But I do love my job. Despite all this, entirely for the sole purpose of learning about the equipment, my job is cool.
What makes it so cool, aside from being around all this film equipment, is the people.
Yes, all of them.
If there weren't so many days where there was next to nothing to do, and if I didn't fucking HATE reality t.v. and t.v. in general, I'd go to Hollywood and pitch an idea for a new reality t.v. show taking place where I work. (They'd probably bastardize it and include something about a killer whale. Hollywood loves killer whales.)
Robert goes outside the office on a weekly basis with his golf club and a ball (and the rest of the company, crowding outside, grinning like idiots), and knocks them across our parking lot, two lanes of traffic, another parking lot and on top of another building like ours-which has a metal roof. We all dash inside and laugh hysterically at the people who come outside and try to figure out what the fuck just bombed their roof and made them all piss their pants. We're waiting for them to catch us running inside, and retaliate.
Charles is the cliche Brooklyn Italian in everyway, with a violent homicidal streak similar to my own. He abuses the most the people he likes the most. Namely, myself and J.T. There's a rather notorious story around the office about how Armanda was in a meeting with some people, and Charles chased J.T. through the room two or three times. Armanda didn't bat an eye. The guests were a bit freaked out and asked who the hell they were. "What?" she said. "Oh, that was just J.T. and Charles."
Armand (not to be confused with Armanda, his older sister who runs the joint) is on drugs. I'm sure of it. There's no way anyone can be the way Armand is without the assistance of something very illegal. His SUV reeks of potsmoke. I'm tellin ya, dude be trippin.
I get mocked at work quite a bit, for being so damn quite. I hear, "Jesus, would you shut the hell up?" a lot. I can't help it! I mean, I know I'm generally a pretty quiet guy, opting instead to obsevre, mostly, but I can't help but go overboard with that in the presence of these psychos. Its fuckin better than t.v.! All I can do is stare with my jaw slack and barely blinking, the way my 14 year old brother watches "Wild Thornberries."
In otherwords, I don't even get paid and my job is still better than Mr. Evil's.
In other news, one of my two cats, despite both of them having been relieved of their testicles through the miracles of castration long ago, is spraying shit around my house. And the other one is being extremely affectionate, like he wants something. Probably he wants his balls back. The other one got his back, somehow, why the fuck can't he get his?
I am going to writer's camp on Sunday. But not before commiting suicide on this goddamn CD yearbook.
And I fucking hate Avril Levigne. She's like a Britney Spears for gullible pop punk skater kids. And I fucking hate Britney Spears and gullible pop punk skater kids.
Goddammit, I'ma kill somebody.
So my ex, the Mistress of Indecisive Insecurity, who is now dating a former friend of mine (a 21 year old anal retentive internet junkie who lives in New York, and who ended our friendship when he started dating her) that she's never met, is going to be at writer's camp, too. Despite how one of our final arguements was over her deciding NOT to go to writer's camp. And I believe Captain Anal is coming to visit her the week after. Maybe I'll kill him. *ponders on the matter*
And there's another girl that actually DOES like me. She's a cool girl and I wanna be friends, but I do not want to date her. Even if I WAS ready for a relationship, which I am NOT, I'm just not interested. But she's getting to be fucking OBSESSED. And so I e-mailed her telling her all of this. Straight forward. I don't want to lead her on and break her heart later when she realizes I had no romantic interest the entire time. And what does she right in her internet diary?
"he emailed me back! it was an "i'm not ready for a relationship but i'd love to hang out with you" email. *attempts to decipher this boy-code*."
IT IS NOT FUCKING CODE!! IT IS LITER-FUCKING-AL!!!!!
I swear, if it weren't for some really cool girls (examples: Chris hip_hop, Pookie uptownsunrise, Meghan distraught and nuymerous others) I'd write the entire female gender off as conspirators, each and everyone out to get me to jump off a fuckin high rise. And since I'm not gay, that would make it a hell of a lot easier for me to become a Buddhist monk.
And the girl also said I look like goddamn Rufus Weighnwright. I fucking hate looking like Rufus Weighnright. I also look like Skeet Ulrich, Guy Pierce, Brad Pitt, Wes Borland and every other guy whose name you've heard of on earth. Lately, its mainly been Rufus. And the first person to say it was Misstress Indecisive and Insecure. So I don't have many fond memories of being called that.
Goddamn. As Mr. Evil said, "I wish I had a gun so I could almost shoot myself."
Ya know, God, if you're gonna make rules against stuff like killing people and suicide, perhaps you should provide a little fucking INCENTIVE.
I've been saying "fuck" a lot more than I usually do, today.
Goddamn. Times like these I wish I really could have sex with a cartoon character. Or Rivers Cuomo. He's a straight hottie.
And I hate CD yearbooks.
Forever really kind of peeved,