attentions and fascinations.

In high school, the sex actually got underway. I rounded the bases in less than a year’s time. And in that time, the uniform was always a factor. Making out with fingertips in the waistline, feeling up over the blouse, fingering under the pleated skirt, and watching her walk away while pulling her white knee socks back up are just a few memories etched into the minds of teenage boys nationwide. Nearly every sexual first I had involved a school uniform either before or after, and usually during. Sometimes the skirts were plaid. Sometimes they were solid. Some were knee length. Our favorites were a little bit shorter. And the sluts always found ways to make themselves look “available” while maintaining that strict criteria for acceptable dress.

Since high school graduation I have all but forgotten the memories of those wonderful uniforms. I have added a plethora of memories to use at my discretion. But to this day I cannot look at a girl in a schoolgirl uniform and not be instantly thrown back to the age when I first discovered a woman’s body. The difference is that now the uniforms are only worn by girls seeking to produce this exact effect. The innocence of the uniform has been tossed aside in exchange for the lurid ogling of dirty old men. Now they are altogether instruments of lust.

And while I could go to any Catholic high school today and see the young bodies of teenage girls actually using the real thing, strutting around oblivious to the effect they are having, I simply have no desire. The memories and lust are not attached to the girls. These chicks are just kids. But that uniform. That uniform is all grown up, and it beckons my attention and my… “attention”. It belongs in my fantasies. Then it belongs on my bedroom floor. No…. the back seat of my car.

So I have this friend who is in his late twenties and is still a virgin. I’m talking about a guy friend who has never had sex, not one of those chicks who fucked the varsity squads of three separate sports in high school and is now a “born again” virgin. We’re talking about a red blooded, straight man who simply has never had sexual intercourse with a girl. As far as I know he’s never even been blown before. Actually, he’s also a friend of Nina’s (as all my friends inevitably are). Nina has a tendency to get guys to admit things to her that they don’t admit to me. So he actually told Nina and she told me. But I’m not entirely sure I’m supposed to know.

Now I’m left with a tough choice to make. You see, things are different now that I’m 28. When I was 23 I knew a few guys who still hadn’t done it yet. I just figured they were waiting or more likely, they just had no game. But it was ok, because there were still plenty of girls out there who were also minimally experienced at banging. Eventually they would find some girl of equal or greater inexperience to fumble around with and try to figure out what goes where. We all have to learn somehow.

But now I’m coming up on thirty. It’s just not endearing anymore. I decided a long time ago that I would never again take a girl’s virginity. There was simply too much baggage to carry along with it. And I remember the girl who took mine too. I fell deeper in love with her for no apparent reason. Aside from the fact that she would occasionally let me feel the inside of her vagina, we really didn’t have a whole hell of a lot keeping us together. And I was only fifteen. Now this guy is almost twice that age and still hasn’t boned yet. It’s like a bomb with a lit fuse.

My first inclination was to take him to a whorehouse. I could easily just drive up certain streets and pick up some rent-a-snatch for the market value of a crack rock, but that wouldn’t teach him anything. Nina said that he wanted to lose it with a girl he was in a relationship with. My point is that such a relationship at this age simply cannot stand the crack of a horrible lover. Every guy needs to learn the basics of sexual motor skills. Otherwise when he finally beds a woman legitimately she’ll kick his ass to the curb and go jaunting off to some real dick. Women aren’t the “only the heart matters” sort of creatures he, and most other male virgins, think they are. Most women have had a few lovers. Some they kept around for a while, teaching them how to use their bodies in bed. But undoubtedly, most girls have come across guys who have made several fundamental mistakes. At this point I’m betting my friend would make at least four.

HEY I’VE NEVER HAD A GIRL’S HAND ON MUH OH UNNNNGH!!! – Control does not come naturally. You think that seventeen-year-old boys are capable of getting 200 erections a day because they’re skilled? It’s the law of averages. That thing’s got a hair trigger on it, and will go off at the slightest of vibrations. If a guy can’t keep himself from coming before he’s even seen her clit, how the fuck can he expect to please her enough to stay with him?

WITH WATER? NO WAY, IT’LL GET WET! – You know how you women just intuitively feel that need to make sure that you’re clean and fresh down there? You know how dirty you feel when you’re on your period and how you feel better after it’s over and you’ve used all your soaps and sprays and whatever? Well we’re not like that. We wash it as much as our shoulder blades. We may not be using soap. We grow shrubs around our dick before we even think about trimming. We may not even be realizing the potential hazards of wiping back to front. So when you go down on us, it’s always going to be a leap of faith. Now, having had a few blowjobs in my life, and having given enough head to develop vibro skills in the back of my neck, I can appreciate how nice it is to go down on a fresh, clean, soft scented groin. Virgins don’t. Fromunda cheese anyone?

PAINTING THE FENCE – The theory behind sucking a man’s dick is a fairly simple one. You just need to take this stick looking part of him in your mouth and start sucking on it while moving your head up and down on it. Sure there’s a lot more to it than that, but the basic theory is easily grasped. Now look a vagina in the face and tell me what to do. On first attempt most guys will start darting their tongue in and out like some small, soft penile substitute. Others will just start taking these long, broad strokes like they were weatherproofing your vulva. Bad head can be a non-negotiable aspect of sex. And we boys don’t practice on fruit.

SQUARE PEG, ROUND HOLE – So you’ve finally managed to get on top of her. Good for you. But it’s not all in the bag yet. The first time you mount a girl, you have to do a little bit of digital recon work before making that first thrust. Everything is usually in relatively the same place. But depending on the package you’re bringing to the table, that margin of error can drop to millimeters fast. You girls have been there when you’ve got a big guy, his full weight on top of you, just poking the shit out of that delicate area. You really have to use some concentration and desire to learn to master this skill. Right off the bat things aren’t going right. And what a confidence booster it is when she has to reach down and slide it into position for you. Plus if he’s not careful he could make a beeline straight for the asshole. That rarely goes over well.

JACK THE HAMMER – I doubt that there’s a girl I know who hasn’t had at least one guy who they thought would be good in the sack, and ended up fucking like he was being paid by the thrust. Fast and furious, hard and unloving, merciless and selfish. These are ways to describe that move where an inexperienced lay will get on top of you, enter you in the traditional sense, and then proceed to slam his cock into you twelve times per second. The only good part about this is that this kind of sex rarely lasts more than thirty seconds. I mean, there are times when I’ll just decide to start pounding Nina with absolutely no regard for her comfort or pleasure, but that’s only before or after I’ve given her all she wants or needs. It’s different than the guy who just says, “here’s some cock! RAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!” Speaking of saying things…

BABY, YOU’RE PUSSY’S JUST LIKE WARM ROAST BEEF – Dirty talk is a subtle art. You have to take the sensations you’re feeling, translate them into some kind of erotic poetry, gauge your partner’s probable response to it, and then let it loose without ever losing your rhythm. You have to be careful what to say. The aforementioned dirty talk may sound technically true on one point or another, but that girl’s going to start comparing her own vagina to sliced roast beef. That’s never good. A virgin simply doesn’t have any idea how to talk to a girl he’s nailing. The only thing that builds that is time and experience. Otherwise he’s just going to have to remain deathly silent. That’s not exactly the sexiest move either.

YOU’LL SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT – Ok, so we’ve finally made it all the way to the guy coming, marking the end of sex. Because we all know sex is over as soon as the man comes. But what are you gonna do with that stuff? This is your first time ever not needing a rag or toilet paper handy. You’ve got a real live girl here. If you’re wearing a condom, then the choice is easy. But what if you’re not. We’ve already established you can’t speak to her. You’re not going to ask if she wants it in her or on her. No, you have to decide that for yourself. Assuming you aren’t trying to reproduce, you’ll probably pull out. But wait a sec. You’ve got no idea what kind of pressure and arc you’re about to produce. This may be the first time you’ve done this vertically. I’ve never met a girl who told me that semen made the best eye drops ever. Plus what if they just hate that stuff anyway. Without proper experience you may just take a horrible sexual experience and turn it into a deal breaker.

I’m actually shocked at just how fucked virgin men truly are. I’m more convinced than ever that my pal needs the services of trained professional. But he won’t. No he’ll just stand around in social situations and “make friends” with every girl he tries to court. Eventually he’ll find a girl who’s been thrown away so many times that she’ll lower the bar to a point where you could walk over it. They’ll hook up and she’ll say “Wow, that was really your first time? I can’t believe it. It was soooooo good!” It’ll be love at first awkward, fumbling, uncomfortable sight.

Hey fatty! Yeah you, the big giant rotund motherfucker looking at me in the mirror. Wake up, portly! It’s time for another day of walking around and being not slim. God why the fuck do you do this to yourself every day? Each and every morning you get your wide load ass out of bed and stand right here checking out your disgusting 235-pound naked body in this mirror. What are you looking for, bubba? You think maybe if you stare long enough a chicken leg will pop out? Well it won’t. If that’s what you want you’re gonna have to make another unnecessary trip to the cafeteria and drop another finsky on the counter.

Look at you, you jelly roll fuck. What are you looking at, your abs? What abs? You’ve got a fucking skin pillow blocking any view you might have of them. Oh, you’ve been doing sit ups? Wow, how about that. You’ve actually managed to knock out forty in a single try? Damn, that’s impressive. Maybe in a few hundred years you might be able to drop a few inches of that Michelin hanging around your waist. And nice love handles, Jabba. Yeah, chicks must be oozing at the very thought of those things rippling on top of them. You nasty fucking tub!

Oh, for the love of God, are you actually checking out your arms? You think those are muscles? They’re swollen from all those worthless curls you’ve been doing, hippo! And way to go, by the way. I really love the way you avoid working on the trouble areas and concentrating on the biceps. Do that curl move again. Damn, that’s sexy. I especially love the way your bicep seems to tense up and bulge right around that breast. Wait, what was that? Holy dogshit, is that fucking tit you have there? I mean, sure it’s just the beginnings of one at best, but I thought you were a boy! What the fuck are you doing with those? How the fuck do you live with yourself, lard ass? You might want to check to make sure you still have a dick. Enjoy the view while you can, Crisco, because it’s only a matter of time before that gut starts sagging.

Don’t look at me like that. You know I speak the truth. It’s hopeless for you, just accept it. I mean what possible good can all this bicycling, crunching, lifting, and diet really do for you? You’re just gonna blow it like you always have in the past. Why put yourself through that pain again? Sure you’ll keep it up for a while. You might even stick with it long enough to drop a few hundred dollars on weights, bike accessories, workout clothes, and exercise books. Yeah, good consumerism is a great sign of a dedicated mind, dipshit. And then in the end, you’ll drop about ten pounds, grab a beer, have a seat, and watch it all come back with interest.

Hey, I’m over here. What are you looking back at the bed for, Bluto? Oh your wife? Yeah she’s great isn’t she? I mean where else in the world are you gonna find a chick who’d tell you she’d love you at any weight and keep a straight face? You think she’s actually attracted to you? You think she lays in bed every morning after you leave and thinks, “damn I sure wish I had my big, fat, sloppy, saggy husband laying on top of me right now and not the toned and tanned water guy who’s nice enough to bring my water jugs into the house for me.” Face it, spare tire, she’s settling out of love and love alone. I don’t care what kind of kind words and good dick you’ve given her in the past. Eventually she’s gonna turn the light on. Oh, she said she’d love you at 400 pounds? Well keep it up, balloon boy, only 170 pounds to go before we test that theory.

Speaking of theories, can I just ask you what the fuck was going through your head when you bought those running shoes? What fucking running are you going to be doing? Don’t take the risk, paunch; your feet might break off at the ankles. Why are you leaving the mirror, walrus, have you had enough? Oh I forgot it’s shower time. Yeah, you’d better get a jump on that. I love watching this shit. Well, I’ll say it’s as much fun as watching you do anything can be. I especially like that look on your face when you’re scrubbing your ass and gut. Is that a pained expression on your face? Are you upset at the way it feels or are you just straining to reach everything?

You know, for the life of me I can’t figure out why you shave yourself so often. I mean look at your chin. You very clearly have some sagging going on under there. It’ll be a double chin in no time. Have you no idea that you’re supposed to grow a goatee to hide that? Haven’t you seen all the other fat fucks walking around looking tough with their facial hair hiding the fact that they’re enormous rhino-asses just like you?

Oh this is a fun part too. Time to get dressed. What’s it gonna be today; the blue pleatless size 40’s with an XL shirt or the tan pleatless size 40’s with an XL shirt? That’s it, squeeze that belt another notch. You’re really fooling everybody. C’mon man, just let it go. Loosen it up a little bit and go have some breakfast. I bet you’ve got a buck in your wallet. That Sausage, Egg, and Cheese McMuffin sure does sound tasty doesn’t it. It’s a hell of a lot more interesting than those three scrambled eggs and grapefruit you’ve been tearing through each morning. Look, I know you’ve been all serious about this diet and exercise thing this past week or two, but isn’t it a lot of hard work? I mean when will you just accept that you weren’t meant to look like other guys?

And why do you get so upset when you walk with friends by girls and they all look at your friend? What do you want their attention for? You’ve already got the only woman in the world who could somehow tolerate fucking you without puking. Oh, it’s the whole self-esteem and “still having it” thing is it? Listen, chunk, you’ve got no business whatsoever having any self-esteem. Remember grade school? You think everyone on the playground mocked you because you were slightly chubby? Hell no, it’s because you were weaker then they were. You got picked on because you deserved it, Buddha. Don’t you think that carries over to today? Or are you still unable to get polish sausages off the brain.

Fine, be that way! You want to be all high and mighty with your dieting and exercise, go ahead. Just remember that I'm gonna be here in this mirror and every other every day of your fat fucking life. I'm never leaving you. And unlike most people I'll never lie to you. I'm gonna give you the straight truth, no matter how much it hurts you. And when you fail again I'm gonna be standing right here gloating and saying "I told you so". So bye now! Have a nice two hours of driving and nine hours at your desk. Enjoy your lunch. Don't forget dessert!

So in my efforts to find some part time employment I’ve run across several limiting factors. The most prevalent of these is the availability issue. Everywhere I apply I get asked when I can work. And when I tell them I get that old “oh...ummm...this might not be a great fit for you” routine. Since when does 5:00 PM to 11:00 PM Monday through Friday and anytime on the weekends seem like a giant restriction? I’m offering up basically every free hour I have just so that I can work for low wages in some menial task and all I hear is “can’t you start work any earlier?” No, as a matter of fact I can’t. I’m indisposed before that hour.

What am I doing before 5:00 PM? Well let’s just see. I’m standing here at a fucking Fry’s grocery wearing business attire. My clothes and hair are disheveled in such a way as to suggest I’ve been in them all day and moving about. Oh, and I’m wearing my name badge from the place I’ve been at. Any clues yet, retard? I’m already employed! And this is where the problem comes up. “Oh, you’re not a student?” What the fuck does that matter? No, I’m not a goddamned student. I’m in the work force. I produce. I’m already putting my college education to practical function you condescending, late-thirties, egomaniacal twit. Doesn’t that count for anything? Don’t you think that with this experience and skill set I might be capable of restocking your Fukuoku clit stimulators?

And then I don’t get the job because I already have a job. I don’t get it. I’m reliable, professional, courteous (to people’s faces), knowledgeable, and basically fucked as proven by me filling out a fucking gas station attendant’s application. Why would it be so much better if I were a perpetually stoned college kid with no real understanding of the workings of the world?

Fuck it. I don’t have a shitload of time to devote to working your bullshit job anyway. So instead I think I’ve stumbled upon another way to make some cash. About four months ago, Nina spent a month working in a hollowed out barn in the local farm where local artists were displaying their works for sale. Nobody sold shit really. In fact, I think Nina made more money than anyone there and she didn’t contribute a drop of ink. She later used this money to help buy your truly his new best friend, a shiny new 20GB Ipod. Life has been better since.

During that time, she was affronted by many of the older artists who were looking for a way to break into the fabulous new world of e-commerce. You see, Nina is young, and therefore must be an expert in computers. However, she managed to successfully dodge that bullet. She called me from the barn to ask me some rudimentary computer or Internet related question. Once I answered it, my stature as a computer expert was solidified in the minds of the artists. And one artist in particular has dropped her website’s maintenance and future development into my lap. It’s like asking a high school Sophomore in Spanish class act as diplomatic translator for Spain.

It started when she wasn’t getting any email from the email link on her website. So after I invested about seventeen hours trying to figure it out I finally found the solution. Now she’s getting her email and I am the answer to all her prayers. I should say right now that I only know how to use a computer. I understand the very fundamental basics of html. I certainly have no experience doing any of the things she wants done. But she’s offering to pay me to do them so I accepted.

So now all I need to do is learn how to take an already published and functional website, add pictures, renew the domain name, change hosts, add links, change text, move text, create additional pages, insert popular phrases for additional search engine hits, and generate more traffic for the site. Simple right? If your answer is yes, then let me know who you are and I’ll blow you for answers to my questions. The website is controlled by some software called Cpanel. Is that supposed to help me? I tried to tell these people that I’ve never done anything like this. I told them that I’m not even sure where to begin. I basically told them to go elsewhere. But it was no use. They want me, and that’s that. Fine, I suppose I’m learning how to build and add onto a website. Hopefully it’s not as hopeless as it feels right now and I can actually get some of this done. Maybe I can get a sale or two for them. Or maybe I can accidentally delete the entire website. We’ll just see.

Dear Mom,

Nina is injured and can’t work. Sam is making shitty pay doing shitty electrical work. I’m barely making ends meet and that won’t last. Send money.

Mike

P.S.: Forget sending money. Send IT support.

My morning commute must shorten. It’s getting to where I feel like I’m having a schizophrenic acid trip some days. Most mornings I can simply tune in to Howard Stern or my Ipod and let the hour plus drive pass by. But if I happen to be thinking about anything too deeply, I end up having enough time on my hands where I start having a verbal conversation with myself. I’ll debate points back and forth, playing roles of myself, my wife, coworkers, etc. Sometimes it builds to an argument. This morning it was so bad, that I’ve resolved not to give myself another blowjob until I apologize… and MEAN it.

Speaking of blowjobs, I am in a bit of dry spell actually. Nina and I haven’t been arguing. Well, no more than usual anyway. But her back has been acting up again. Well, more than usual anyway. When she’s hurting like this she just wants me to hold her (gently) and try to comfort her. I try to accommodate. But every damn time I touch her all I can think about is “Bend over bitch! Humpyhumpyhumpyhumpy….” I feel like one of those horny old men who walk around Wal-Mart pinching girls’ asses. She knows this, so she’s afraid to touch me too. It’s like the Gift of the Magi over here. Except she’s trading cuddling for back pain, and I guess the watch chain is my dick.

Speaking of horny old men, I am getting old. I know I’m only 28, but I’m just now noticing some of the signs of aging. A few gray hairs have cropped up, but they don’t bother me. What gets to me is the nose hairs. I first started noticing them about a year ago. I got a nose hair trimmer and just occasionally cleaned house. Then I started trimming more and more often. Now I’m resorting to plucking. So here I sit with a plastic mirror and a pair of needle nose pliers ripping each of these tendrils from my nostrils one by one. And these things run deep too. You ladies don’t understand. The things are as long on the inside as the outside. I think I plucked on this week that was attached to my cerebral cortex. Maybe I could get waxed. Regardless, I refuse to walk around looking like a damned party favor. Some of the people at work look like they just snorted a kitten.

Speaking of people at work, about ten months ago a coworker of mine asked if we could carpool. I ended up telling him no, even though it would have knocked about 500 miles off of my car every month. My reasons were simple. First, I don’t always get to work at the same time so he couldn’t depend on my to be there at the same time each morning. Second, I don’t like the idea of being stranded at work when he drives. Third, I have my firm little sanctuary behind the wheel with my music, my temperature, and my silence. Finally, my morning coffee gives me the “winds” something terrible. That caffeine just gets the factory going and I don’t want to subject him to that. I guess it’s an earlier grave for the Lumina for me.

Speaking of music, how the fuck did country end up on the radio in my office? I fucking hate country music. And the song that was just playing had the lyrics “That’s my girl, my whole world. But that ain’t my truck” Holy shit, I didn’t know they actually made songs about their fucking trucks. I thought that was just bullshit that black guys who have never listened to country used to make fun of it. Christ, now I hate it more than ever. But I guess the lines between these two cultures are getting thinner. I just heard that Toby Keith moron sing “Who’s yer daddy?”

Speaking of cultural divides, I can’t believe the differences in theories my own friends and I have regarding our treatment of women. One in particular sees women as possessions and objects. He believes that women not only accept but also respect this idea. As such, women are only to be dealt with through the man who owns, er… is involved with them. I personally can’t abide this ethos. And while I have met a few girls in my life who want nothing more than to have their little lives planned out and controlled for them, it has been my experience that most girls are in fact… well… human beings. Maybe I’m just old fashioned here, but I just don’t see how a guy with such an exclusive and troglodytic mindset come to such a great deal of proof in success. But then I’ve heard no shortage of women saying “Hey, if she’s stupid enough to…” so I suppose it all evens out.

<>Speaking of troglodytes, I’ve often wondered how cool it would be to travel back to the age of early man just to see what would happen. Sure I’d have to learn how to defend myself and sleep on rocks, but just think of all the ways I could prove to them that I was some kind of deity. It’d be like Stargate. All I’d need is a can of aerosol, a lighter, a pistol, and a few botany and chemistry textbooks. I could set myself up in the highest cave, with bearskin suits and walk around punching people at random, who would in turn get more confused and think they had sinned against me in some way. That would kick so much ass.

<>Speaking of having way too much time on my hands, I can’t believe that I’ve been in my house for a year and I haven’t added a single coat of paint or planted a single bush. I have every intention of doing so, but I just can’t motivate myself to get out and learn how to do this shit. I suppose I must be lacking some homebuilding aspect of the male psyche. I know that once I actually get myself out there figure out how to wire my drip system, I’ll feel motivated to finish the job. And I know that once I get a good accent wall painted inside, that I’ll be all about the faux finishes. Well, maybe I’d be inspired to at least pick up enough day workers to do the job.

Speaking of day workers, another coworker of mine just sent out some pictures he took of a bunch of Mexicans looking for work outside a Circle K and the companies that hire them to all of us as well as the local police department. He was very proud of this. I asked him what his beef is with these guys looking for some work to feed their families. His response was that it’s illegal and he’s a good citizen. “What about the pirate software you install on your customers’ computers you build?” “Oh…. That’s different.” I understand that most of these guys are illegal immigrants, but they’re just looking for grunt labor work so that they can eat this week. What would you do, just rot in your homeland, because you didn’t want to break the white man’s laws?

Speaking of looking for work, I just remembered that I’m at work and should probably get back to it.

I have to conclude that my hangovers are worse than most anyone I know. It's not just the headache, the dry mouth, the achiness, or way I stink when I wake up. It's the memories and the way I deal with them that tears me apart after a night of drinking that paralyze me the morning after. I'll expound.

Last night I went out after work to meet some friends at a local happy hour joint. One of my coworkers is in a band and had a set that night in town. Since I live so far away from that area (about 45 miles) I decided to run a couple errands and meet my friends at the bar to celebrate one of their birthdays. When I got there they hadn't yet arrived. I ordered a pitcher of beer and got started on my first pint. Then I had another. By the time they showed up, I was a little buzzy and the pitcher was more than half dead. They finished it off and we moved to another table.

After a couple hours we were all feeling pretty fine. We'd knocked back several pitchers of lite domestic draft beer and were getting ready to head out to the club. Over the course of the past hours we had been approached by the local barfly who kept pining for male attention. Since the two guys I was with were absolutely inept at speaking with the opposite sex I was having some fun keeping her attention on me by pretending to give a shit about the mundane banter she was spitting. Then another friend showed up and I played his eyes for him, scavenging the area for decent 'tang. He got a number and we left happy.

After jamming out to Kasabian on the way to the club we arrived to find a good number of my coworkers were there already. We ordered a beer and started mingling. My boss was there and looked terribly out of place despite his best attempts at the contrary. If I were a girl I would say that it was really cute and sweet. My coworker was looking all badass but was still walking around being friendly with all of us before her set. As they started playing I sat down and started grooving. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. I know I can't dance, but I was making the effort. Mostly I was just lunging to and fro on my stool. Nobody was actually standing up and dancing which disappoints me, because that would reassure me that fewer people were staring at me as I jerked arhythmically in my seat.

I should have known that I'd had enough to drink before I stopped. The thing was that I was not just tipsy, but also getting progressively more dehydrated. This was making the effects of the alcohol more severe. I spilled a drink and was talking loud. No biggie considering the floor was concrete and everyone else was also drunk and loud. But then one of my coworkers decided to take it upon himself to tell me that I was going to spend the night at his house because I was obviously way too fucked up to consider driving home. This guy was one to talk. He'd been there with me since the beginning. At any rate, I knew that for the rest of the evening he was going to obsess over me so I avoided him.

After the set was over I got a couple stickers from the band. They are really cool and spell out the name of the band using letters from the Periodic Table of the Elements. Mike came up behind me ands stuck one to my back. I pulled it off and tried to stick it on him but he had moved away. Instead I stuck it on my bass-playing coworker's chest. Did I mention she's female? Anyway I didn't touch her tits. I put it above them on her shirt. But then the guy behind her got really upset with me. I guess I had just met her boyfriend. He made a comment and stormed off. I didn't feel I had done anything wrong. The girl wasn't upset. In fact she was laughing too. But I had obviously offended her boyfriend. Mike told me that I needed to apologize to him. He follows the unwritten code of man to the letter. Oh, and he was drunk too.

I had intended all along to apologize and I did. Apparently, she had smoothed things over and he came back out. I jumped at the chance to tell him I was sorry, had no intention of feeling her up, and was just playing around. He said he had overreacted anyway. We shook hands and that was that. Or was it? Apparently my DUI stressing coworker took it upon himself to pull the boyfriend aside and give him a quite unnecessary and unsolicited fifteen minute rap about how I was drunk and meant no harm. Funny. I thought we had already established that and put the whole matter to bed. Anyway, the concert was over, I was tired, my friends were annoying me, and I wanted to go home.

I made it home without a hitch. I did so because I wasn't fucking drunk. Sure I could still feel a buzz, but I was lucid and clear. If anything I was just really tired. It was about 1:00 AM. When I got home I ate, told Nina a few things about the night and went to bed. Nina slept in the other bedroom because my snoring and beer-induced stench were too much for her to sleep with. Poor girl.

And then I woke up. I knew immediately when I became conscious that I had been out drinking the night before and I knew what to expect. I knew how my mind deals with these things, so I tried to prepare myself by assuring myself that I hadn't done anything wrong that night and that I was just out for fun. It was futile. Within a few seconds some of the memories started to flood in from the night before. Most of them were fun, but all of them were hazy and ruddy from the beer. And just like that came the wave of anguish and regret that comes every morning after. Within the cavern that is my mind I am several different Mikes. At any time one of them has the floor. And when I wake up after a night out where drinking is involved there is always the Mike that falls to the ground, curls up and begins to wail and scream in shame of my behavior the night before. It brings the headache and hangover, and I start wondering to whom will I have to apologize this day.

But I hadn't done anything wrong. I hadn't done anything wrong. Despite these assurances the pain and sorrow swept through me as it always does. I tried to sleep. I tried not to start crying. I was successful in that regard, but only because I knew...I hadn't ... done... anything... wrong. I woke up an hour later feeling only slightly better physically and emotionally. I went back to sleep. I repeated this every hour until 10:30 this morning. I decided to get up, brush my teeth, get some water, and take a piss. I couldn't delay the pissing any longer. Nina was a bit upset with me about the ways I had inconvenienced her, but she kept it to herself. I tried to make it through the day despite my nausea and battle with unwarranted depression. All in all today was a good day though.

And this is how I live. If I drink while out socializing I will undoubtedly wake up early the next morning and as the hangover sets in I will start remembering flashes of my behavior the night before. And as I do I hear the screaming in my head and feel the anguish it brings. My only consolation is that I was just out having fun. I don't start fights. I don't do or say mean things. Anyone who reads my blog should know that I am just a big softy. When I'm drunk, I'm just a big drunk softy. Perhaps I should quit drinking altogether. Perhaps I should get these feelings and voices in my head analyzed by a professional. Whatever the case, I have to conclude that my hangovers are worse than most anyone I know. My hangovers come complete with a crippling sense of sorrow and regret.

Coworker Mike: If you were a cartoon character, you'd be Igor
Me: Who's Igor?
CM: You know, from Winnie the Pooh
Me: I don't remember any Igor.
CM: Yeah you do. He's the donkey dumbass. The one who walks slow. Jesus, where the hell did you grow up.

'nuff said