My Face: Chapter 1

Technologically Impaired

So we never really finished the prologue, I get it, quit your whining. Forget it, you won't see an ending. If that's what you came back to read, wait for the epilogue. For now, just sit back and enjoy the ride, as we begin our journey to explain my face with one of my biggest pet peeves ever.

I find it difficult to believe how many people are still unable to make simple machines work. I am currently employed at a gas station, and I am dumbfounded at the number of people who walk up to the cash register everyday, faces twisted with anger and disbelief (as if they were the almighty gods of the universe and that some "thing" decided not to cooperate with their will, pfft) and accuse me of having faulty equipment. Two things run through my mind when dealing with these irate people; 1. I don't own the god damn store prick; 2. You're an idiot, that's why you've locked yourself out of the car without realizing it yet. Most people get it, especially with the step by step instructions right there on the gas pump, which goes a little something like this.

Step 1. Swipe Card
Step 2. select card type /enter pin#
Step 3. Select Grade
Step 4. Remove Nozzle and pump
Step 5. Replace Nozzle and leave.

Simple, right? Yet day after day, I'm still amazed to see one after the other come in, with claims of busted pumps, when their credit cards have huge dents in them. We're talking about Debit cards that have so many scratches on them, you couldn't give them away to Hobos. However, I digress, it's not just Gasoline pumps I'm worried about here. I could see how a few ancient creatures still roaming the earth might be confused by having to pump their own gas. I know, I'm from Massachusetts, and not every gas station up there is self-serve. No, these occurrences of ignorance, or rather afflictions, are prominent in most places of business, education and astonishingly enough ( or rather not so surprisingly) in the home. Think about how many times you've heard someone say, "My Internet is busted." A lot, right? What no on understands is that the Internet doesn't break. It's an inanimate, immaterial, thing! If anything, you're connection in broken, in which case, it's all your fault. This leads back to something else we definitely have to go over, people no taking responsibility for their actions, but that's another headache, chapter, whatever you want to call it.

I've come to understand that most of these problems are human error which is comprised of three main elements: Haste, carelessness, and fat fingers. We'll talk about fat people later (and try not to give'em a hard time, it really isn't their fault. Most of them anyways =/ ), but seriously this is something we need to think about. Here's an anecdote for you. I woke up one morning to the sound of my banshee wailing mother, spouting off something about her computer not working. Whatever, none of my concern, got bigger fish to fry, you know. Plus it had stormed the night before and my mother doesn't really buy good surge protectors so I figure the shit blew, and the motherboard or something was fried. Making my way into the kitchen, A chowed down on some Cap'n Crunch and enjoyed the sight of my mother freaking out over this "broken machine". that is until the keyboard came flying at my face, I ducked of course, and ended up with a Q in my cereal. She'd then told me that I was on it last and I'm always breaking her stuff and blah, blah, blah. Same old routine. I looked under the desk, and it wasn't plugged in. During the storm the night before, my father, wisely, unplugged the machine and went to bed. My mother, in her fit of rage, while thinking the computer was busted managed to destroy the speakers, mouse, and keyboard. What I'm saying is, you're more like to bust the machine than it cooks itself, you know?

As much as I can't stand outsourcing, those little Asian guys make some pretty sturdy shit for such cheap parts/labor. Perhaps I'm judging to harshly though. I did have the good fortune of growing up in an environment where the latest technology was readily available to me...I don't know who I'm trying to convince. All those people are fucking RETARDED.

Video time

Click To Play

Hey guys, still working on the next chapter so gimme a break. In the meantime, I'm gonna start putting video up on here, learned to do it on freevlog check it out.

DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE ELI MANNING!

Fuck Eli manning, and his fucked up nose.
Fuck Plaxico Buress and his faggot name.
And finally fuck the new york Giants, for giving one good year to a shitty team and taking on good year from a great team. You guys rock cocks.

My Face (Prologue Pt. 1)

I have come to this state of intrinsic euphoria this Wednesday evening, by one means and one alone. That is that I took the time out of my “should-be” busy schedule to walk a half-mile there and back to the gas station, where at I purchased a bottle of Nesquick chocolate milk. Not that cheap imitation stuff they pass off as chocolate water, I find that even Hershey’s chocolate doesn’t do the trick. By imitation I mean the brand of milk mixed with chocolate substitute that no one has ever heard of, like T.G Lee, or...actually I can’t seem to recall any other brand of chocolate milk. Suffice to say that nothing but the bottle with the stupid brown rabbit on the front would do the trick for me. I must be one of the hundreds of millions of people on this planet who enjoy a good, ice cold bottle of chocolate milk. However, unlike the masses who consume this same cow byproduct that I do, I feel a very special connection to it. Chocolate milk does for me, what a cigarette after a heated argument, or a case of beer after a long hard days work does for me. I suppose I could make it from scratch at home, but then I have to worry whether or not I’ve got enough chocolate syrup in the glass to have attained the correct amount of “chocolatyness”.

No, the bottle has plenty, aimed at perfection, in my case specific. When I buy a bottle, it’s always the right amount, just sweet enough, just heavy enough to put me to sleep in the same manner as a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. Unfortunately, for me, I’m so fickle when it comes to this beverage, that if it gets just the slightest bit warm while I’m still drinking it, I’ll have to throw the rest away. Chocolate milk is only good when it’s cold, like beer.

I beg your pardon, however, as not only chocolate milk makes me feel the way I do now. I have, in fact, a top five, if you will. Chocolate milk, drinking with my friends, smoking huca, playing hackey-sac, with sex dragging up a distant fifth. It’s still up there, so my wife has nothing to lament. I fear, however, that the last thing I can ever gain is that one bit of true euphoric pleasure from all of these things combined, because, you can’t very well do all of these things at once. Which would be strange. In short, it can be interpreted from these few short paragraphs that I’m a relatively simple person, young man, or young adult, rather. Imagine if you will, a pomegranate...no...well, yes actually. A pomegranate. Seemingly simple enough on the outside, yet notoriously complex on the inside. It’s innards intertwined with small inner pouches of sweet tasty seeds that make up the flavor that is pomegranate.

That would be me, to a “tee” if you please...one sugar, two creams, thank you. No, in truth I am in whole just a bunch of seeds bundled together in this big sack of flesh that make up the person I am. For the sake of being on the same page, let’s assume that this sack is my consciousness, and the “seeds” represent my thoughts, and ideas.

I’m in no way trying to claim that I’m so different and unique from every other man on the planet. On the contrary, I’m quite alike many of them, as far as carnal instincts go, and general needs, emotional and physical. If I had to say I was different, I’d only mention that...I have a problem identifying a large quantity of seeds in my sack, no pun intended. No, by this I mean that, I’m quite aware of the many ideas I have inside of my head, and I’m quite capable of solving the most complex mathematical problems, or performing the most intellectually demanding tasks, it’s just that, from time to time, I’ll forget what exactly it is I’m doing, why I’m doing it, or even how I’m supposed to do these things in the first place. For example, I’ve been in four separate year long keyboarding classes, to learn to type faster and more accurate on a computer, and STILL, I can only type with both my index and middle fingers. My father once commented that if he ever saw a chicken typing, the image would be most similar to a motion film of my fingers striking the keyboard.

Another example might be something akin to this, if you so choose to stray from the scenario I’ve laid out for you. I’m a person who lives in the present, I do not dwell on the past (rarely do I ever mention it, actually), nor do I look towards the future. Many might think this type of behavior to be reckless. According to the previous generation, that is the definition of a reckless person. One who does not consider the consequences of his actions before performing them. In other words, not paying attention to what the future MIGHT bring. I don’t have time to worry about the “what-ifs” in life. Here’s how I look at it though. If I spend too much time dwelling on the past, or looking toward the future, I’ll miss the present (Which is funny, considering the present doesn’t really exist but that’s a story for another time). So you ask, why can’t I focus on each with an equal amount of attention, there in lies the question indeed.

Why not? Well, I could claim, like so many others to have Attention Deficit disorder, but that would be silly. I don’t really want to get onto this subject, but claiming to have this disorder is like jumping on the world-class “Excuse Bandwagon”.



(To be continued)