Ain't that some shit!

WARNING!

The following describes bodily functions in fairly candid fashion. If you are squeamish, prudish, poopaphobic (that's a word, right?), or weak of heart, you should probably just skip this installment and wait for the next one (please!). You have been warned!

The Coolest Baby In The USA was sick last week, unable to keep down anything he ate or drank. This would be horrible for any child to go through, but since this toddler just may be my favorite dude at the moment I found this particularly shitty. So, Bethlynne (who is not-too-shabby in the coolness department herself) skipped out of work early Thursday to tend to her ailing rugrat. Not thinking anything of it, I went over to Fort Bitchin' and hung out with the two of them for about an hour before heading off to work.

Saturday morning Bethlynne woke up sick. By the afternoon she was lamenting the fact that she didn't have the energy to play with The Coolest Baby In The USA, who at that point was fine. So I offered to go over and help to take the load off as much as I could. She warned me that it was a "house of horrors." Figuring that I had already been exposed and, if I was going to get it, it was already a foregone conclusion, I decided to take my chances. I played with and amused the boy as best I could: we did some drawing, and I gave him some serious tickle torture. He liked my phone's ring tones, particularly the theme song to the old Batman TV show (which made me incredibly happy) I hope my efforts gave Bethlynne some reprieve because she looked absolutely miserable.

Monday night was fairly quiet at work. Then, some time between 10:30 and 11:00, I was hit with a sudden urge to shit. This was not an unknown sensation at work. I just hold it until I get home and can take care of bidness. No matter how slow it is, I don't like to leave the cab for long: if I'm away from the radio I can't take jobs from the dispatcher, and I only make money if I have passengers. Ten or fifteen minutes "off the seat" could cause me to lose a run to Logan Airport ("Logan's run" if you will). Because of this, I held it in, hoping it would subside. It did not, and I started to cramp up. Around midnight the first wave of nausea hit, lasting a few minutes.  The second one washed over me about fifteen minutes later. At 12:45 I was nailed with a particularly vicious one. After that I said "fuck this" and went home even earlier than usual for a Monday.

I got home and tore off my jacket and couldn't wait to get my boots off. And I made it by the skin of my teeth, a ferocious fecal explosion erupting from my posterior. At 1:30, that was my first trip to the can, followed by visits at 3:00, 6:00, 8:00, 10:30, 12:30, and 2:00. I never once vomited, having not puked due of illness in over twenty years (alcohol-related causes are a much different matter). After that 2pm dump run my ass gave me a a much-needed break. My medical advisor stopped by and dropped off some Imodium, instructing me to take two pills, and if I rush to the bathroom take one more. And if it still happens again take another. Well, I popped two and didn't have any sort of emergency for the rest of the night. Only the stomach cramp remained.

Wednesday I woke up feeling okay. The cramp was still there, but that was it. I was going to a twelve-hour party with alcohol so I popped two more pills just to be on the safe side. No poop! Huzzah!

Thursday started off with the same stomach cramp. I tried using the toilet a few times, but all I got was gas, which did help ease some of the pain. Why couldn't I go? I drank lots of cheap beer the day before, and coffee in the morning. It seems all that natural laxative would flush my system out. I was worried that I was going to have a sudden urge to go when I was driving. And a few scenarios played out in my head, none of them were pretty. I mentioned this to medical advisor, hoping to get some tips or at least some words to allay my fears. Her response? "Yowza." Thanks a fucking lot! I was on my own, apparently, but it turned out okay. No disaster. Phew!

I wasn't messing around on Friday. No sudden urge to defecate, but still the cramp persisted. So before work I forced myself to shit. It took quite a concentrated effort, but I did have my first bowel movement in three days. It wasn't quite the sweet feeling of release I was hoping for, but I'll take it.

So, today, Saturday, I still have a bit of a cramp, though not much of one. That's progress, I guess.

Secreting creative juices

I had an idea about a month ago for a short story format: using my...name...as the name of the protagonist, tell a tale through Facebook status updates, a modern (and free) twist on the serialized story concept. I'm sure I'm not the first person to come up with, and execute, this idea (shucks, I may have subconsciously ripped off a Facebook "friend"), but I liked it so I decided to run with it.

The problem was I really didn't have an idea. I had bits and pieces, casting "Harry Guakomoli" as a vigilante of sorts, protecting his area of the city. And I wanted the whole thing written before I started "publishing" the story.

But while suffering during a long long boring night at work I got my idea: the return of the hero's archenemy, Sasquatch MacGillicuddy, based on a comic strip character I came up with years ago. I also threw in a sidekick, a talking cat named Oslo (also based on a comic character). And I wrote the whole damn thing in a couple of hours (interrupted a few times with actual work!). It was sort of like how Sylvester Stallone wrote the script for the first Rocky, except I wasn't feverish and the story has polysyllabic words on occasion (no, "Rocky" "Balboa" and "Adrian" do not count).

I figured the story would be about seven parts, maybe ten (with one new installment each day, taking a week to a week and a half to tell), but I ended up coming up with eighteen bits! And just to make the tale even longer, Facebook has put a limit on the number of characters a user can...use...in a status update, so for a particularly lengthy update, I would split it in two (except for one, which I just had to pare down a bit). So I think when it is all said and done, "The Ballad of Harry Guakomoli" (working title) will be about 21 chapters.

I started the publishing eleven days ago, I think, with ten different updates (I ended up skipping yesterday due to a twelve hour birthday party I attended). When the serial is completed, I will post the tale in its entirety in this here World Wide Web log. If you haven't been keeping up with the story and wish to start now (and for some reason we're not friends on the internets), the link to be Facebook page is as follows...

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1117082182

I'm running late for work, so I don't have time to proof read this thing. Yikes!

The Other Smoke Monster

I smoke a lot of cigarettes. I won't get into how much I smoke other than it's a lot, significantly more than just about anyone else I know. It's a real fucking problem. Smoking is stupid for anyone to do,  but for me, a very large man with no health insurance, to engage in the activity, particularly to the extent I'm doing it, is downright retarded. I smoke the most when I'm drinking or driving (not drinking and driving - that's really stupid). Unfortunately I drive four nights a week, 10-12 hours a night. Those other three nights I go out drinking. So you might able to see the difficulty I have in kicking the shit.

Last April I tried to quit with the help of the patch, which does help. I still always wanted to smoke, but it quells the craving just enough so I don't feel I want to rip the hair out of my head or someone else's (usually), which is the point of the patch: if it got rid of the hunger completely people would stay on the patch forever, while worlds healthier (and cheaper) than tobacco, thus still fueling the addiction.

I also had to remember not to sleep with the patch on for if I forgot to take it off I would have some quite vivid messed-up dreams (and they were never pleasant). I recall, on more than one occasion,  waking up after an hour or two of falling asleep from a crazy, often horrifying, dream, and it would take me forever to fall back asleep, if at all.

I thought my attempt at quitting went fairly well. Sure, every month or so I would slip up for a day or two then go back to the quitting. I even went almost three months without a cigarette at all, three weeks of that without the help of the patch. I thought I had kicked that bitch to the curb for good, but then life happened, and I slipped, only this time I'm still smoking, becoming a human chimney ever since. That was about four months ago.

When I was in the Dirty South for Christmas, my plan was to quit. Nine days of not working, six days of little or no drinking. It was perfect, but I fucked up and didn't even try. Maybe I was mesmerized by the $5 per pack cost. Maybe I wasn't ready yet. I don't know.  I even bought a week's worth of patches while I was down there. I remember going to CVS to look for them and telling myself: "I'm in South Carolina. Flavor Country. The state probably has some stupid cessation tax so it's cheaper for people to keep smoking than to kick the habit." I was pleasantly surprised that the box of seven ran me $20 (I don't remember if that included tax). This was the same price as up here. So I had the patches and the prefect opportunity, and I screwed the proverbial pooch. The affordability was moot, for not once I slap one of those bad boys on my person.

I think why I had some success this past spring and summer is that I recruited someone to be what I describe as my drill sergeant, someone to keep on my case about it. She wasn't all that great at it: she didn't check up on me all that often, saying she trusted me. Despite that, it worked: I was quitting for me,  not for her, but the pride she had towards me for quitting, or at least trying, and me not wanting to disappoint her, was enough to keep me in check. If I slipped I told her (except for the one time she caught me smoking in my cab - my plan was to come clean once I got it out of my system).

I think I may need to enlist a drill sergeant again. In the past two or three months I have tried the patch again a few times, the non-smoking never lasting for more than a day or two. Perhaps I need someone to inspire and encourage me. A cessation muse.

Or maybe I just need a slave driver, someone to hound me and ride me into submission.

A Letter To Jesus

Dear God and Diary,
     Aunt Clara said if I went to church and went into the box and spoke to Father Bruce all my evil acts would be erased and I could still get into Heaven but I ain't allowed there because of that baby drowning in the holy water basin.  Twelve grown-ups couldn't say I, without any reasonable doubt, held that little girl in that bowl but Father Bruce still said I couldn't go there no more, which sounds very unChristian to me. So I'm writing a letter to you in my diary hoping it's the same thing.
     I've been doing a lot of sinning, Lord. First there was that brat Jenny who wouldn't let me play with her doll. Jenny told me some nonsense that it once belonged to her dead mama. Like I can't be trusted with some stupid raggedy doll that her nana made. So I forced her precious doll down her precious throat. I hear she's in the sanitarium in Lambertville now.
     And there's Will Sutter who called me a fat pig because I ate his slice of mincemeat pie after I ate mine. I smashed his fat pig head in with a rock and left him face down in the crick.
     I slew his brother too a few years later. Bobby Sutter turned me down when I asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance. Told me I was a hideous troll-like creature whose voice was like nails on a chalkboard. I gutted him with my pappy's bowie knife and fed him to the hogs. The swine sure were hungry, Lord!
     Last year's spring cotillion was also my doing, Jesus. No one asked me to the dance and that made me mighty steamed so I lit the barn on fire and barricaded the doors. Those saps sure did make a lot of noise and, I must admit, I found the smell enticing and may have helped myself to some buttocks. I spit it out though. It was overcooked.
     I think that's all the murdering your humble servant has committed, Lord. I do hope you forgive this poor girl. I get a nasty disposition towards malice when I have been wronged.
     Thanks, Christ my savior! I feel better already! And please make eighth grade good. This year stinks like you would not believe! And I would like a pony.

     Eternally yours,
     Mary Mae MacAliister

P.S. I also killed Baby Rachel in the holy water basin. Just because those old people were suckers enough to be fooled by blonde curls and big blue eyes don't mean You are. You come across as a very smart man.

My Monday Night (as told through haiku!)

no lights, almost hit

Sherman Street and Deering Ave

would've been a good tale

sitting on The Hound

bored as hell with dick in hand

figuratively?

grooving to The Q

telling me it's party time

sucks eggs, Taylor Swift

wasting too much gasoline

no Mr. 20 Summer Street

Mittens on the bridge

no dough, broke as shit

insurance intangible

I need a new job

The Bad Boy

Pook had the distinct pleasure of being driven to work yesterday in Cab #24. Of course, it would have been heavenly if I had been piloting that fantastic epitome of American engineering, but, alas, I am not a day driver. Her loss. Pook left a present in a cupholder and hoped it would still be there when I got in the van for the night. And it was! It wasn't a golden ticket, sadly, but it was almost as good...I think. Mad Libs! Mad Libs were left for me, and you bet your sweet ass, gentle reader, I filled that puppy out the moment I had free time (unfortunately, I had plenty of that last night). The following is the finished product. The blanks were all filled out blindy, I swear, though some do come out looking like I peeked. I did not. So, without further adieu...

The Bad Boy

You know this type of liver spot well. He wears leather from head to pinkie toe, he rides a fair-weather motorcycle, his wallet is always horrid, and he's sporadically self-involved. You know he isn't the right bullwhip for you, but you can't help the limp-dicked way you feel about him. What's a good helicopter to do? He may not be Ted Williams' severed head material, but what the bucket of shit, you might as well have a proverbial time while it lasts. Just remember to keep things casual and crusty. If you find yourself too attached , end it brutally. And whatever you do, don't give him the opportunity to break your prostate! That, after all, is a bad boy's licentious specialty!

"Black Betty?" and other tales of the taxi

A few months ago, Elite picked up a new van, a 2010 Chrysler Town & Country. For some reason I was picked to be the regular night shift driver for the new Cab #24 (meaning, with few exceptions, this is the cab I drive every time I work). I would like to think I was the lucky son of a bitch (sorry, Mom), picked to drive it because...
1. I keep the cabs I drive clean.
2. I don't run the cabs I drive into the ground.
3. I'm a great driver who doesn't disappear, unable to be located by the dispatcher.
But I suspect the two reasons I was picked to drive this magnificent beast was...
1. I don't bitch and moan about shit.
2. The original decision to put a different driver in Cab #24 was ultimately vetoed by the fleet owner because, for while I am a large man, this other guy is close to twice my size and wears out seats, and new seats for this van are over $800 (the cab is too new to find used seats). I think this is the first time I was chosen over someone else for being smaller than the alternative.

Anyways, Cab #24 needs a name, and I think as the first person to drive this rig as a taxi (despite it not exactly being street legal at the time), I should be the one to christen the fucker. Without putting a whole lot of thought into it, I am considering naming it "Black Betty" for the following reasons...
1. I like the idea of giving vehicles the pronoun of "she" despite the chauvinism of doing so.
2. She's black and shiny.
3. My love of heroin.
So, "Black Betty" is the name I'm playing with, though"Betty" may be better as not to sound too obvious. I should also probably put a little more than thirty seconds of effort into it.

Saturday I ran into an Elite Taxi day driver at Cumberland Farms, and he asked if I needed a ride back to the garage (or "The Pit" as us in the biz call it). I declined (I wasn't headed to work - I seldom work Saturdays). He then asked if I was indeed a night driver, and I confirmed that I am. The guy (whose name I do not recall) thought as much but wasn't convinced until he noticed my sneakers, orange Vans. The staff and drivers at Elite get a kick out of my kicks. Most of them are good ol' boys, and they have a hard time accepting things that aren't commonplace, passe, and utterly pedestrian. Regarding my footwear I usually receive one of two comments...
1. "Those sneakers look a lot like the ones they made me wear at the jail!"
2. "Wow! Nice pink shoes!" This comment especially irks me because, while these Vans have lost a lot of their vibrancy, they are still quite clearly orange. Even salmon would be a stretch.

The following are the more memorable passengers I had last Monday and Tuesday.
1. A man with a serious Elmer Fudd/Barney Frank speech impediment, pronouncing each "R" as a "W." Weally fwiendly guy howevew.
2. A mulletted woman I would guess in her late forties or early fifties with a red and white sweater depicting wolves and the heads of Indian chiefs and black pants with long chains, skulls and crossbones, and lots of superfluous zippers. You know, those stupid trousers you can purchase at your local Hot Topic. Nothing notable about this broad other than the attire, except her thinking she dropped a bunch of coins, but it was just her retarded fucking chains hitting the side of the van.
3. Exchange between a passenger and myself:
FARE: I prefer shopping during the day. The produce tends to be better.
GUAK: Sure.
F: What I mean is at night all the best stuff is gone.
G: I understand.
F: What I am saying is that all that is left is bumped and bruised and has been sitting out all day.
G: Yeah, I get it.
4. A man I picked up at his apartment and drove to his dialysis appointment. He smelled of sausage pizza, making my stomach growl and I got sooooooooo hungry. I fought the temptation for over four hours before breaking down and hitting the Burger King drive-thru. Then I felt really really gross.

I saw a man with a shopping cart Tuesday night on Congress Street, walking back and forth between Forest Avenue and State Street for three hours.

It should have been quick and easy.

So I had to figure out how I was going to deal with this woman I went out with Sunday night (see "At least I liked the cake and booze."); I went out with the woman twice, I thought she at least deserved the courtesy of me telling her I'm not interested. I would certainly hate it if someone merely blew me off. And since I try to adhere to The Golden Rule as much as I can, I felt the situation warranted communication.

Little did I know it was going to turn into some fucking ordeal. Call her on the phone, talk for a few minutes, and it's done. No muss, no fuss. But, noooooooooooo, her phone's all fucked up (at least that was what I was told Saturday night): she can receive and make calls, but for some weird reason people are unable to hear what she's saying. Strange, right? So I was going to text her, but two of my gal pals told me I couldn't. But the only other option was to send her a message on the internet dating service where I met her (yeah, yeah, I'm trying online dating). Pook decided to do some research though Google (I was driving at the time and couldn't do it myself) and found that every piece of dating etiquette advice explicitly prohibits doing this sort of thing via text. So she told me to send a short message (well, yeah) to this lady's account on this site. A message on a dating site is better than a text? Sure, texting doesn't strike me as courteous either, but I would think it would be preferred over the alternative. I mean, it's still personal communication device to personal communication device. But Michelle agreed with Pook, so that's what I did. What a fucking headache. This shit nearly drained my phone battery.

This lack of dating success I'm finding a bit discouraging. All this effort I'm putting in and nothing to show for it (except for that one time...). At least with this young lady I was the one deciding not to pursue anything with a romantic bent. My ego got a much needed boost. Small, but an important one nonetheless.

At least I enjoyed the cake and booze.

Last Sunday I met up with a lady for some drinks. I would say it was a nice time, and I found myself impressed that I could sustain a conversation for about two and a half hours with someone I really didn't know that well. She was smart and good-natured, and we had some things in common, but I wasn't sure how interested I was in pursuing something with her. Yet, she drove me home, and I wasn't convinced I should write the whole thing off quite yet and decided, if she was game, I would like to go out with her again and I could render a verdict.

We texted each other back and forth a few times throughout the week when I was trying to make a living on the quiet lonely streets of Portland (yes, I have taken up whoring as a way of supporting myself). Months ago I came to rely on the texts of another to help me through those quiet nights, and while those days are long gone, I still yearn for that human contact, so I  text random people and see if I can get some conversations out of it. And I found myself having a few with this woman, and I enjoyed them a lot. She had some clever things to write, and we had some good back-and-forth exchanges. So maybe I was correct in not completely writing her off.

The two of us got together last night at the Bar of Chocolate. I had this super chocolate-y cake and an Irish coffee martini; she had the orange-raspberry cheesecake and a chocolate martini. We met up at 8 o'clock, and before nine I was in the bathroom texting a friend telling her I was bored and needed to find a way to get out of there. I just was not feeling it. I was struggling to find things to talk about (she wasn't much help), and I found myself getting into mildly amusing stories about my job and rambling to some extent about them. I was afraid I was turning into the asshole that finds the need to talk about his job at great length, and this really bothered me because 1. while I do walk away with some interesting tales, I do not care for my job, and 2. for me to talk about myself, especially to the extent I that I did, meant a severe lapse in conversation topics.

I thought it was good this did not work out, for once I was in the bathroom I discovered that I did not wash my hair (though it still looked presentable, just more super spiky than usual) and I missed a few spots shaving (though those spots were only noticeable upon a close-up inspection). The reason for my half-assed attempt at grooming was not intentional: before getting ready I was playing Fable III and really got into it, and I lost track of time so I had to shower and groom faster than I would have liked. I didn't even have time to eat dinner.

So I came out of the bathroom and a few minutes later apologized for being tired and spacey - I woke up earlier than I wanted this morning (which was true, pulling my usual stunt of waking up two hours before my alarm, but I was neither sleepy nor at sea: I was just really really bored). She seemed to have bought my story, despite me just ingesting coffee liquer and a fuckload of chocolate. We left the BoC, and I walked her to her car on Moulton Street.

The lady asked me if I wanted a ride home, and I politely declined, giving her a story that I needed to make myself stay up because I worked late the next day (also true), so I was going for a walk. We parted ways, and I walked to Videoport for some discs of Califonication and then onto Boru for some beer.

As I am sure you can guess, gentle reader, I am done with the lady, at least in any sort of romantic capacity. I am out $20 and an hour and a half of my time. This I can live with. But not much more.

some things best left unsaid are not things best left unsaid (and more!)

I had been in a bit of a mopey funk lately. The issues that had been plaguing me before my vacation, well, they're still there, but they have eased up a bit, which is a nice change. Yet in the little over a week since I have returned, a few more have surfaced.

For instance: Friend A told me a secret, and I promised, before hearing it, to keep it between the two of us. While the secret isn't about Friend B, it certainly concerns that person. And while this information would hurt Friend B, I think in the long run Friend B would be better off.  I think Friend B needs to know, but I can't betray the trust of Friend A. Fucking moral dilemmas.

Despite these new struggles, I am doing okay. I've cleared the air with the involved parties (for the most part), and it seems everything will work out. Sure, this shit lingers, but I am pressing on. And I feel good about it.

Enough about my ongoing mental and emotional troubles. Here are a few observations and musings...

I read a story about a man in a New York jail who carried his own feces in his mouth. He later spit said feces in the face of a guard. This has got to be the single most disgusting fucking thing I have heard in a long long long long long time. And yet I find myself having to respect the guy's dedication. Keeping shit in your mouth just to piss off and gross out someone else? Though I would call it a Pyrrhic victory at best.

I'm getting really tired of seeing assholes walking around in funny hats.

Speaking of assholes, I saw one at Congress Square sans shirt. According to the thermometer in ol'  Cab 24 the temperature was twenty-five degrees. What this guy was trying to prove other than he is an asshole the world may never know.

I was doing a crossword last night and "Marvy" was the clue for one of the answers. I figured it was a nickname for Marvin or some shit like that. Some jerk-off vaudeville performer or something along those lines. But, no, the answer was "neat-o." I am assuming "marvy" is short for "marvelous?" I have never ever ever heard anyone use marvy. It is true that I seldom hear "neat-o!" because I didn't grow up watching Ozzie and Harriet when it originally aired, but I am at least familiar with the saying. I suspect the creator, or cruciverbalist, is full of fucking shit.

"Feels like a spiky vagina."
  - lady passenger to another lady passenger

Have a marvy day!

Suzy doesn't know karate, but she has a black belt in ca-razy!

My first call last night sure was a doozy (doozie?). I picked up a nice old lady in front of city hall. Her name was Suzy. Suzy wanted to go to Old Orchard Beach; she got a social security check earlier in the day (and was expecting an inheritance check later today), and she wanted to go to the beach. I informed her it was a $45 flat rate. Suzy hemmed and hawed until I lowered it to $40. And off we went!

Suzy was excited to see the new Jim Carrey movie, I Love You Philip Morris, and asked what I had heard about it. I replied I don't much about it but read that it involves at least a fair amount of man-on-man prison sex. Suzy grew quiet for a moment (the only silence I was to enjoy the entire trip). She then quietly said "maybe I won't see it then."

My passenger told me she lived in a Buddhist monastery for thirty years and was often visited by ghosts. She claimed one of the ghosts made her fall and fuck up her back, and that is why she needed me to help her with her bags earlier. Suzy also suffered a head injury years back, the result of another ghost throwing her high up in the air. Her head injury explains a lot.

Suzy asked me if George Lucas would ever make another Star Wars film. I shrugged. She didn't think he would; ...Revenge Of The Sith was a heavy film and hard to follow up (I decided not to inform her that while Episode III was the last Star Wars movie to come out, chronologically there were three films that succeeded it, thus multiple follow-ups). The last time she saw Episode III Hayden Christensen came out of the television and asked what she thought of the movie. Suzy told Hayden she wasn't sure. He then vowed that they would meet again.

Hayden Christensen and Suzy did indeed meet again, this time in The Ethereal. The pair had a lovely chat, the details of which Suzy was not allowed to get into.

It was at this point I was finally able to locate a motel in Old Orchard that was still open in the winter. I realize OOB is a seasonal sort of town and all, but really? Just one fucking motel? Would it have killed someone to keep a few more open? Jesus! Thanks for the mental scars, Old Orchard Beach!

Suzy's last words to me, for reals, were "may The Force be with you." And, for the record, she hated Jumper.

Weekend at Bernie's (minus Bernie)

It's nice to know that my sleep deprivation is back in full swing. Yesterday I woke up around 9 having to go to the bathroom, having gone to bed at 4:30. I figured I fell asleep around 3:30 or 4 this morning and woke up at 8:45. Just for funsies apparently. One would think that after the punishment I put my body through last night, it would want some more fucking rest.

My weekend was a decent one. I ended up blowing more than I thought I would, and not exactly sure where I spent it, but spent it I did!

New Year's Eve marked my return to the driver's seat after a nine day break. I thought it would hell, the return to work on the busiest night of the year, but it wasn't! That's one thing I'm definitely happy about. It was a profitable night for ol' Guak, despite shitty luck and ineffectual dispatching that caused me to not make a single cent from 11 until 12:30. But after that the calls came in.

All night I was giving customers (at least the ones that tipped well) my cell phone number, informing them that they could the office and wait an hour or two for a taxi, or call me and wait no more than half an hour. So at 12:30 or so LOTS of people wanted my services. It was tough adjusting from no work to being completely buried in it. It drove me batty, and when my roommate called me looking to get a ride for a friend of his, I snapped at him a bit. But having my fortune change and making mad cash is worth the insanity.

I was a little disappointed that despite the fact I never stopped moving from 7 until 4 (with the exception of the five minute bathroom break), I don't have any interesting stories to tell. There was the woman in her fifties who gave me a sloppy drunken kiss on the cheek around 8 (and she gave me another one about five hours later). And the girl who told me she was so happy I picked up her and her friends she could make out with me. I told her that works for me, and we both laughed though I was only half-joking. There was a domestic argument, but, sadly, that happens often enough that can't really be described as interesting.

All in all a good night: the drunks were in good spirits (for the most part), there was no vomit involved, and I made the exact amount of money that I made last New Year's Eve, making it a tie for my second most profitable night ever driving a cab.

I saw True Grit Saturday afternoon. I really really liked it. Jeff Bridges was excellent, and the teenage girl was precocious but not annoyingly so. Highly recommended. I went with a lady. She seems pretty interesting, but I get the feeling she only wants to be movie buddies. I'm not quite sure how I feel about this: I have plenty of friends and don't feel much of a need to make any more.

Saturday night was, like usual, spent at Ruski's. I had fun. Not much to talk about, really, almost all of my closest peoples were there, and that tends to make me happy.

As I mentioned earlier in this post, I woke up earlier than I wanted to Sunday morning. I was mighty cranky, so to cheer me up I watched Destiny's Child videos for about an hour and a half. There was one in particular from their earlier days, I can't seem to recall which one, Beyonce was so young I barely recognized her at first. Weird. I met up with Luke and the Brothers Wilber for breakfast at Becky's. Marcy's is our Sunday breakfast spot, but, like every year, they are closed for the month of January. I do enjoy Becky's, but I do feel they are a poor substitute: the food isn't as good, it's on the expensive side, and you have to wait forever for a booth. So I think I might just skip Sunday breakfast until Marcy's opens back up.

Soon after coming home I went over across the hall to Fort Bitchin' to play some co-op Super Mario Bros on the Wii. It was a lot of fun, despite the fact that I...well, I suck at it frankly. Which makes frustrates me since I have always loved the Mario games. At one point, during a boss battle, Bethlynne told me to just have Luigi stand in the corner while she takes out the boss. Humiliating.

I went out for drinks with another lady that night. I'm not sure why I picked the bar that I go every Sunday night. Maybe since this whole dating thing is pretty unfamiliar territory for me I wanted a familiar setting with some familiar faces. The lady was nice enough, and I am always amazed I can sustain a conversation for a few hours, and having to come up with the topics of said conversation (which I am not particularly good at). And, if I may be so bold, I daresay I nailed it. I fucking nailed it. She was putty in my hands. The problem being I am not so sure how interested I am. I wasn't really feeling it. I'll probably go out with her again to see if I find any sort of connection, but I have my doubts. Someday I am bound to find a woman that's as into me as I am into her, right? RIGHT? Oh, well, a friend also told me she has a friend she wants me to meet. I'll see how that goes.

Almost immediately after my date dropped me off at home (after she consumed three pints of Shipyard Prelude...Jesus), I went over to Ruski's and had a few ass-cold Pibbers with Jackie and Edie. A bluegrass band was ending their set with an excellent rendition of "Straight To Hell" by The Clash, which is one of my favorite songs ever.

Walked back to my Sunday night haunt at around 11 to meet up with some other friends. The bartender asked me if the lady I was with earlier was my girl, and I told him that this was my first time meeting her in person, and I'm not sure about meeting up with her again. His advice to me was "fuck 'em and chuck 'em" - a policy I'm not so sure about, though I suppose it has its merits. But I shan't dump on the man: he ended up only charging me for one of my four pints, and then said "fuck it" and said that one was on him. Score!

Not a bad way to start 2011.