Time To Take The Cyanide Pill
Thursday, September 29, 2005 Update: I called the Hungarian super. He may smell like cabbage, but at least he's tall. Also- I'm done whining. And drinking. Actually, if I ever see whiskey again it'll be too soon. Ugh...I just dry heaved a little.  
Monday, September 26, 2005 Although, I’m not quite certain how “I feeeeeel” (this should be read in a whiny self-indulgent tone) because I’m a little…well…I’m not sure what to call it. It’s not numb per se, it’s more like when you stub your toe and it takes a few seconds to get to your brain and produce hideous pain. You get a moment to reflect, “Shit- that’s gonna hurt” before it actually sets in. I’ve been told getting kicked in the balls is sort of like this, but since I can’t speak to that particular experience, I’ll just say I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m feeling. That, and a little bit drunk. I’m sort of new to all this, as I’ve only had two real breakups in my life and one was very amicable and the other took close to five years to complete (Don’t ask). But, since nothing ever really works out I thought I’d use this time to develop a blueprint template for post-relationship behavior. It’s sort of a work in progress and will be updated as the days go on. OK! Let the healing begin. Hours 1 - 48 Begin to consume alcohol immediately. If you’re going to cry or do any dumb shit like that do it now and be done with it. No one likes a crying drunk and if you have to pick between crying and drinking well, we all know where I stand on that. Because hey- nothing says “I’m over it” like standing on top of a bar with beer dripping down your arm while you lead the crowd in a stirring rendition of “All By Myself”. Hours 48 – 72 Now’s the time for finger pointing and childish behavior. No matter who’s fault it was, even if your committing some heinous crime against humanity is what caused the break-up, do not, I repeat DO NOT blame yourself or take any responsibility whatsoever. “Owning Up” comes later…preferably right before you black out. Your friends should take this opportunity to tell you how much they didn’t like the departed partner, that you can do better, and, that no, you will not die alone only to have your corpse discovered eight days later after your cat has eaten most of your face. Hours 72 – 96 This is sort of like after shiva, when the bagel & lox has been stored away and the loud chewing but well meaning crowd of mourners has gone, when the reality of the situation sets in. This is the worst part and I can only suggest that as soon as reality pokes you in the eye you switch from beer back to Bourbon. You have to come to terms with the fact that the mini-vacation you were planning ain’t gonna happen, that those visions of walking arm and arm in the park looking at leaves ARE as icky and gag-inducing as you once thought, and that drinking alone in your apartment and throwing beer caps at the mouse who is your only living companion does indeed constitute a rockin’ Saturday night. Ugh…..fuck reality. Fuck it in its fucking ass. Hmmmm, perhaps a little less Bourbon might be in order. That’s really all I’ve got right now. Any and all suggestions on how to keep the healing party going would be much appreciated. Ok- if anybody needs me I’ll be the one in the corner sipping a bottle of room temperature Bourbon and making hissing noise at my cat to keep it away from my face. Over and out.
Thursday, September 22, 2005 I promised a soul barring expose of the shame of attending a Weight Watchers meeting- and not wanting to be both the chubby type needing such a meeting as well a liar- here it goes. For those of you who have never been (and that would be, I assume, everyone except my mom (Hi Mom! Thanks for the genes!) and an unlucky friend or two)), let me tell you a bit about “The Program”. Weight Watchers assigns point values to foods and gives you a set amount of points you can eat in a day. Ostensibly this is a good thing as you can eat anything you want in moderation, so long as you don’t go over the points you’ve been allotted. In the mood for a slice of pizza? 6 points. Just HAVE to have that bagel? 5 points. Degenerate alcoholic? Hey, wine is only 2 points a glass, so g’head and have yourself a bottle fat ass. And hey- the best news is that Vicodin, Valium and Percocet are 0 points- even if you eat all three at once (Thank you baby Jesus). Now that doesn’t sound so bad huh? Wrong! Because part of “ The Program” is weekly weight-ins followed by group meetings. Since Weight Watchers is a program designed primarily for women, we need not only to diet, but also to talk incessantly about dieting, to talk about our weight, to talk about food, to talk about the fact that you ate an entire bag of Cheetos because the pictures in the Vogue magazine you were reading made you feel less than. On the up side, meetings also provide an opportunity to sit next to the fattest woman in the room and feel smug about you own relatively mild pudge. And yes, I am aware that women are in fact horrible, horrible creatures. I blame estrogen and Eve. But before the meeting comes the most horrific aspect of the “The Program”- The Weekly Weigh-In. You stand in line in a room full of chubby people waiting to get weighed. You watch people take off not only their shoes, but also belts, rings, watches, and hair ties in order to lighten their not so proverbial load. Then, you have to hop on the scale and the woman sitting behind the desk jots down your weight while you ask pleadingly, “Are you sure? Maybe you inverted a number?”. Then, if you gain weight, you are forced to wear a strap on pig nose for the duration of the meeting while all the other fat women make oinking noises at you. Ok, fine….I made that part up…but whatever. Moving on….. In addition to its very existence coupled with my need for it, I have a few issues with the “The Program”. I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this before, but I have a very real, very serious problem with gum. The noise of someone chewing gum makes me a little crazy, even when it is done quietly. I firmly believe that anyone who cracks, pops, or smacks their gum should be sterilized and then beaten to death with a bag full of quarters. And yes, I do realize that sterilizing someone is unnecessary if you are ultimately going to execute them, but I think that gum chewers should have the added humiliation of being neutered before they die- THAT’S how strongly I feel about gum. Now, one of the things people do to avoid over-eating is chew sugarless gum. Apparently, one of the things fat people at Weight Watchers do in order to avoid over-eating is chew sugarless gum really fucking loud. So, not only am I sitting in a stuffy room listening to a woman talk about why it’s necessary to take the skin off a piece of chicken, I’m also listening to gum being chewed at a decibel level that could rival a jet engine and thinking about how best to claw out my own eardrums. Another huge problem I have with my meeting is the stairwell. I think someone should bring the following to the attention of whoever decides where Weight Watchers meetings should be held: If you are looking for a venue in which many fat people will be coming and going at one time I suggest choosing somewhere with a wide stairwell. Because nothing adds to the humiliation of being publicly weighed like having someone have to wait at the head of the stairs until your fat ass is done heaving itself up the stairs so they can start heaving their own fat ass down them. But, I've saved the best part for last. Today, after having endured the humiliations listed above, I was walking down the street, for say 10 blocks, before I realized I was still wearing the nametag from the meeting with my first name written in block letters below the very large emblam stating: WEIGHT WATCHERS MEMBER. Christ, I can just see the Craigslist Missed Connection now:
Saturday, September 10, 2005 With love- Wormus
Thursday, September 08, 2005 I fucking KNEW it. Keep your eyes peeled for these rockin' T-shirts to make their debut at this year's Bonneroo, bra. Excuse me, I have to go throw up now.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005 I haven't really said anything about the hurricane or the government's response yet- partly because the outrage I feel has made it hard to string together coherent thoughts, but mostly because when it comes shit like this I really have no idea what I'm talking about. Seriously. Dick jokes? Got 'em. Drunken rants about the borderline inbreds I've dated? Sure. But when it comes to disaster relief, racial disparities in America and the internal operations of an organization like FEMA, I really have no idea what I'm talking about. And to be perfectly honest, very few of the people in the blogosphere, on the news or around the water cooler do either. I think people see the news, the pictures, the devastation and start spouting off about things they don't truly understand. And when people start blithering like idiots about things they don't understand in their entirety, a constructive dialog can't be created, just an environment of animosity and finger pointing. Having said all that, I'm going to go ahead and blither away anyway. I am outraged that a "superpower" didn't do a better and faster job getting food and water to people they KNEW where going to desperately need it. One of my real questions is that if we knew this hurricane was going to be as apocolyptic and catastrophic as it was, and we also knew that there was a segment of the population in New Orleans which was largely immobile due to health problems or poverty, why then did we not bring the supplies in before the storm started? Why was that Superdome not stocked with food and water? We can put people into space, design bigger gas guzzling SUVs and give an 80 year old man with a heart problem an erection, and you're going to tell me that no one thought to get shit into that city before it became impossible to do so? But more than that, it's the "why didn't they leave" conversation that makes me sick. You know that old saying about opinions and assholes? Well it's fucking true. I listened to the people in my office(ed- I am making this up entirely. These people do not exist. This is fiction. Any similarities are, uh, the fault of the reader for drawing stupid conclusions) have this conversation just yesterday and it was horrifying. You take an ex-cop, a Park Avenue WASP, a housewife working part time, and an idiot, mix them together in a tiny office, add a dash of pure unadulterated stupidity and what you get is about the most asinine and insensitivity conversation I have ever heard. There was a lot of talk about "those" people. "Them" with all the kids on welfare, "those" people who have no work ethic. "Stubborn people" who refused to leave. I could actually see the cop struggle not to use the word "uppity". It's impossible for me to engage any of these people in conversation anyway as I've already been branded a lefty-pinko-communist becuase I believe that women shouldn't be forced to have babies and that "them gay folk" should be allowed to marry. Thank god they don't read this thing and have no idea how I feel about Jesus and assfucking. (ed- huh how's THAT for irony) I ended up just leaving the room. Yeah- that's right...I'm kind of a pussy. (FYI, I just managed to use the words god, jesus, assfucking and pussy all in three consecutive sentences. There should be some sort of eternal damnation award for that. Maybe the Dammies?) Back to the issue at hand though. It's embarrassing to me that these people are so far removed reality, that they are that unaware of the level of poverty afflicting a large segment of the now displaced population of New Orleans. "Forget those looters," whines the Idiot," I'm more concerned about gas prices. I mean, we have to drive out to the Hamptons this weekend." Ugh. More than anything though I think what people are missing is that this isn't just about a hurricane or an administration that's bungled, oh I don't know, EVERYTHING it's touched in the last six years. It's about race and poverty and the connection between the two. It's about the things no one wants to talk about. It's about things that I, as an upper middle class white Jewish kid who got sent to private school, certainly don't know shit about. I don't even feel that I have the right to comment. (Yes I recognize the inherent contradiction in me saying I don't have the right to comment in the middle of what is surely the longest comment I have ever made on this here blog. Whatever. I keep trying to tell you people- I'm a moron.) I guess to me this whole thing begs the question: why in this country and in this time in the history of man are there people so poverty stricken? Whose responsibility is it to care for them and more importantly (and less paternalistic) whose responsibility is it to identify and deal with the root causes? Is is a personal, state or federal issue? I've always said and thought- the basic difference between the left and the right is that the left thinks the system has failed the people and the right thinks that the people have failed the system. But in the end it's not a binary problem- the answer (as with every other elusive issue that's plagued man and society) certainly lies somewhere is the nebulous grey area between the two. And anyone who tells you different is either too dogmatic or just trying to get on TV. No? But like I said in the title of this post- I don't know shit about shit. So don't ask me.
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Time To Take The Cyanide Pill 
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