Today: Worst Gas Ever

You don't have to read this. I am just typing it out so that I will have it to laugh at later. When I'm feeling blue... Awww...

So, this past weekend took a serious toll on me. It broke me down. Turned me inside out. Bad food, bad drink, bad sleep, bad smoke, bad brain. I think it has something to do with a subconscious effort on my part, to purge myself before Ava gets here. Well, she mentioned that as a possible reason for my lack of discipline this past weekend, and I thought it a convenient explanation. I fly to get her this Saturday, so it stands to reason that I might blow my shit on my last weekend by my lonesome.

Regardless of the reason(s), Self-Destructo has left my internal system of tubes and shoots for the processing and disposal of food-stuffs all jacked up. I feel like an over-filled balloon in the hands of a rabid eight-year-old boy, who just lets out the air in small-violent-bursts, rapidly flapping the lips of the opening together like a shit-bag wind instrument. Only this balloon has been filled with Agent Orange.

When I break myself into pieces (as I did last weekend), my system pretty much shuts itself down for a few days. Some sort of protest I guess. No budge. So I picked up some bran on the way to work today, because I am a HUGE fan of regularity, and drank two cups of coffee to help speed up the process. The result, is little more than a cattle-prod to that balloon gatekeeper of an eight-year-old: so he's just letting more out, more often than he normally would.

Now there's nothing unfamiliar, within the cubicle world, about the scent of someone else's biscuits cooking. We're all crammed into this egg-crate, one on-top of another, and we all have our own special unpleasantries. One gets used to their neighbors' more unseemly habits (flagrant nose-picking guy, incessant toe-tapping woman, that insipid walrus-looking tart who insists on using her "outdoor" voice when blabbing to her best friend back in Missouri -company phone:company bill- about getting laid the weekend before, the dude who vomits into a trashcan after hearing the walrus gloat, etc...). Being the youngest male in the department, I have gained a reputation for raising hell on school nights. Raising hell, is above all other things, hell on the intestinal tract.

So, my most heinous infraction of the rules of common courtesy is to show up after a long night and immediate blast the whole department with processed booze-humidity. Sometimes, I swear I can actually hear the air conditioner kick up a notch on Monday mornings. They probably change the filters every weekend, just to prepare.

Bygones.

But today is a Tuesday. The cannon was curiously silent on Monday, yesterday... Mt. St. Helens style... and now, the fury that built up during (yet) another practically sleepless night of bloated-belly-rumbling is being exacted upon an unsuspecting department populace. Tuesday is their usual day for rest. But the quivering bowels were gonna have none o' that restin' business. The assault began this morning, thirty minutes after my serving of bran and midway through my second cup o' joe. No formal declaration of war, no warning shots. The thunderous attack started with impressive strength, and it has been a virtual chemical fire in this joint ever since. I have had to get up and walk around the halls, just to create some sort of directed air-flow to pull the stuff away from where I sit. Otherwise, ground zero would be EASY to locate.

Those things will follow you for a good quarter mile. Just so you know.

I've been trekking to different floors, to use other departments' bathrooms, just to give my workmates some sort of respite. But as soon as I return, the relentless assault resumes.

Now I wish I had an air-conditioned chair. Man, the heat is really making my workday unpleasant. Something with an air-cooling system which ran through the seat. Something powered by natural gas perhaps. Better yet: by my own methane. That way it would only cool down when needed.

That should brighten my mood, anytime I feel like I'm sick of this shit. A cooling chair, powered (and necessitated) by my ass dirt is funny. I should continue to laugh at that. When that is no longer funny, then I am too old to find humor in anything.

Bygones.