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75 Stinkbugs Muck Up My Plans. . .

2002-11-12 - 11:13 p.m.

Right. This was SO not the plan. Writing an entry tonight I mean. I pity all of you that have to read this. Well, one reason is that I think it will be rife, RIFE I say, with spelling errors, and yet another reason is that I don't know exactly how much sense it will make. . .

So this is it - The Big 75. Yup. My 75th entry. Is it all that you thought it'd be but more? Or less? Well, you can't really gauge it I guess, we've only just begun. (that's gauge as in "GAGE", not "GAZSH" - just so you know).

I'm having a hard time writing this. Stupid bacardi. I'd feel bad about drinking most of it, but it's Ben's booze not mine. Booze. Work sucks. Have I ever mentioned how much working at the cock-sucking ass-fucking G. Wallakers sucks? That's right. G. Wallakers - Oh what a toy store! Oh what a whore house is more like it. I know I know, I should just find another job. I hate that my boss gives such preferential treatment to cockpotato Michael. Yes. That's right. I said it. Michael is a cockpotato. And Michael will be working over 50 hours a week in December. Why? Simply because he asked Jim and Jim was MORE than happy to give him the hours. And because Michael gets whatever he wants. And because Michael is the most inconsiderate, rude, asscocking, motherfucking, bitch ass, trick ass ho I've ever had to work with. Well, I won't say that. I had to work with some mighty fucking annoying ass characters at SurfCoaster (where the surf's up EVERY day). SurfCoaster. I can't believe I worked there. Well, yeah I can. And Rachel would sometimes pick us up since Lee worked there. And they'd meet us at the top of the dirt road above the employee area. And all the Laconia kitchen kids hated the Gilford lifeguard kids. Typical. What an odd assortment! Julie, Brooke, Mad Dog, Keith, Jeff, Frog, Tim Curtis, Me, and last but not least, Serene at the ticket booth. Odd, very odd. How did I get talking about SurfCoaster anyway? God that job fucking sucked. But we all hated it, so we reveled in its horribility. Sweet. Oh yeah, I hate Michael. You know what else I hate? SPELLING the name Michael. I always have to wait and think what goes first, the "a" or the "e". Whatever. I'll be able to point at SurfCoaster to my kids and say, "Daddy worked there . . . for the devil."

Yeah, so, on Saturday I had to go to North Haverhill for a Foote Family Reunion. Did I mention this? I think I did. It was better than I thought it would be. I went with my Dad and the Lady. And my Uncle Jim (my dad's brother) and his wife, my Aunt Barb (my mother's sister) went as well. Got all that? My grandmother, my dad's stepmother, was there as well. Still with me? My dad's mother died when he was 14 I believe. His father, my grandfather, died in 1997. It sucked. Hard. Just as when my mother's father died in 1993, I gave the eulogy at the funeral for my Grampa Foote. It wasn't a very good eulogy. Trust me. I was there. The eulogy I gave for my Grampa Dame was MUCH MUCH better. And I had a whole group of guys from the VFW and the Legion to impress for that one so you think I would have cracked under the pressure. But I didn't. I don't really remember too much about that first funeral. I remember Barbie read a poem, and I remember I gave the eulogy. Why was that even allowed? I was only just 15. Others must have questioned me being up there. Yet I remember making the old veteran's laugh. And I remember being impressed by that. How sick is that? It was my own grandfather's fucking funeral and I was concerned over how the jokes were going over. Oh well, at least I didn't bomb. And I remember Phyllis (my grandfather's 3rd wife) getting presented an American flag. She was such a fucking whore. She was always nice to us kids. But she was a moron. I have no fucking clue what my grandfather saw in her. Then again, anyone who was married to my Nanny for as long as he was is probably certifiably insane anyway. Phyllis saw me three years later at the Colonial when I was working there for the summer with Tim Curtis. She was going to see Striptease with her gross, gaudy friends. She didn't even recognize me. But the Foote Reunion was fun. We went to my father's mother's grave, and some other spots in the highlight reel of my father and uncle's childhood. There was this giant pine tree on their grandfather's farm that they carved steps into. I took a picture of it. It was pretty cool. I wish my grandfathers weren't dead. If only so I could ask them what they thought of Saving Private Ryan. And ask my Grampa Foote what he thought about traveling about cross-country, and compare my stories from August to his. And ask my Grampa Dame about where he lived in Arizona and the details behind it. I liked what little of Arizona I saw. He must have really liked it. My Grampa Dame wasn't buried anywhere, he was cremated. I hate that. My Grampa Foote was buried in one of those many cemeteries off of Court Street. I've only gone to visit it once. And it was while I still lived in Laconia. I feel guilty about this. Have I droned on enough about this? I'm sure I have.

Tim and I ate an unhealthy amount of nacho cheese when we worked at the Colonial. Kate and I continued that tradition tonight when we single-handedly decided to keep Taco Bell in business.

I've been fighting with a lot of people lately and it's pissing me off. I don't always want to fight. Oddly, Brooke and Monique aren't included with the people I've been fighting with. Thank Heaven for small favors. I've been trading terse words with Brad though and it pisses me off. I even got annoyed with Alyson the other night. Alyson my cousin, not the two Allison's at the Wallakers. And Alyson and I NEVER have harsh words. What's next? An argument with Todd, or perhaps Patrick?

Did I mention that I talked to Jon the other night? Broken legged Jon in L.A.? He is doing well, ignoring the broken leg, and I hope to catch up with him when he's home this Christmas. Hopefully he won't be dressed as Bikini Boy. Did I also mention that it is Jimbo "the Himbo" Moreau's 25th Birthday today? I didn't? Well, now I did.

Did I mention how pissed off I got at work tonight? Well, now I did. But seriously Clyde, I can't even quantify the joules that express the amount of anger that I felt tonight while I was absentmindedly ripping apart little blues.

I've been swearing more than usual lately. I know, that seems impossible. But it's true. Everything is "fucking this" and "twating that". Not true. In fact, I hate the word "twat". And I've been telling far filthier jokes lately than I used to. Odd. But seriously, my dad showed up this morning and said to me, "So did you hear that 'blankity - blank' got killed on 'The Sopranos'?" and I responded with the white hot firey rage not seen since Annie ruined the end of "Of Mice and Men" for me. I actually threw a brush at my father's mid-section and screamed, "I can't fucking believe you just fucking told me that!" He responded with, "What language." Whatever. Dumb shit. And he tells me that the Lady wants him to grow a ponytail. And then I told him that I'd puke on his face if he ever did anything that stupid. And then he yelled at me for being "inappropriate".

I don't want to go to bed. I don't want to study for my French Exam. I don't want to do this "school thing" anymore. I'm sick of it. And I don't want to move, even though I realize that it is (kinda) for the best. And I'm sick of hating everybody. Aren't you?

I hope Peter is serious when he says he's coming up after Christmas. I hate not having my own place. I don't mean my own place without a roommate. I mean my own place at home. I hate having to stay in Meredith sleeping under a crossbow, or in Tilton with a cat that's not mine. See, all I do is hate, hate, hate.

"You have a problem with unresolved anger," my mother would tell me. "And I'm scared it's gonna eat away at you." My mother's such a Drama Queen. Who the fuck does she think she is - Yoda?

I do have an Anger Management problem though. Just ask Andrea. She'll regale you with tales of me kicking and punching things at work that weren't designed to be kicked and punched. I wasn't always like this. I swear. Well, that's not true. Maybe I was. Yeah - I needed to stop like 3 Rum & Cokes ago.

I had such plans for my 75th entry. None of which I've typed tonight. I was gonna go to bed early tonight and then get up to study. I'm still gonna get up at 6. Even though it's almost 1 AM as I type this. Argh.

I hate Republicans. How's that for blanket?

I remember going to a Yearbook conference at Bryant College with Beth Davison and Tom Lynch my Junior/Senior summer to help plan out the Yearbook for our Senior Year. Not sure why Mad Dog didn't go. I remember that Tom and I smoked out of a Coke can. And I remember that I wrote to Amelia, who was in Hampton. I never sent the letters though. I wrote to Beth and Annie too. I sent those letters.

I don't know how to end this entry. I don't have any comical pictures. I don't have any funny quotes. I'm sick of working. I'm sick of school. I want to write something that doesn't just focus on loathing. And I don't mean papers on the tragedy of Icarus, or the unbridled malicious motivations of Cassius and Iago. I mean real writing. Whatever the fuck that means.

I hate everyone - except cookies. At least, that's what my Away Message said.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets comes out on Friday. I won't be able to see it that night. Boooo. We'll be going out with Jeff on Saturday night for his birthday on the 16th. That should be . . . well, interesting.

Hoo-ray, Go Bruins. Fuck that.

It's been real,

Mr. Jones

ps - Which one?

pss - I hate the nicknames "Baby" and "Honey". I'd rather be called "Shitty" and "Stinky". In fact, I hate people. Have I mentioned this?

ppps - "When this kiss is over - it will start again / It will not be any different / It will be exactly the same / It's hard to imagine - that nothing at all / Could be so exciting - could be this much fun." - "Heaven"

pppps - [There. That lightens things up a bit.]

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