The Sunday Session

I may indeed be a crackhead, but I’m a crackhead who manages to hold down a steady 9 to 5 (and on Tuesdays, 10 to 6). Of course, said management is out of necessity, but that’s not the point. And sure, my job is a dead-end, and it couldn’t be farther from what, as a kid, I dreamt I would do “when I grew up” (islamic carpenter), but it’s a job still, and one that I need--to pay the bills and support my various epicurean habits. You know me, I’m just trying to eat, and it’s damn expensive to pull your dinner from your pocket every night in this here city.

Basically, I’m like any other working stiff who wakes up in the morning, puts his pants on one leg at a time, and spends his days sitting behind a desk pushing paper—except that when I get home at night, instead of eating dinner with the family and watching American Idol, I embark on an ongoing vigilante crusade to obliterate my septum, AND write a wildly, if not ironically popular blog detailing said obliteration. But like the rest of the working class, I too have to be at my desk early in the morning. Which is why the “Sunday Night Session” is such an awful idea.

Of course, I learned this the hard way a few years back—when, at the end of a three day bender I had “somehow” lost track of time and showed up at work that Monday about 5 hours late, unshaven, eyes glazed over, snot running down my face. Not only was I docked an entire day’s pay, but given my track record of mediocre performance at my mindless job—a performance which was no doubt informed by my extra-curricular proclivities—I was put on permanent “probation,” and told that “if I ever pulled a stunt like this again,” they would “sack me on the spot.” Sort of sounded like how my father used to lambast me in my youth for pulling various idiotic stunts, actually, if you replace the “sack me on the spot” part with “send me out back to pick a switch.” My pops really loved that Jackson family movie.

Had I been late on a Tuesday or Wednesday morning, it likely wouldn’t have been nearly as big a deal. In fact, I’m often later other days of the week (yes, usually for "party" related reasons), and no one really seems to give a hoot. Unfortunately for me and my job, Monday morning is BY FAR the most important morning of the week, and if I’m not on by 8:50, there’ll be hell to pay. That being so, one would think that I would refrain from “partying” on Sunday nights. And for the most part, I do. But every once in a while, a Sunday comes around, and afternoon drinking turns into evening rail blowing, and the next thing I know, it’s 5 am and I’m wide awake in front of my computer reading about the differences between needle-point and sacheting, and I have to be at work in less than 3 hours. Last night was such a night.

So at 5 am, the glare of my computer screen screaming at my brain to shut itself down, I decided that I would close my eyes for 2 hours, get up, get ready, drink an entire pot of coffee, and go into work. On only 2 hours of sleep, I was still convinced that I could make it through the day. And I’m still convinced that I could’ve. That is, if I had made it to my desk on time. Closing my eyes for “2 hours” proved to be an awful idea, I realized, as I glanced at an alarm clock that was telling me it was 9:45 am. Somehow I managed to fly out of bed, shower, shave, and get to my desk by 10:40, but by that point, my absence had been noticed by the entire department, much less my boss, and I knew that the excrement would no doubt be hitting the air conditioning in short order.

Long story made short—my boss completely chewed me out in front of the whole floor and sent me home, telling me not to return until Wednesday. At the very least, I’ll be docked 2 days pay and my boss’ll give me 2 smacks across the mouth because he likes me. At worst, I’ll be given the shitcan, will lose my insurance and benefits, and’ll have to go out and find a new job. Boss was undecided as of this morning, and my having offered to "toss his salad" probably won't bode miller well in his favor.

In all likelihood, I'll have to go out and get a new job. Not that it’ll be that hard for a coke addicted college graduate to find a dead-end, entry level position, but I’m fucking lazy and really, really don’t want to go through the effort. So hear is my plea to you, the reader: if I do lose my job, and I really, really hope I don’t--because I get paid much more than I deserve for doing jack shit all day—but if I do, can you please hire me? I am qualified for the following positions:

-Oatmeal maker: I make a mean outmeal. The secret is adding just the right amount of honey;

-Swedish au pair: I’m not Swedish, but hey, who’s counting?;

-Customer Service Representative: Hah! Just kidding. Believe me, you don’t want ME dealing with your customers;

-Trip-tick maker at AAA: I’ve always wanted to make those trip-tik thingies that you can get at AAA before you go on a long drive. I think I’d be very good at that;

-Participant in experiments concerning effect of blow on sex: I like sex at least as much as I like blow. As such, I’d make a perfect participant in such a study, should one actually exist, which I doubt does now that I think about it, because the effect of blow on sex is not really in question;

-Box-maker: Seriously, I can put together cardboard boxes faster than that dude Paco in shipping, and he’s fucking illegal for christ’s sake!


So if you know of any positions in which my above mentioned skills could be put to good use, please let me know. After all, it’s the least you can do to pay me back for taking away from my precious coke time to document my ever-spiraling demise on this here blog. The most you could do for me, incidentally, would be to give me money directly, and if you're willing to do so, email me and I'll have a conduit meet you in Tompkins Square on Thursday afternoon. Actually, now that I think about it, the most you could do for me would be to just give me a bag, because god knows if you give me $$, I'll just use it to go out and buy one. Might as well cut out the middle man, right? Simple economics. Whatever.