Dear Diary

I was never one to keep a diary.  Nor did I ever keep a diary but call it a journal.  Yet a casual glance shows that 99% of blogs are basically diaries of the minutiae of people’s lives and their overheated ruminations about said minutiae.  Since I mostly write about abstract stuff I kind of feel like I’m missing out by not blessing the reading audience with the all-important trivialities of my daily life.  So here’s a glimpse into my mental world from this past weekend:

At the pool there was an unfortunate couple with a kid.  The woman suffered from advanced stages of what looked like multiple sclerosis or some similar gift from god, her back grotesquely misshapen and her arms bent in awkward positions.  The man, husband I presumed, was inflated like a hot air balloon, at least 400 pounds.  I thought, That guy is damned lucky she’s deformed or he’d get no pussy at all.  Then I wondered if I was the only one thinking that.  I pondered a bit more that he could lose his weight while she could do nothing about her affliction.  In this way I was comfortable mentally blaming fatso for ruining my visual environment.  Most of the time you don’t see people like this, the walking wretched, out in public.  They generally stay holed up indoors with delivery services providing their needs.  I think most people are happy with this arrangement, even if they would never admit it.

It was blazingly hot, so I went to Cold Stone Creamery for a delicious ice cream.  The semi-retarded looking kid behind the counter took my order.  When I got outside to sit and enjoy my hard-won kill, I realized the kid gave me not just the wrong ice cream flavor (cinnamon instead of coffee), but the wrong mix-in (butterfinger instead of heath bar), and the wrong size (small, not medium).  So the semi-retarded look was more than just a look.  I marveled how an order could be so magnificently fucked up — a trifecta! — when it was just me and my friend in the shop and no one else to create undue stress on the employees.  I decided it must be an omen, so I didn’t bother returning it for the correct order.

There is only one public humiliation worse for a man than licking the sweaty balls of a tranny on the 50 yard line at halftime of the Superbowl on national TV, and that is having the barbell fall on him in the middle of a bench press rep — during the warm-up set.  My buddy had walked away since I informed him it was my warm-up and I wouldn’t need him to spot yet.  At rep number 9 (we guys remember the rep numbers like you girls remember anniversaries), I felt a sharp pain in my right shoulder and the bar started going backwards until it was sitting on my chest.  A helpful gym rat lifted it up off me.  I couldn’t look anyone in the eye after that.  Luckily, it was uncrowded, so I think I’ll be safe to come back in a year or two.

My friend’s wife hates me.  Oh yes, it’s so obvious.  At the BBQ they threw on Saturday she exchanged a total of two words with me:  Hi.  Bye.  And she was facing away from me when she spoke them.  This is understandable.  Every time I’ve been to their place, I’ve either gone swinging single or with a girl she hasn’t met before.  I’ve known her husband much longer than she has.  He and I have the OLD DAYS.  The OLD DAYS are not to be trifled with.  Things happen in the OLD DAYS, like late night carousing, lapdances, and alibi duty.  A wife knows deep down that whatever memories she’s building with her husband pale in comparison to the knee deep in the mud memories he has with his lifelong buddies before mortgages and kids civilized him.  So I’m that no-good reminder of his wild days, and my mere presence gets under her skin.  Wives put a lot of effort into breaking the spirit of their husbands; the last thing they want is for that free-wheeling, carefree SOB to show up and piss all over their hard work in a single afternoon.  The icing on the cake is that I suggested the bar for their first date which eventually led to marriage.  She should be naming her next kid after me.

I hope this journey through the pages of my life was as good for you as it wasn’t for me.





Comments


  1. “So I’m that no-good reminder of his wild days, and my mere presence gets under her skin. Wives put a lot of effort into breaking the spirit of their husbands; the last thing they want is for that free-wheeling, carefree SOB to show up and piss all over their hard work in a single afternoon.”

    Brilliant!

    It couldn’t be more obvious that your friend’s wife is tremendously insecure. I’m quite sure that if you were married, she wouldn’t have much of a problem with you.

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  2. I was never one to keep a diary. Nor did I ever keep a diary but call it a journal. Yet a casual glance shows that 99% of blogs are basically diaries of the minutiae of people’s lives and their overheated ruminations about said minutiae.

    So eloquent. I learnt 2 new words, too. 😀

    I love keeping journals and such. I entertain myself that much. Haha.

    I think you should write about your life more often.

    I heard you were supposed to come out on Saturday but you weren’t there. Pfft!

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  3. The second or third thing you said when I first met you: This might sound sexist, but I don’t really read girls’ blogs. They’re kind of like diaries .

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  4. OK, that comment would been much funnier had my pseudo-HTML tags appeared around the word “diary” : [slight intonation of disgust] diary [/slight intonation of disgust]

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  5. It would have been far worse had your friend been spotting you when you ran into trouble while benching, and instead of just assisting you as necessary he pulled up on the bar with all his might while yelling “It’s all you, man!” for the entire gym to hear. You two then would’ve been marked as just a couple more gym douche bags.

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  6. I also find women’s comments to blogs to be just as banal as their blogs. I find it mind-blogging that women, who are typically more observant and perceptive than men, and who are equally intelligent and linguistically capable as men (women outnumber men at law schools now), cannot write anything interesting or innovative in their blogs.

    I would love to read a blog by a female author that offers bold theses, but necessarily serious or weighty, on social phenomenons and argues its cogently. For example, what is the best way to attract and keep a great guy?

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  7. Thank you Jabroni.

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  8. A woman’s diary-like blog wouldn’t be so bad if they cut out all the bullshit and actually wrote the most interesting bits in an iceberg-like way.

    Not, “Today, I ate a sandwich that made me feel fat. Then I talked to my boyfriend and, OMG, he pissed me off. Then I told E who told A who heard it from L that N and P were going to F’s party an I wasn’t invited.”

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  9. only a retard would assume anyone would enjoy cinnamon ice cream

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  10. Among the top ten most embarrasing things that can happen to a man: Have a slightly chunky girl that is atleast 6 inches shorter than you pass you on a run in central park. Then when you decide to walk nearly going into heat stroke because your dumb ass decided to go for a run at noon in 95 degree humid heat, she’s laps you.

    Virtually all of my long time friends now living outside of NY have married. Their wives are very happy with this arrangement.

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  11. Wow I feel so great being a woman who writes a blog after all these comments.

    Nevertheless I had the same thought process you did this weekend (i.e. observing people) and I considered writing about it. But then I thought about how boring that would be.

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  12. Seeing the barbell crushing your neck was scary, seeing that 450 lb. man try to walk the steps into the pool…..hilarious!

    stop ordering froo-froo ice cream flavors!

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  13. Last weekend, while sipping beers at a sidewalk table with one of my friends, I spotted a male blogger I’d met once at a dimly-lit, slightly-drunken Happy Hour. Because I had actually enjoyed talking with this guy and had been wondering when I was going to run into him around the neighborhood, I waved him over to say hello. But just as I was about to introduce him to my friend, I realized (like a total douchebag) that even though he had, in fact, introduced himself to me using his real name, I had only committed his blogger name to memory. Hence this painfully awkward exchange:

    Me: “Hey there, good to see you again!”
    Him: “Yeah, you too.”
    Me: “X, this is– uh… I guess I didn’t ever really learn your real name.”
    Him: [Cue silent stare of reproach.] “Y. My name’s Y.”
    Me: “Oh right, of course! Sorry… I, uh… I don’t know what happened.”
    Him: “Well, good to see you again.”
    Me: “Yeah, you too. Well, have a good evening…”
    Him: “Yep, I’m just gonna go get some mediterranean food now…”
    Me: “Ok.”

    Jesus.

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  14. I forgot to add my friend’s reply, once Y walked away:

    X: “Nikita, why are you so awkward?”

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  15. Fucking hell I nearly pissed myself laughing at this post

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