I accidentally went to work today wearing a shirt I’d wiped my ass on, it must have been a year ago. I woke up late, not having anything to wear for a shirt. I needed something WARM , because it was snowing outside, so I started frantically digging through my closet for a sweat-shirt. I finally decided upon my super-ironic “Christmas Snow-Man” shirt which I hadn’t worn since last winter. I bought it at Goodwill, I think, three or four years ago; it’s a Christmas shirt; it has smiling Snow Men on it, whatever, and I didn’t even think anything about it until I got to work and my boss looks at it and is like, “ Is that paint on your shirt?” (He knows I like to paint on occasion, that I’m an artiste ). I was startled, really, looking at all these horrid BROWN streaks across the front of the sweat-shirt (I had put it on practically in the dark at my apartment), and I was a tad embarrassed. There was, of course, no WAY I could tell him it was shit (but I knew it was, dude!! - - it all started coming back to me - - I was really drunk last winter, had no tissue paper; la, la, la; threw it in the closet when I was finished and forgot about it), and was like, “Umm . . yeah, it’s paint.” Hee!
So my boss decides to leave early, around noon, and he leaves me to TRAIN this new employee with shit streaks smeared across my shirt. It isn’t funny, really, because I actually found the whole thing rather depressing. This trainee kid was pretty chubby, had his pants “fashionably” hanging down past his fat ass; wore these thick, black framed glasses, and was really quiet around me, sort of nervous-acting, and I was just feeling like saying to him “Motherfucker! I have shit streaks on the front of my shirt!! Don’t fuck with me!” Hee! I was like, “Here’s how you sell tokens. Whenever someone buys a dildo or vibrator, say to them, ‘Would you like to buy lube with that?’” blah, blah. Just trying to make conversation, I said, “Do you smoke?” He said, nervously, “Yeah, when I have some cigarettes. I’m kind of broke right now.” So I feel bad for him, loan him five bucks, start to give it to him to go the store when, all the sudden I’m like, “I’ll go to the store and get them for you, even. I have to go there anyway.(lying)” I just wanted to get away from this kid for some reason . So I leave him in the porn-store by himself and head to the liquor store across the street to get his smokes.
I get out into the parking lot and there is “Don.” This old 60ish year old, sweet endearing “schizophrenic” (or whatever you want to call it) guy with whom I’d stayed in a “flophouse” (or whatever you want to call it) with a few years ago, was his housemate, and he and I used to sit around, cook fried chicken in the “house kitchen (god, those days were dark) while he showed me pictures of himself during his travels all over the world (which were valid- -he was just a lonely bachelor guy who saved up money and traveled around by himself when he was younger). Sad thing is that lately, though I know he hasn’t been out of Indiana in at least 20 years, he has recently been wearing one of those “Russian hats” (what the fuck do you call them? - -those furry cylinder-shaped things?) saying he just got back from RuSSia (hahahahaah - - fucking delusional liar - - I first met this guy in a Hardee’s, actually), and he always asks me to help him get some cans out of our store dumpster. So I usually do, every time. I’m standing there inside the fucking dumpster, up to my knees in used condoms and cum-covered napkins, getting cans for this delusional mother fucker because you know why?
He carried my fucking bottles of PiSS ! HAHAHA!! This sickening, schizo mother-fucker carried all 12 of my bottles of piss one evening, while I was his housemate. I had to move out of my little concrete-walled, concrete-floored, spider-infested rat-hole for various reasons one night. I had at least 12 empty 40-ounce bottles of Miller hidden away in my closet that were full of my own fucking PISS , that had been there for at least a month! Hee! The bathroom was down the hall and I didn’t want to have to walk by this one fucker’s room (he always had his door open, was always drunk, and always wanted to “talk” to me), so late at night I’d just piss in empty beer bottles and stick them in the closet so I wouldn’t have to deal with him. It’s gross, yeah, but I was a freaking schizo drunk then, really, and didn’t give a shit. I remember sitting there on my bed, drunk, and watching Don say to me, “I’ll help you out, buddy,” as he carried, one by one, every single bottle of my month-old-piss out of my little room, carried it down the hall and dumped it in the toilet for me. Do you know how bad piss fucking STINKS when it’s been sitting in a bottle for awhile and then you dump it? That’s a strange sort of bond I have with Don now, and it doesn't hurt me once in awhile now to help him dig for cans.
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