I grind my teeth at night. I've done it all my life, and it's so bad that the sharp ends of my cuspids have been sanded down flat. Which means I totally can't be a phony vampire anymore.
Anyway, if you grind your teeth enough, you'll erode your teeth to the point where nerve endings are exposed. This is horrible, and I fear every day that a toothy nerve of mine will become exposed and simply taking in cool air will result in me suffering a bout of pain known only to Dustin Hoffman at the end of Marathon Man. So six years ago, in an effort to keep that from happening, I got a night guard. It's a hard plastic mouthguard you sleep with, and it costs a goddamn fortune. I now sleep with it every night.
Now, you're supposed to clean this thing every day. I think. I dunno. Anyway, I'm lazy, so all I do is rinse that shit out and throw it back in the case. That's what I've done for six years. As a result, this night guard is now, arguably, the most repugnant object on Earth. It used to be clear. It's now yellower than Woodstock the bird. And there are years and years of encrusted mouth filth all over the thing. One whiff is enough to put Paul Bunyan down. Smells like feta. Some nights, right before I put it in, there's, like, moisture in the grooves of it. It's almost certainly a culture. You could probably make yogurt with it.
But there's no way I'm tossing this thing out. Like I said, it cost an insane amount. It's a piece of fucking plastic, yet they charge you its weight in platinum. Also, I'm fascinated by it. I love to examine it and check out the massive grooves in it that I made by grinding my teeth at night. I'd also like to know what all the white shit built up on the insides is. Is that calcium? Do my teeth make bones at night? If I got rich and really fucking famous, would some retard in Kentucky pay $1,000 for this at auction? I hope so.
Anyway, night guards and retainers are nasty. Your letters.
Is it wrong to hate Facebook because I can't stand to see other people happier than me?
But they AREN'T happier! That's the whole ruse of Facebook. Everyone posts their goddamn vacation photos and pictures of their little shit kids and they're all like JUST HAD A GREAT DINNER WITH THE KIDS AT BERTUCCI'S! Bullshit. Total crap. I know damn well those kids screamed the whole time, didn't eat a fucking thing, and Mom resents Dad because he sneaked in five more minutes to enjoy his meal than she did. But noooo, you won't see that on Facebook. You just get the varnish. It's people advertising themselves. Which is fine, but don't expect me to buy that you're some fucking avid hiker, Tony.
I also strongly dislike people who use status updates on Twitter or Facebook to compose flowery, phony deep thoughts for the day, or to quote Emily Dickinson or something horrible like that. Hey fuckface, you wanna write a book? Write a goddamn book. No one's gonna read your stupid status update and think you're the 160-character James Joyce. Take it from a self-absorbed dick who tweets about how many pushups he does.
Is there anything on God's green earth more frustrating than an unpoppable pimple? Not only does it make you feel like a complete fucking failure but the zit inevitably swells up to like five times its original size so you look like Stephen Strasburg plunked you in the face. It's like a badge of incompetence that you have to adorn for a minimum of 5 days. In my endless brilliance, I have even gone as far as searching through the toolbox, landing on a pair of rusty needlenose pliers. It still didn't work. Now I have zitty, tetanus-laden forehead. Maybe I should shower more.
It's awful, and the process of popping it always comes at a highly inconvenient time. If I notice a whitehead that needs popping, I have to pop it immediately. It'll drive me fucking nuts if I wait to do it. Consequently, I end up trying to pop the zit somewhere like in the middle of the office or something like that. I do this because I think the popping will be a relatively simple affair. I pop the zit, use one of the 5,000 napkins I've accumulated from take out lunches ordered to clean it up, and off I go. Instead, it becomes this whole Sisyphean process that ends up turning the goddamn zit into a boil. And the top gets all blue and shit and I'm sitting there squeezing this thing like it's a toothpaste tube and it really fucking hurts and then I rest before having another go at it. Can I squeeze even harder this time? I CAN! OH GOOD GOD THAT FUCKING KILLS! WHY WON'T YOU POP? Then I bust out the paper clips and the amateur surgery begins.
As an aside, when I worked in an office, I stockpiled so many napkins and sauce packets from ordered lunches that my desk drawer looked like a fixin's bar at Roy Rogers. I became an expert in which takeout napkins are superior. Some restaurants give you the brown ones made of recycled paper. Those are doodoo. But some restaurant handed out these lovely, embroidered white napkins. The Vanity Fair ones. LUXURY. Man, did I love those napkins. Because desk napkins have so many different uses. You can mop up spills with them (to mop up any spill, I always use fifty times more paper than is necessary), blow your nose (yellow snot! WHOA!), clean up blood, wipe off your monitor. I love a good horde of desk napkins. Running out of desk napkins is never pleasant.
I have a motorcycle and almost every time I'm out riding I'll catch myself making motorcycle engine/exhaust noises with my mouth, like a kid on a bicycle or pretending to drive a car. It's just me out in a helmet there with no music, so I don't know if it's boredom or what, but is this normal? Do other people do this?
I dunno, but I'm totally buying a motorcycle now. Or a Can-Am! It's so futurey looking, but also kinda gay!
I've told my old lady that my life goal is to own a waverunner. But that, since we don't live near water, I will buy a motorcycle instead because I have a theory that riding a motorcycle is like riding a waverunner ON LAND. She balks, but I will do it. I'll scrounge up some money and buy the cushiest, roomiest, douchiest looking bike ever. One of those old guy motorcycles with three compartments for sandwiches and shit. And a back to the seat! Oh yeah!
My family just put up some rat traps above the refrigerator in our house, and every time I look at them I'm tempted to stick my finger in and see what happens. It's the same reason me and my friends used to shock ourselves against my neighbors electric fence when we were younger, but I've grown up a little since then and you'd think that the desire to injure yourself would dissipate with age. Do you ever do, or think about doing, things like this?
Sure do! Those rat traps really are tempting. They're like mousetraps, but fucking HUGE. They could sever a thumb. I'm 33, but I've never stopped being curious about how badly I can potentially hurt myself with things like this. What if I stuck my dick in that rat trap? God damn, that would hurt. I better not do that.
We buy mousetraps for our kitchen. They're the sticky traps, the ones where the mice get caught and then rip off their own legs trying to escape. NICE. Anyway, any time I take the traps out of the box, I'm dying to jam a hand in there. Just to see what's going on. They say you can clean it off with oil. Hey, who knew washing your hands with oil was a good idea? LOUISIANA IS ABOUT TO GET A GREAT LAND DETAILING!
I'm graduating soon and have the option of living in New York City, Chicago, or San Francisco for a year. I've lived in Minnesota my whole life and need to get away from these frigid winters.
What do you think? I've been to Chicago and loved it, but then I figured if I'm gonna live in a big city why not live in the biggest, most famous city in the US? (I've never been to the east coast though). But then I think why don't I just tell winter to go fuck itself and move to San Francisco? I've visited LA a few times and could never live there, but I think SF is diff.
San Fran is most definitely different. It's fucking COLD. And the cold in San Fran is far worse than the cold in New York because you're always thinking to yourself, "What the fuck? It's May in California, and I'm fucking freezing to death." Unexpected cold like that is much worse than expected frigidity. I have my issues with San Francisco. I'd far rather live in Chicago or New York. And if I were you, I'd go with Chicago because it's cheaper and you'll be able to live in an apartment larger than a shoebox. That's critical booze money.