Boomerang Gang

Being a boomerang child has taken quite the toll on both my social life and my patience. My brother’s voice goes up an octave with each passing day, which wouldn’t be so terrible if he didn’t feel the need to incessantly speak or narrate his actions when he’s not speaking. After 8 hrs of work each day, I don’t have the energy to leave the house so I spend the evening drinking Metamucil and attempting to evade bicycling invites from my mom. What is it with old(er) people and riding bikes? They claim it’s for “exercise” but I don’t know many exercise regimens that include wheeling around aimlessly at a snail’s pace wearing polyester pants and laceless orthopedic sneakers. I’ll decline unless I’m taking the Delorean back to the pre-license era of my life or happen to be a celebrity frolicking through the streets of Venice pretending I didn’t purposely wear a skirt for paparazzi to zoom in on my snatch. I have enough issues with frontal wedgies without voluntarily giving myself camel toe after throwing on my Bermuda shorts and straddling the most uncomfortable object since wooden dildos. Tell me there wasn’t such a thing.So I’ll pass on that wheeled adventure in favor of watching reruns of Jersey Shore. Not just because I’m actively avoiding mindnumblingly boring interaction with humans, but also because it takes multiple viewings for me to figure out whether those are Ronnie’s pecs bouncing through the dance floor or if there’s a gay Italian guy with Parkinson’s jumping on a pogo stick. Those strobe lights can be deceiving. 

After a recent dermatologist appointment with Morticia Addams, I began to wonder if one actually need attend medical school to enter the field or if the Northeast just holds a regional prison line up, chooses the palest most miserable sour vag of the bunch and hands her a scalpel. I don't care how pale I am when I enter that building, after standing next to Dr. Pastey Face I begin to wonder if my biological father is of Navajo Indian descent. I could resemble Voldemort in December with bird flu and she will still give me the once over as if I’ve been hibernating in a solarium. You need to stay out of the sun my dear. I live in Florida ya dumb bitch, there’s really no escaping that giant star here. So Let's just scrape that mole off my back shaped like Louisiana and call it a day. I'll return to microwaving my innards under the Florida heat lamp and you can go back to petitioning Banana Boat for a sweatproof, waterproof, unwanted childproof, atomic-bomb-radiation-proof sun block. We’ll reconvene in six months and compare how much damage I've done to my skin to how much sex you haven’t had. Oh that freckle looks funny? Well fuck let's laser it! While you're at it can you get these two also, I'm trying to make the the little dipper and they’re wrecking the whole celestial alignment.

I haven't updated the blog in some time because my new job precludes any sort of computer use. I am gainfully employed at a fitness center in my hometown because they were the only monkeys bananas enough to give me a job for two months. I use the term "fitness center" because this place is not a gym. It's a warehouse-sized space filled with state of the art equipment, spa-esque locker rooms and fake boobed stepford wives hell bent on masking their lack of personality with sculpted glutes and $300 spandex workout fits all in the futile attempt to keep their wealthy—yet morally bankrupt—husbands from cheating with their slutty secretaries. My entire occupation consists of smiling while cards are scanned and babysitting keys to vehicles worth more than most homes. Most of these glittering trophies are friendly, but then again why wouldn’t they be? The glacier on their ring finger weighs twice the hungry African child that mined it. But other than the pinched nerve in my shoulder from folding hundreds of sweat towels each day and the looming fear that this fake smile will remain permanently adhered to my visage, the job is a cakewalk.

In every job I’ve had, there's undoubtedly one character that wears down my patience quicker than wiping a baby’s ass with a hedgehog. Here, he is the sales manager and lives up to the greaseball connotation in every manner. He corrects my “performance” with every syllable uttered and it always ties back to how he ‘gets paid.’ Gag me with a broomstick. I usually combat these condescending remarks stealthily through eye contact refusal. Not merely to exert a silent act of insubordination, but also because the glassy eyes resting above his pock marked beak gaze in two completely different directions. Continued eye contact with this chameleon creature should be one of the tasks on Minute to Win It. I doubt any human with sight could complete this feat for over twelve seconds without looking away compelled by the uncomfortable uneasiness that one eye is most definitely x-ray vision equipped. And as if googly eyes weren't enough to complete the quasi moto ensemble, he's a five foot ex-bodybuilder with a Napoleon complex and a thirst for long winded explanations in just about every area of common sense.  I daydream about asking to spot him on the bench press so that a finger slip could result in his accidental asphyxiation by way of weighted bar.

For the past hour he's informed every member of his sales team that he is getting back into “body building contest shape.” If that particular shape mirrors the svelte physique of Danny Devito, he’s nearly there. Why is it that freakishly compact men always take the weight lifting route? Studies show it stunts growth and of course you're going to look more muscular than the guy standing next to you—he grew vertically while puberty just doubled the size of your neck and initiated the my-arms-can’t-make-physical-contact-with-the-sides-of-my-body look. Regardless, I only have a month left at this robot terrarium, so I will do my best to suck it up and chronicle the idiocy before my departure.