Everything I’ve Done This Week To Deter Me From Success Including Dislocating My Shoulder In A Mosh Pit

Everything I’ve Done This Week To Deter Me From Success Including Dislocating My Shoulder In A Mosh Pit

Coming back from a four day weekend in any capacity is difficult. The work week feels longer, the coffee tastes worse, and everyone who decided to work all five days the previous week give you the side eye on your way in. You’re two days behind on emails, and by the time you clear your inbox, it replenishes itself. You’re in limbo.

On top of all of this, starting this past Monday, yours truly will be leading a project that will last four weeks, and requires my work schedule to change to 3 p.m. until Midnight every day.

There are two things you can do with a schedule change that drastic. You can complain about it to anyone who will listen and make yourself sound like a child, or you can grit your teeth, take it in stride, and make the best of it.

Since I’m on that mission for success this year, I did the latter. My way of trying to make the best of a sticky situation is to try and have fun with it, which doesn’t always bode well for my personal or professional life. Here’s what I’m talking about.

I dislocated my shoulder at a concert.

I’m still not 100% sure how this happened. Well, I know how it happened. I was moshing at a punk rock concert. What I’m not sure about is how I came to be moshing in the first place. I walked into The Metro on Friday night thinking that I was going to have a couple beers and watch a show, sing along, maybe jump a little. Who knows?

Well, maybe it was the shots of whiskey, maybe it was the fact that I got separated from my group, maybe it was some sexual frustration I’ve been holding back, but once the headliner (The Menzingers, for those curious) came on, I went full teenage anarchist.

In the midst of shoving some dude and tossing elbows at another, I was hit from behind, which launched me forward into a new group. Once my left arm made contact with the next person in my way, I felt my shoulder leave its socket. It hung limp for a second while I was processing what happened, until another person slammed into me, popping it back into place. If I weren’t drunk, I think I would have screamed.

I started talking to a girl who turned down an opportunity to be on The Real World.

It started last week when she slid into my DMs and asked me where to find a leather cowboy hat in Chicago. After a few witty exchanges, she gave me her number and we moved this thing off of social media and into a more personal location.

Something seemed awesome about this girl. We both enjoy getting absolutely hammered and finding ourselves in some shenanigans. When I dropped the line, “Oh, my friends think I should have a TV show,” (Note: this doesn’t make me special. Everyone’s friends think they should have a TV show) she came back with this.

“Yeah, I know how that goes. My friends were all mad at me for turning down a spot on The Real World.”

And so here we are. Thursday, leading into a weekend of St. Patrick’s Day celebrations, and I’m talking to someone who claims they turned down a spot on The Real World, a place almost explicitly reserved for getting fucked up and hooking up.

I’m interested in seeing where this one goes.

I started “Wild West Wednesday” at work.

There really isn’t much of a point in owning a legit cowboy hat if you aren’t going to us it. As a person who lives in a metropolitan area and does not listen to country music, this really limits my opportunities.

I sat at my desk on Tuesday wondering how I could incorporate this sucker into my regular routine. I saw bored faces on my coworkers. Frustration creeping into their emails. Disinterest in their conversation. What could be done to heighten the mood?

And thus, Wild West Wednesday was born. I spread it through the office via word of mouth, telling everyone to wear their boots, their jeans, their flannel, anything that they had. It was going to be great.

Now, with that being said, fewer people participated in the event than I expected. A lot fewer. I was the only one. But you know what? Every revolution started with one person. Together, we can make this happen.

I shaved my beard.

I am no longer a beard guy. I walked into the office on Monday looking like one of the stars of High School Musical, subsequently reminding everyone that I am still the youngest person there, and therefore had the least experience. Some may look at this as a negative, but I see it as an opportunity. Sure, I’m the youngest, but I’m here for a reason, and I’m going to fuck shit up.

Bring the heat, Week of March 16. Let’s see what you got.

Image via Shutterstock

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Using sarcasm as a defense mechanism since 1993. At any given moment I'm either tired, drunk, or stressed out. Get at me at or whatever.

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