homeaboutarchivescontacteverythingham sandwichprivacy

Kallie's freak out

It’s a paradox — the kindest people are the most insecure, while the world’s biggest bastards seem to have no internal fears at all.

Kallie is one of the nice people, so she was nervous all day about her date tonight. She looked great, in fancy duds that showed an inch glimpse of cleavage (first time I’ve seen any of it) but she was rattled up tight by the end of the day. I said a few corny lines that I thought or hoped might soothe her worries, wished her good luck, and then she was gone.

Me, I haven’t had a hot date in a long while, and haven’t ever been a hot date. I’m sure if I was meeting a fine mamacita like Kallie for dinner, I’d be going just as crazy as she went.

But also, it was amusing to watch Kallie freak out, because gads, I’m a terrible person.

♦ ♦ ♦

Returned to the Army/Navy store during my morning break, and everything was intact in my backpack, of course. So here’s a sincere plug for Kaplan’s fine dry goods and outdoor equipment, home of quality merchandise at reasonable prices, and employees who won’t pillage your stuff if you forget your backpack.

♦ ♦ ♦

My evening was probably more serene than Kallie’s. I yielded to a strange desire to see two Hollywood movies for one bargain price, with Spanish subtitles, at the Tower cinema. Laughed my dang fool head off at Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber, and Wesley Snipes in Drop Zone. Both were your basic Hollywood crap, but work leaves me mindless so it was a perfect fit.

Then I waited 2½ eons for the #14 home, and my nose and earlobes were frostbit by the time a bus came. And damn, it was loaded with a gnarly zooful of tattooed and pierced purple-haired passengers straight from some bar where I’d never want a drink. Straight outta hell, man, even for Muni. I forecast recurring nightmares starring the guy with albino eyes and no shoes, using a Crocodile Dundee knife to clean under his toenails… 

From Pathetic Life #8
Thursday, January 26, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Addendum, 2021: Bad news and bummer. Kaplan's closed in 2013.

Pathetic Life 

← PREVIOUS          NEXT →


← PREVIOUS          NEXT →

Pastor Bill and the Chirping Birds

There will be no sex, no drugs, and very little rock’n’roll today. Instead we’re going to discuss the intricacies of denominational doctrine in a Christian church, and it might be less interesting than it sounds. Please be seated.

Our church had a new pastor named Bill Bird, who was in his early-30s — half the age of the previous pastor. I don’t know whether he’d planned this all along, but when he started as the pastor, he had a thick, healthy head of toupee. He looked 32, and then, midway through his third or fourth sermon, to make a dramatic point about showing people your true self, he ripped his toupee off, revealing himself to be almost completely bald. Then he explained that premature baldness ran in his family. It was a shocking Sunday, let me tell you. Our church was always a very quiet place, but for the toupee trick there was an actual round of applause. 

After that, I kinda liked our bald Pastor Bill. He was definitely a change from the previous pastor, and the pastors that came after him, just because he wasn't decrepit. Sometimes he used slang of somewhat recent vintage, and told jokes that were funny and not necessarily religious, and talked about sports and ice cream and other things not necessarily next to godliness. There was even a rumor that he kept beer in the fridge at the parsonage, though that story remains apocryphal.

They’d fired the previous pastor, a very old man, and brought in Pastor Bill specifically hoping to draw a younger crowd. Other than a few kids like me, the church was mostly married couples in their 40s or 50s, like my parents, or even older. They’d had to cancel the Sunday School class for college-age churchgoers, because nobody college-aged was going to our church.

There weren’t many people in the pews at all, but the building was huge, with a balcony over the sanctuary, and a labyrinth of hallways and rarely-used rooms in the back and in the basement.

My dad said it had been a crowded place when he started attending — when he'd been in college — but all through my childhood it was just a big empty box with a steeple. A sign in the foyer (that's church-speak for ‘lobby’) announced the attendance, but you’d think God would be embarrassed at the numbers. On a busy corner in a big city, in a sprawling church that could seat a thousand, the sign said “Last week’s attendance: 98. Previous week: 103.” Even at Easter, the church had far more pews empty than filled.

This new, young preacher, Pastor Bill, was supposed to change all that. In his first sermon, when he had hair, he’d announced himself as “rock’n’roll, but wholesome,” a line that made teenage me chuckle, and made some of the old parishioners cringe. I wasn’t interested in wholesome, and they weren’t interested in rock’n’roll.

The old folks didn’t need to worry, though. The new pastor’s idea of ‘rock’ was singing slightly peppy hymns with his wife (hot) on guitar and his sister (not) on bass. They sang as a trio before every Sunday's sermon, and called themselves the Chirping Birds. Bird was their last name, so — get the joke?

One memorable Sunday, a fourth Chirping Bird sat in with the band. He was a very young-looking white boy with the world’s smallest drum set — one drum and one cymbal. The four of them then performed “Holy Holy Holy,” one of the most ancient, durge-like hymns in the hymnal, but in a somewhat drummed-up version that, surprisingly, wasn’t completely awful. I later heard from my dad, though, that some of the church elders had been none too pleased.

♦ ♦ ♦

You could become a full-fledged member of the church at 15, which appealed to me just because it seemed like a grown-up thing to do. With a senior citizen’s hindsight now, I’d say kids that age might be too rebellious and ask too many questions — and yeah, that was me. Not because I was particularly precocious, though. Most of my questions came by way of my brother-in-law, Vance.

Vance had grown up in the same church, oldest son of the church’s dominant family. He was almost as old as Pastor Bill, maybe too old for my sister, but he came from such stalwart stock even my father hadn’t objected. After they married, Vance and my sister could see that I was a weird, warped kid, so I was invited to join them for dinner once a week. I looked forward to it, and looked up to Vance.

He was about half-counterculture, and it was the 1970s so that was still cool. He had a responsible job, and a mortgage, listened to folk music, and sometimes he wore a suit, but he also wore a “question everything” pin. He cursed, smoked pot, told dirty jokes, and dang it, he was who I wanted to be. Sure as hell I didn’t want to be me, because ‘me’ was a pimply, awkward kid with one friend in the world. 

Despite having grown up in the church, Vance had mostly stopped attending, and eventually I asked him why. He shrugged and said, “It’s all bullshit, isn’t it?”

Well, yes, of course it was, but that’s not something an adult said out loud, certainly not to me. Over the next few dinners the next few weeks, between talk about boxing and baseball and hydroplane racing, he told me his doubts about God and the church. Me being a super-sheltered church kid, I’d never heard anyone seriously question it like Vance did, and I was riveted. My question for Pastor Bill, then, really came from Vance.

♦ ♦ ♦

To officially join the church, you sat through a six-week catechism class, one hour one night every week, in an otherwise unused room, down one of the church’s many long, mostly empty hallways.

The pastor taught the class by reading aloud from a special catechism book, so it was like school, except extra boring, and all about God, and there were only three students. One of them was me, barely 15, shy and quiet; one was a woman who could’ve been somebody’s grandma, and knitted through the catechism sessions; and one was a woman who looked about 40, and always asked if she could smoke during the sessions.

“Sorry, no smoking,” Pastor Bill said patiently every week, so when class was finished the smoking Christian would hurry outside for a cigarette without even saying good night. She stopped coming to catechism after a few weeks, and after that it was just me and somebody’s grandma. The setting did not yield itself to easy questions and answers. I sat quietly and tried to follow along and stay awake.

After six weeks of this, Pastor Bill reached the end of the catechism book he’d been reading to us, and said that the last step toward joining the church would be a written test — and the answers would all be yes.

I’d never had a test before or since where they told you the answers in advance, but this was not a normal test. The questions were all, “Do you believe [this particular nonsense]?,” and “Do you believe [that particular nonsense]?,” listing twenty points of church doctrine, all of which the pastor had explained in detail over the previous six weeks. You were supposed to answer all the questions by saying “Yes, I believe that,” then sign your name at the bottom, and when you did, poof, you were accepted as a member. Please make tithes payable to the church.

As he handed us our tests, the pastor, for the first time in all six sessions, asked me and the old lady whether we had any questions. She said no, but I had a question. Just one, and it was about Doctrine #3: The Holy Trinity. 

This is one of the basic beliefs of most Christian churches, and it’s rather strange even for religious doctrine: In the Bible’s Old Testament, God is the star, and he goes by several different names. In the New Testament, Jesus is the star — the hippie dude who’s hailed as the son of God, dies on a cross, yadda yadda yadda. When the book’s many authors waxed poetic, they described a third recurring character called the Holy Ghost, or the Holy Spirit.

Well, here's the equation: God the Father + Jesus the Son + the Holy Ghost = all the same entity, a three-headed God Almighty. But in addition to being the same, they're also all three different entities. That’s the blessed Trinity, the church’s third doctrine.

To me, now, this is nonsense about nonsense. Each character of God seems far-fetched, and merging them into a triangular godhead only triples the lunacy. When I’d talked about it briefly with my brother-in-law Vance — Mr Bad Influence — he’d boggled my mind by telling me that the Trinity isn’t even in the Bible. He had a concordance (a dictionary of the Bible, word by word) so we looked it up, and nope, the word ‘Trinity’ isn’t in there.

Feeling like a revolutionary and armed with the truth of the concordance, I said to Pastor Bill, “The Trinity makes no sense to me, and it’s not in the Bible.”

And here’s a moment that’s stayed with me for the rest of my life: Pastor Bill smiled and chuckled, and said, “Yes, it certainly is in the Bible.” He opened his Bible, flipped directly to a particular page, and frowned. Then he reached behind his desk for his concordance, which was bigger and presumably more exhaustive than Vance’s. Maybe it was a special “Pastor’s Version,” so as he started turning the pages I thought he might find it and cite a reference, but instead he paused when he got to the T’s, and saw that ‘Trinity’ wasn’t there. He said “Huh,” and turned as white as the Holy Ghost.

“That surprises me,” he said. “Well, maybe the word isn’t in the Bible, but the concept is, absolutely,” and in just a few minutes he was able to page through his Bible and find several references that alluded, vaguely, to God in three persons, though God's three names kept changing.

Still wanting to stir things up for whatever 15-year-old reason, and still echoing what I'd heard from Vance, I told Pastor Bill that the Trinity wasn’t real, and wasn’t God; it was just a concept made up by confused people, trying to explain a God that was over their heads. Actually, Vance had said “a god they’d made up in their heads,” but that seemed too harsh to say to Pastor Bill.

Why I was such a stinker about the Trinity, I don’t know. I’d never been deeply religious or anything, but it seemed like a kooky concept — and kookier still because it wasn’t in the Bible. That’s what intrigued me.

See, they’d always told us that everything about the church and Christianity was based on the Bible. It's The Word of God. That’s also what the pastor had told us in catechism class, but this ‘Trinity’ concept wasn’t really in the Bible. It’s a cornerstone of the whole church, but if it's man-made more than God-made, maybe everything the church teaches might topple.

The old lady who’d been my only classmate said, “Well, I have no questions,” and looked at me like I was degenerate scum. I remember her glare, because it felt insulting, but then instantly felt sorta good. Yeah, degenerate scum here, pleased to meet you. 

She’d already answered all twenty questions and signed at the bottom of the page, so Pastor Bill spent a few minutes shaking her hand, welcoming her to the church, and then she left, throwing another harsh stare at me on her way out. An old lady who questioned nothing had disapproved of me, and I couldn’t have been more proud.

After she’d left, Pastor Bill turned his attention back to me and the Holy Trinity, and we talked about church doctrine for a few minutes. Then he had to hurry home to his wife, but he promised he’d get back to me in more detail about how the Trinity works. 

I was (and remain) bemused that a guy who’d gone to divinity school and gotten a degree in godliness and taught the concept of the Trinity, didn’t know that the word isn’t in the Bible. When he said with such certainty that it was in the Bible, and then figured out that it wasn’t, it was a revelation to me — even someone who talked about religion for a living literally Didn’t Know What He Was Talking About.

Pastor Bill deserves credit, though, for patiently trying to answer a pimply teenager’s question. And he did get back to me about it, as he’d promised — the next Sunday at church, he handed me a sheet he’d written himself, which explained the concept in great detail.

It all seemed flimsy to me, though. I already had my doubts about God, and the pastor’s struggle with the Trinity led to further doubts. Soon I was wondering whether I wanted to be a member of the church. Then I wondered whether I even wanted to be there on Sunday mornings. Then I wasn’t.

Still, bald Pastor Bill remains my favorite pastor ever at that church. He was a nice guy who, predictably, didn’t last long in the job. Despite being a preacher without wrinkles, and despite the wholesome rock’n’roll of the Chirping Birds, young people did not fill the church. Attendance continued to dwindle under 100, and with no results to show for their youthful experiment, Pastor Bill’s contract was not renewed.

We soon had a pastor like most of the church’s other pastors over the years — a very old, very dull man who made the church’s old and dull audience feel more comfortable, and who didn’t sing in a band before his sermons.



← PREVIOUS          NEXT →

A tale of two e-mails

It started when Peter mentioned sending Gray a congratulatory e-mail, and Jennifer said she’d sent one, too. Then Darla said she thought it was a good idea, “to show that we’re all on his side” after his promotion. And suddenly, clackity clack, everyone started banging out e-mails to Gray.

It frankly soured my stomach, and made me think a little less of the few people I work with that I actually like. Everyone’s on edge and worried about their jobs, sure, but (a) sending a stupid e-mail won’t make him decide not to lay you off, and (b) how much ass can one person kiss anyway?

So everyone in the ranks sent Gray a nice e-mail, and everyone in management either e-mailed or called or sent him a Hallmark card. I am pretty sure I'm the sole exception, because I have nothing to say to an empty suit.

♦ ♦ ♦

Here’s a belated punchline to the tale I told on November 16, when there was a fire at work, but no alarm, and no public-address announcement. The building was eventually evacuated because of smoke in the air, but without an alarm it was all haphazard and scary, and our section was the last the leave. 

The day after the fire, I wrote a semi-pissy e-mail to the company’s suggestion box, which I assumed would either be ignored or get me fired. Well, since November my e-mail has traveled the world — the ‘suggestion box’ staff sent it to Personnel (and ain’t it great that a pissy ‘suggestion’ is forwarded straight to the people who basically handle terminations?), Personnel sent it to Security (like I’m a bomb threat?), Security sent it to the store’s assistant manager and CC’d some bigwig I’ve never heard of, the bigwig sent it to someone in New York City, and New York forwarded it back to the western regional office — which is where I work, atop the downtown San Francisco store, so my e-mail finally landed on Babs’ desk and got me called into her office. 

I’m not fired, though. Instead she asked me to join the safety committee, because she thinks I care about safety. I don’t care about safety, Babs — I just don’t want to be burned up if the building burns down. But I nodded and said sure, and now I’m on the safety committee.

It’s probably bullshit. It pays nothing extra, but the meetings are on company time, and maybe there’ll be cookies. My first meeting will be in three weeks, if I’m still working here then — which is always an ‘if’, and it’s feeling increasingly iffy lately. 

♦ ♦ ♦

Kallie is anxious about her next computer matchmaker date, tomorrow night, and Carlotta’s joking advice was not to wear a bra. Kallie has ample bosoms, so it’s a joke and they both giggled. Lottie’s are much more petite, and she said something about “the pencil test,” and they giggled again so I asked what the hell is the pencil test? 

It’s a woman thing. Kallie says, put a pencil between breast and ribs, and if the pencil doesn’t fall out then you need a bra. Not sure if they were serious or kidding, but I tried the test then and there, and by golly, I need a bra.

♦ ♦ ♦

After work I went to Kaplan’s Army/Navy to buy a few t-shirts, and of course they make everyone check their backpacks behind the counter. On the way home I realized I’d forgotten my backpack, behind their counter. Fuck all. They close at 6:00, so I can’t fetch it until tomorrow.

Pretty sure it’ll be OK, but worry worry worry. There’s almost $200 worth of stamps in the top left zipper pocket, postage paid on my lunch hour today, and if those stamps are gone I don’t know how I’ll get this issue into the mail. I have a little bit of 'money cushion', but never two hundred bucks.

From Pathetic Life #8
Wednesday, January 25, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

← PREVIOUS          NEXT →


← PREVIOUS          NEXT →

To be human is to be a dumbshit.

Leftovers and Links #56 

I want my Winnebago helicopter RV

♦ ♦ ♦

An idiot in my email inbox challenged me to watch a video from Jordan Peterson. The video, I was told, would explain that climate change isn’t real or isn’t manmade, or isn’t something to worry about. All of which would certainly be good news, eh?

Having vaguely heard of Peterson but not knowing who the heck he is, I watched the video, which was (of course) filmed in front of an adoring crowd that applauded everything he said. Enthusiastically unimpressed, I Wikipediaed Peterson, and learned that he's a psychologist and a YouTube personality.

My reply, then, dear inbox idiot, is that the world is a complicated place where nobody can know everything, so to some extent we all need to trust the experts. On climate change, I'll trust people who’ve spent their lives studying and researching the topic, over some flippant shrink and YouTube personality.

♦ ♦ ♦

Libertarians are housecats. Meow, motherfuckers.

♦ ♦ ♦

I’m an admirer of the thinking and research of Michael Hobbes. Here he debunks the alleged ‘doxxing’ of J K Rowling, which barely and arguably happened, and he wonders why her much more blatant and intentional doxxing of activists got so little attention.

As for Rowling, what can I offer beyond a sad sigh? She’s a brilliant writer and an inspirational success story, and also a dumbshit. She has the same tendency toward enormous blind spots — and blind spots about her blind spots — as the rest of us. 

If I was suddenly famous and successful, so people listened to whatever I said, I’m sure I’d still say dumbshit things, same as now. Maybe not about trans issues, but I'd say something equally dumbshit about something else. I hope I'd be a little less stubborn than Rowling about clinging to my dumbshittery, but to be human is to be a dumbshit.

Exceptions are rare, and don’t include anyone I’ve ever met.

♦ ♦ ♦

The New York Public Library has a wonderful Black Friday webpage.

♦ ♦ ♦

Let’s talk about the Louis Vuitton heists.

I haven't quite found the right words or the right article to explain how deeply untroubled I am by masked raiders targeting chain store monstrosities like Louis Vuitton. The linked article comes close, though — it has the right mood.

I do wish the raiders would be kinder to the employees, though.

♦ ♦ ♦

Apparently, I have a previously undiscovered kink for gorgeous dames with robots.

♦ ♦ ♦

Netherlands has joined Belgium, in offering to pay for abortions for women who can make it there from Poland.

Quote:  The Dutch government will pay for women from Poland to obtain abortions in the Netherlands. Its decision follows the introduction of a near-total ban on abortion in Poland and was prompted in particular by the recent death of a pregnant woman in hospital, which many have blamed on the abortion law.

Hot coals up the rectum, please, for anyone who’d use the power of government to prevent and punish abortion — an easy, elegant solution to the life-ruining problems of pregnancy.

♦ ♦ ♦

An old memory comes to mind, of packing up an ailing typewriter and bringing it to the typewriter repair shop, and then coming back a few days later, picking it up again, fixed and ready to write, for maybe five or ten bucks.

Haven’t seen a typewriter repair shop since years before the last time I saw a typewriter.

♦ ♦ ♦

Chickenshit, but commonplace:

Disney bows to China leadership, omits Simpsons Tiananmen Square episode from streaming in Hong Kong.

♦ ♦ ♦

And in further news of the utterly expected, CNN host Chris Cuomo used his media sources to find out info on brother Andrew’s accusers.

♦ ♦ ♦

I am opposed to evil, cruelty, and apathy. The first two I’ve always opposed, but I’ve been apathetic about it, hence this is a change to my personal policy. Please keep a copy of this notice for your records.

♦ ♦ ♦

 Mystery links  — Like life itself, there’s no knowing where you’re going:


 Sing along with Douggles:
Hello In There, by John Prine

Sincere tip 'o the hat:

Captain Hampockets
Follow Me HereHyperallergic
John the Basket • LiarTownUSA
Messy Nessy ChickNational Zero
Ran Prieur • Shawna Smith
Vintage EverydayVoenix Rising

Extra special thanks:
Clayton Barnes • Becky Jo
Name Withheld • Dave S.


Leftovers & Links 

← PREVIOUS          NEXT →  


← PREVIOUS          NEXT →


The world ended this afternoon, judging from the frantic executives at the office. A few of them were spotted literally running down the hallway. If it was a movie, they might have jumped out the windows.

I couldn’t keep from snickering, though.

Turns out that the annual inventory is all screwed up. The problem dates back to December, when one or several temps made the same data-entry mistake every ten seconds, for the entire time they worked here — weeks, at least. The screw-up might have been due to bad training (which smells like Jennifer to me, and she's sweating) or it might have been malicious (I'm hoping for malicious).

Accidentally or on purpose, though, the upshot is the same — the electronically scanned count of everything from the shoe department, "and possibly multiple other departments," has been rendered "unreliable."

Obviously, this is worse than the war in Bosnia.

The inventory is one of the basics of "generally accepted accounting principles," and it's a key factor in evaluating what the company is worth, what taxes must be paid, and whether there's a profit or a loss. It's required to be right, but our inventory is apparently shit.

What went wrong? Temps went wrong. I don’t want to slam the temps too hard, because I used to be one and will be again, but temps always know they’ll be gone soon, so temps have even less of a commitment to the company than I do, which is microscopic. Temps have no particular motivation to do the job right.

It shouldn't take an MBA to figure out that if the work is important, employees should do it. And this is literally work that my co-workers and I used to do, before the last few rounds of layoffs, and before the company’s brilliant decision to save money by having temps do the inventory counts and inputs, instead of employees.

When we did it, we always did it right, but they brought in temps to do it instead. Now there'll need to be a do-over of some of the inventory, possibly much or even all of the inventory. In a company the size of this one — a Fortune 500 company — that's an expensive proposition. Oh well.

♦ ♦ ♦

I’m just marking time at this job, waiting to be replaced by a temp myself, and a different memo this morning is the clearest indication yet that dismissal day is drawing near: Babs’ boss (see August 24 and December 20) has been promoted to senior vice president.

That's half a click above being a junior vice president, half a click below being a junior president — which is all nonsense to me — but apparently his promotion is a Big Deal, since the memo was sent company-wide.

He's a bulb so dim you’d need a flashlight to find his face at noon on a sunny day, and now he's my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss's boss, when yesterday he was merely my boss's boss's boss's boss. There’s more to the story, but first the dim bulb needs a name, so let’s call him what he is: Gray.

In a company as shrouded from honesty as this one, memos and press releases can be assumed to be bullshit. You come to trust certain sectors of the grapevine more than anything issued on letterhead, and a reliable source has told me that when the axe fell for several of my co-workers in July, Gray had proposed laying off everyone in my department. He was overruled by his boss, so only five out of nine of us were taken to lunch and shown the door

Gray’s boss — the only executive who understood that work doesn’t get done without workers — has left the building. Gray is sitting in that chair now, and having been promoted, he will need to make a bold statement soon. I suspect that my name will be between the commas in Gray's bold statement — more layoffs to briefly boost the bottom line, and there’ll be nobody to tell him 'no'.

If I can find my balls (they’re around here somewhere) perhaps I’ll make a bold statement of my own, before he makes his.

♦ ♦ ♦

Today, there was an interesting conversation with Kallie and Carlotta. I sighed sadly after typing that sentence, and before typing this one: Loneliness is everywhere, I guess. Kallie told us that she’s signed up for a computer dating club, and she's embarrassed and nervous about it. She's meeting someone on Thursday after work, and it'll be her first "real date" in two years.

Kallie is a quality human. She deserves to be loved, and finding someone shouldn't require her to do business with some shady, overpriced matchmaker service.

We all do what we have to do, though, so the three of us traded stories of our searches for romance — Kallie about selecting men from mug shots and videotapes, me about placing ads in the personals section of an alt-weekly, while Carlotta just listened and nodded. She had no sad stories to offer, since eye-popping beautiful women don’t need such desperate measures to get a date.

♦ ♦ ♦

Speaking of loneliness, Margaret called again, in a smoochie-woochie mood. She told me she loves me, can’t wait to see me, etc, and I didn't know what to say to such extra mushy mush, but I didn’t say anything encouraging.

"The feeling isn’t mutual," is what I should’ve said when she said "I love you," but my firmest statement was, “I’m not sure about you visiting, Maggie.” My words fell like snowflakes in summertime, and she's still planning to visit soon, but the good news is that she'll be staying with her sister in Livermore, instead of with me.

Maggie says she loves me, but what does she know about me? I’m a guy who’s usually treated her nice, that's all. We've made each other laugh, and made each other sweaty, but honestly, there are people at work who know me better than Maggie does — Kallie and Stanley, almost definitely, and Carlotta, maybe. Anyone who’s read this zine knows me better than Maggie knows me.

Every time I’ve tried to show Maggie who I really am, she’s been annoyed. Last time I tried showing her, she beat me up. When she told me today that she loves me, what I heard is that she doesn’t, and probably can't.

From Pathetic Life #8
Tuesday, January 24, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

Pathetic Life 

← PREVIOUS          NEXT →


← PREVIOUS          NEXT →