For years, Brandon's colleagues mocked him for walking around the office with a flashlight. But now that he was hopelessly trapped beneath the rubble of One Main Place, his only thoughts were, 'Who's laughing now?'
I post every day. Really, I do. When I don’t, it means that something is wrong. It means that either stress has started to crack through the armor, or my belief system is somehow crumbling. Since I haven’t posted since Monday, it probably means BOTH.
/cue the ducks
I like standing up to the challenge of stress. I even used to have a practiced reply to the following interview question:
'How do you deal with stress?' (I FUCKING LOVE THAT QUESTION, BY THE WAY)
Before I was a former ex-volunteer EMT/Firefighter (FEVEMTF), I looked at stress in different ways. Sometimes, it was appropriate to deal with stress through laughter, such as when a family's house burned down. And other times, decor called for a more meditative response, such as the time when the Journey reunion with Steve Perry fell apart.
But these days, I feel like I primarily deal with stress in one of two ways: malt liquor or fortified wine.
Interviewer: How do you deal with stress?
Me: I basically down as many Steel Reserves as I can between the closing bell and 6pm.
Interviewer: And then you're able to go about your normal job duties?
Me: You'll probably start to notice a lot of missing office supplies and my internet traffic pointed at Monster.com and Craig’s List’s ‘Missed Connections.’
Interviewer: Well, I think businesses these days are used to replenishing pens and legal pads...
Me: Computers, office chairs, faucet fixtures. I've gotten really good at siphoning gasoline from the company car. Black gold, they call it.
Interviewer: Have you ever been fired from a position?
Me: I'm grateful for the work that Employee Assistance counselors do. Pure magic.
Interviewer: You really shouldn’t smoke in here.
Me: This a union shop?
/fade to ducks
In short, I have, much like Hi in Raising Arizona finding himself driving past convenient stores, found myself perusing the Help Wanted ads of late.
Of course, I also ACTUALLY STOP at the convenient stores. But with 22 ounces of malt liquor costing less than one dollar, there’s really no reason to put a panty on my head and hold the joint up.
/scene 2
This morning before I left for work, Tristan asked me what my favorite dinosaur was.
Me: Uh, the pleiosaur?
Tristan: Pleiosaurs weren’t dinosaurs.
Me: Pfft. what do you know? You're seven. Of course they were. Don’t make me turn this car around (ed. note – We aren’t actually in a car. We’re in the kitchen.).
Brainiac: No. Dinosaurs were land-based. They didn't fly or swim in the water.
ME: WTF ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! DO NOT DECONSTRUCT MY HISTORY, YOU LITTLE SHIT! I WAS WATCHING ‘LAND OF THE LOST’ BEFORE YOU WERE EVEN A TWINKLE IN YOUR MOTHER’S EYE.
(ed. note – In fact, I was watching 'Land of the Lost' before his MOTHER was even a twinkle in HER mother's eye. mmmm. barely legal...)
But sure enough, after some thorough wikipedia e-search, I found that neither pleiosaurs nor pterosaurs were actually dinosaurs. For fuck’s sake, I sure as hell didn’t need that shock to my system on a day when I was already stressed out by the heady smell of gasoline on my lapel. Bitter memories give birth to Thursdays.
So in revenge, when my son asked me why George Washington was called the Father of our Country, I told him it was because he had six separate child support payments each month as I walked out the door.
One deconstruction deserves another.