My very first night in my very first apartment was a night my neighbor won’t forget.
First weekend in town, first night at my place. The only things I had in there were internet, an air mattress, a baseball bat, clothes, coffee (duh), and a rack of natty (don’t judge, I wasn’t an adult yet. Still not one).
Found a shitty corner bar that liked to dress up as an Irish pub and entertain those who think that real Irish pubs are a place that white instagrammars like themselves could go to and seem cultured or cool. Buried myself in the corner and drank shit beer until I could no longer order with words but had to simply raise a hand with a finger outstretched. In retrospect, this is probably why the bar was gone after I came back from deployment. Something to do with shitty serving standards and letting people get destructively drunk.
Now I, being new in town, was playing it safe (or as safe as a blacked out 21 year old could get). I stumbled home and made it to my single bedroom cavern that was a shrine to shitty coffee and furious masturbation sessions. I proceed to pass out and wake up at 4 am wondering why my neck hurt. Guess you gotta inflate air mattresses or something. Whatever.
Then I heard it again. A fucking horrendously loud thump against my door. I immediately kick into CaffeineAndRage mode, and grab the baseball bat. With the confidence of the slight buzz that remained and no knowledge that I was wearing nothing but my lucky skull and crossbones boxers, I approached the door and opened it.
To my right I saw some legs disappear behind a corner, and I heard the door to the stairs open. I give half hearted chase, hoping this twatcannon of a prankster was intimidated by the blinding light of my thighs or some other part of me that could possibly be intimidating (no part of me). I turn around, satisfied that I’ll be left alone, and I hear a click.
Fuck. The door is locked. The door automatically locked when I let it close behind me. Now I have two options: go wait in the front desk area in nothing but my underwear until management arrives, or start knocking on doors until someone answers. Not wanting to be “that guy” to management, I start knocking. Around the third door I look up and see a camera in the corner. Oh well. Hopefully the fact that my chest hair looks like someone duct taped Brillo pads to my tits gives some security guard a chuckle. I’ve pretty much given up.
And then an absolute angel answers the door. By “angel” I mean through her actions, not her looks, unless you’re into portly 40 year olds. And by “her,” I mean “I think it was a her.” But hey, she just opened the door to a half naked 6’4″ dude who’s wearing practically nothing but underwear meant for a six year old and is wielding a baseball bat, so she’s an angel in my book. I borrow her phone, call a lock smith, and proceed to let him destroy the super expensive lock on my door. She was laughing the whole time (so really by angel I mean she was more of an angel-bitch. Like those commercials for sour patch kids but in reverse).
The next day, on my way out the front, the super hot receptionist stopped me to sign some extra paperwork. I let her know what happened and told her I’d happily pay for a new lock. I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot and I was suffering from that tendency that most guys my age have when talking to a hot girl where dumb words come out of our mouth and dollars come out of our wallet. Whatever. As I turn to leave, she says,
Okay I’ve had a cuppa so let me explain: I fuckin hate my job.
To be fair, it’s not the job itself. In the grand scheme of things, I love the work, but the people are just so god damned selfish and stupid. You would think in a “company” where the end goal is selfless service, motherfuckers wouldn’t be lining up at the nearest superior’s derrière, inserting nose into ass, and kissing like it’ll turn into prince fuckin charming.
I came here to do two things: throw back fat mugs of the sweet nectar of life, and slay bodies. Today it’ll take extra patience to do so, so I pour myself an extra generous mug of the Lord’s liquid and embrace the hate as it slips through the teeth and past the gums. Look out motherfuckers, here I come.
By the third cup I’ll be told I’m not “populating a tracker” enough so that jobs get done. I’ll pull up excel and type away until I’m twitching, at which point I’ll chug another steamy mug of life, pack a chaw, and sit back to reflect that apart from the bullshit, despite the buttsharks, and aside from all the nonsense work I do, this is a god damned beautiful country and imma keep it that way. Then I’ll realize it’s fourth cup o’clock.
“Hey, CaffeineAndRage, can you step into my office for a sec?”
The irony behind being anti-social with technology is that the root of our experience is desire for interaction with others. Reading an article someone wrote, texting, tweeting so that others hear us, instagramming so people know what we eat; these are the only reasons why we devote hours on hours to clicking a box so the magical lights move the way we want them to.
Not that I’m arguing being technologically wired is a GOOD thing. I just think it’s interesting. Been watching way too much Black Mirror.
These got progressively worse. It’s like you came up with one great idea (honestly it IS pretty good) and then decided to shit out four more for the sake of creating a list.
CaffeineAndRageLog, time coffee cup 4: boss has pulled me aside. One fuckstick took it upon himself to present his Uber driver with Friday night’s dinner. Out the less pleasant orifice.
I hope my caffeine and nicotine intake kills me long before my occupation does.
To bring it back down a notch, my day will be spent briefing my boss on information they already know in order to show that I actually give a shit about my guys and their equipment. I will then proceed to waste the rest of the day studying, because nothing beats spending four years cramming for tests so that you can don a uniform and promptly realize you don’t know shit.
Around the fourth coffee (that’s 9 am), I’ll probably get pulled aside and told that one of my guys did something dumb as fuck over the weekend. I’ll mull it over whilst relieving myself of the first three coffees (to be honest I just need them for digestive reasons, not the caffeine), at which point I’ll pull said person aside and insert boot into ass. Then it’s time for cup o’ joe number cinco.
Somewhere around 2 pm I’ll mentally clock out and drift around “supervising.” One more cup of steamy motivation will pull me back into the grind until it’s time to go home and punish my body with weights and my liver with alcohol.
Advertise
All I need is four.
Sup?
Canes with bourbon in the lemonade.
My very first night in my very first apartment was a night my neighbor won’t forget.
First weekend in town, first night at my place. The only things I had in there were internet, an air mattress, a baseball bat, clothes, coffee (duh), and a rack of natty (don’t judge, I wasn’t an adult yet. Still not one).
Found a shitty corner bar that liked to dress up as an Irish pub and entertain those who think that real Irish pubs are a place that white instagrammars like themselves could go to and seem cultured or cool. Buried myself in the corner and drank shit beer until I could no longer order with words but had to simply raise a hand with a finger outstretched. In retrospect, this is probably why the bar was gone after I came back from deployment. Something to do with shitty serving standards and letting people get destructively drunk.
Now I, being new in town, was playing it safe (or as safe as a blacked out 21 year old could get). I stumbled home and made it to my single bedroom cavern that was a shrine to shitty coffee and furious masturbation sessions. I proceed to pass out and wake up at 4 am wondering why my neck hurt. Guess you gotta inflate air mattresses or something. Whatever.
Then I heard it again. A fucking horrendously loud thump against my door. I immediately kick into CaffeineAndRage mode, and grab the baseball bat. With the confidence of the slight buzz that remained and no knowledge that I was wearing nothing but my lucky skull and crossbones boxers, I approached the door and opened it.
To my right I saw some legs disappear behind a corner, and I heard the door to the stairs open. I give half hearted chase, hoping this twatcannon of a prankster was intimidated by the blinding light of my thighs or some other part of me that could possibly be intimidating (no part of me). I turn around, satisfied that I’ll be left alone, and I hear a click.
Fuck. The door is locked. The door automatically locked when I let it close behind me. Now I have two options: go wait in the front desk area in nothing but my underwear until management arrives, or start knocking on doors until someone answers. Not wanting to be “that guy” to management, I start knocking. Around the third door I look up and see a camera in the corner. Oh well. Hopefully the fact that my chest hair looks like someone duct taped Brillo pads to my tits gives some security guard a chuckle. I’ve pretty much given up.
And then an absolute angel answers the door. By “angel” I mean through her actions, not her looks, unless you’re into portly 40 year olds. And by “her,” I mean “I think it was a her.” But hey, she just opened the door to a half naked 6’4″ dude who’s wearing practically nothing but underwear meant for a six year old and is wielding a baseball bat, so she’s an angel in my book. I borrow her phone, call a lock smith, and proceed to let him destroy the super expensive lock on my door. She was laughing the whole time (so really by angel I mean she was more of an angel-bitch. Like those commercials for sour patch kids but in reverse).
The next day, on my way out the front, the super hot receptionist stopped me to sign some extra paperwork. I let her know what happened and told her I’d happily pay for a new lock. I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot and I was suffering from that tendency that most guys my age have when talking to a hot girl where dumb words come out of our mouth and dollars come out of our wallet. Whatever. As I turn to leave, she says,
“Hey, CaffeineAndRage?”
“Yeah?” (Please flirt please flirt please sitonmyfaceImeanflirt)
“Nice boxers.”
Goddammit.
Okay I’ve had a cuppa so let me explain: I fuckin hate my job.
To be fair, it’s not the job itself. In the grand scheme of things, I love the work, but the people are just so god damned selfish and stupid. You would think in a “company” where the end goal is selfless service, motherfuckers wouldn’t be lining up at the nearest superior’s derrière, inserting nose into ass, and kissing like it’ll turn into prince fuckin charming.
I came here to do two things: throw back fat mugs of the sweet nectar of life, and slay bodies. Today it’ll take extra patience to do so, so I pour myself an extra generous mug of the Lord’s liquid and embrace the hate as it slips through the teeth and past the gums. Look out motherfuckers, here I come.
By the third cup I’ll be told I’m not “populating a tracker” enough so that jobs get done. I’ll pull up excel and type away until I’m twitching, at which point I’ll chug another steamy mug of life, pack a chaw, and sit back to reflect that apart from the bullshit, despite the buttsharks, and aside from all the nonsense work I do, this is a god damned beautiful country and imma keep it that way. Then I’ll realize it’s fourth cup o’clock.
“Hey, CaffeineAndRage, can you step into my office for a sec?”
Fuck. Who dunnit now?
Nobody. Fuck em all.
Like my women. Not talking.
Sup?
Pretty sure that’s exactly how it’s spelled.
The irony behind being anti-social with technology is that the root of our experience is desire for interaction with others. Reading an article someone wrote, texting, tweeting so that others hear us, instagramming so people know what we eat; these are the only reasons why we devote hours on hours to clicking a box so the magical lights move the way we want them to.
Not that I’m arguing being technologically wired is a GOOD thing. I just think it’s interesting. Been watching way too much Black Mirror.
That and NurseJackie said we’re exclusive so I really gotta chill with the sup game.
Some of us have a problem.
English pls
These got progressively worse. It’s like you came up with one great idea (honestly it IS pretty good) and then decided to shit out four more for the sake of creating a list.
“Better to be a square in a room full of circles than a circle in a room full of spheres.”
Patent still pending? I’m about to Zuckerberg your ass and use that as my own.
CaffeineAndRageLog, time coffee cup 4: boss has pulled me aside. One fuckstick took it upon himself to present his Uber driver with Friday night’s dinner. Out the less pleasant orifice.
I hope my caffeine and nicotine intake kills me long before my occupation does.
COFFEE PUTS TOO MUCH HAIR ON YOUR CHEST FOR YOU TONSAY SHIT LIKE “LIT FAM.”
GODDAMNIT THAT INTRO GOT ME HARD.
To bring it back down a notch, my day will be spent briefing my boss on information they already know in order to show that I actually give a shit about my guys and their equipment. I will then proceed to waste the rest of the day studying, because nothing beats spending four years cramming for tests so that you can don a uniform and promptly realize you don’t know shit.
Around the fourth coffee (that’s 9 am), I’ll probably get pulled aside and told that one of my guys did something dumb as fuck over the weekend. I’ll mull it over whilst relieving myself of the first three coffees (to be honest I just need them for digestive reasons, not the caffeine), at which point I’ll pull said person aside and insert boot into ass. Then it’s time for cup o’ joe number cinco.
Somewhere around 2 pm I’ll mentally clock out and drift around “supervising.” One more cup of steamy motivation will pull me back into the grind until it’s time to go home and punish my body with weights and my liver with alcohol.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
Oh hey sup babe. Long time no sup.
Worst trend: “barn weddings.”
Like what the fuck?! Why would you PAY for that??
Fixer upper > house hunters