Blogging from Work

Nothing like taking a few moments to myself to say whatever the fuck I want to from the pleasant confines of my cooshy (yeah, I know how it's spelled) desk job. I get a few minutes off between calls now and again. I've got TVs all around me broadcasting the hurly burly of pop cultural waste flowing over me at all times. As a post post modern man, I am inundated with idears that coalesce and shit from all over the mutha fucka ... you know what I'm sayin'?

Probably not and that's OK.

I have a persecution complex. Mostly, it's because for as long as I can remember, people have been fuckin' with me for reasons beyond my immediate ability to recognize. For example, when I was in kindergarten, my bitch-ass teacher, Ms. Petranicco used to threaten to beat me with a yard stick and made me wash my hands over and over again (I had severely chapped hands, not dirty hands). Now, if I had been a rotten little shit who was asking for it, I'd say so. But the truth is, I was a pretty mellow kid. I think I was one of those kids you almost just want to abuse because I was quiet and shy and a bit on the innocent side. I was probably a pedo's wet dream because not only would I hve been easy to scare, my parents probably would have blamed me if I told them I'd been molested by someone.

Which leads me to the time I was indeed physically abused by my 5th grade school gym teacher, Mr. Bell. he liked to pinch your cheeks hard as fuck right in front of other staff members who would just watch in awe as you started crying for no apparently good reason. He threated to give our whole class a charlie horse during the Christmas pageant because we were being too loud. He damaged some kid's knee by shoving him down too. I told my mom but she didn't want to do anything about it. Hence the sense that I deserved whatever I got.

In junior high, my football coach, Mr. Zimmerman, caught me alone after the season ended, told me I was a greaser who should go to the greaser school with all the other greasers. That hurt.

In high school, my newspaper teacher, Mrs. Smoley, was pretty much convinced that I wasnt the kind of person who would make a good journalist. Having never been one or met one, she was clueless. I happened to be THE ONLY person in my class who went on to become an award winning journalist, so fuck you bitch.

I've got to be the only person ever denied a promotion at a Taco John's because my hair was too short. I was once canned from Bishop's Buffet for talking to girls my own age (they thought I was in college when I said I was still in [high] school). I'm probably the only kid to go into the emergency room to be made fun of for picking his nose by his doctor (even the nurse was disgusted by that one).

The list goes on. But I'm tired.