Of Wasted Days, Bruised Feet, and Real Worlds

Work this week was a total waste of time. I'm starting a job search. I definitely need to keep working, but this job is not helping me in any way, it's causing me stress because I don't know what I'm going to put on my timesheet for the 10 odd hours that I surfed the web (after asking many people for work and not getting anywhere), and I detest the law anyway.

On Thursday, about 5 or so, Real World calls me from the lobby of my building. I hadn't talked to her since Monday as she was "sick" and skipped class on Tuesday. (I put quotes because it was really just a passive-aggressive effort not to see our professor that gave her a B - and she admitted as much later.) Her and her friend from work (who I know and is a decent sort) cajoled me into ditching out of work early (it didn’t take much) and hitting a local pub called The Green Man. We ended up getting a bit pissed, although not extraordinarily so, well at least not on my part.

Real World, however, is a totally different story. Not only did she get pissed drunk, but she also hit on every ugly guy in the bar and fretted constantly about one bloke that she thought was “hot” who she was too afraid to talk to. Not only that, it’s very apparent that Real World is dealing with serious, chronic mental illness and that alcohol is a bad idea for her. She has told me plenty of stories (some of which may even be true – although certainly not the one about having 18 close friends that are now dead) of how she used to do all kinds of illegal narcotics, so if that’s true (which it probably is), then at least she’s making progress. Her friend and I were joking that talking to Real World is like talking to a brick wall. At any rate, I’m not overly concerned about it because it’s her responsibility to take care of herself and I’ve made my opinion very clear on that one.

Her friend, however, said something totally disturbing - so shocking that I was in a daze and the conversation moved on before I could strike her down with great vengeance. She said, "I like to eat dog. Dog's delicious." Now, this is not some starving Asian. This is a well to do British woman. I'm so appalled and disgusted by her comment I don't even know where to begin. Earlier in the day I saw this seeing eye dog, a beautiful lab/golden retriever mix (or so I imagine). Not only was he a very good working dog, but his owner was very affectionate with him and you could tell they had a companionship - i.e. man's best friend. To suggest that eating dog is a good idea, ugh, just makes me want to get midieval.

At any rate, I woke up in the middle of the night on Thursday and couldn't go back to sleep. So work was oh so much fun on Friday. Fortunately it was only a half day and I could go home and take a nap. Somewhere along the way, I bruised my foot in the most uncomfortable manner. I did this once before, last January it was. The odd thing about the bruise is that I did absolutely nothing to injure myself. I simply woke up with a very deep bone bruise. Diagnosis: these shoes are not made for walking.

Last night, I met up with Eurotrash for some drinks and then Smooth Like Butta' later at a Latin club with the rest of the Columbian Mafia. Good times. I met a bunch of very pretty Columbian girls but my heart wasn't in it. I'm pretty much exclusively focused on the Real Deal right now and if that doesn't work out, then I'll go back to prowling.

Today I'm working on my paper. It's due Monday. I've done all the research, but I haven't written a whole lot. Fortunately, it's not that long (2,000 words) and it's on a really easy topic (overpopulation). I'm going to bang it out tonight and then shift to my other paper tomorrow. That one is due in a week.

I was reading some of my early blog entries at work the other day and one thing is very apparent: I’ve been leaving out something that is a constant, so here goes.

Somewhere in the world someone is eating a burrito right now and sadly it’s not me.