This morning on the street next to my apartment I saw Leonardo DiCaprio driving an old Mercedes. He was wearing a do-rag and looking at his phone. A woman in a Prius behind him honked.
If there were a button that would blow up every leaf blower and every person attached to them, I would press it without hesitation.
One of the things I’m looking most forward to about the apocalypse is being able to park in front of fire hydrants.
The sponges in the kitchen at work smell like mildew, so now my hands smell like mildew.
A surprising number of adults leave their dirty dishes in the sink here at work. I’m thinking of quitting.
The ant crawling on the urinal this morning misjudged both my aim and my scruples against peeing on the rim of a public urinal.
Muffins are the high-end escorts of fattening breakfast foods; donuts are the 2 a.m. street-walkers.
I went out on a date with a girl who proceeded to tell me that she and her friends drink nothing less than $100 bottles of wine. Her friend is looking to sell off his collection of $50 bottles of wine.
They both work for Google.
I told her I wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to order dinner, so we just ate the free bread. She chewed with her mouth open.
On another date the following week, the girl said that she enjoys knitting. She didn’t call me back.
I’m wondering if my online dating profile should include a photoshopped picture of me either at Machu Picchu or petting a sedated lion. A successful dating life appears to require one or both of these.
I spent the first half of my workday with my pants zipper unzipped.
Apparently, the new girl has either irritable bowel syndrome, very poor motor control, very poor social skills, or a combination thereof.
Chain emails are the 21st-century office equivalent of listening to nails on a chalkboard while receiving a colonoscopy.
I detest the guy who works across the hall from me, and I suspect that he detests me as well. One of my greatest disappointments in life is that I haven’t been able to accrue more respectable enemies because the guy with whom I share a mutual disdain lives alone, plays video games, and has strong opinions on the new Star Wars film trailer.
It’s 95 degrees outside, and the overweight woman working the checkout lane has to continually pause to walk over to the nearby counter to grab some napkins to wipe her brow.
She’s also wearing too much makeup, and her eyebrows appear to be drawn in.
And she only ever grabs enough napkins for one pass at her forehead.
A week ago at this Whole Foods, I saw the woman from Trader Joe’s who was arguing with the man in line ahead of her, saying that he’d cut in front of her. At Whole Foods, she was arguing with the cashier and the shift supervisor, claiming that she’s never had to pay extra for paper bags for her groceries.
I would like to interview her. She’s very tall, and she looks like the African American version of Norma Desmond from Sunset Boulevard.
If not for the meatless meatballs at Whole Foods, I don’t think I would ever bother coming here. It’s much too expensive, and there’s a pervasive, collective air of pretension among both the staff and the shoppers.
Apparently, one must have at least one visible tattoo in order to work here.
Or an aggressive piercing.
I have a very painful hangnail.
When I put on my motorcycle helmet this morning, there was a spider crawling on the windscreen. I had already put it on and hadn’t noticed it before. I did not scream like a little girl, I screamed like a man. A man who screams like a little girl.
I like to honk at forty-something-year-old men in BMWs when it’s raining. I enjoy watching them struggle to reach their arm out through the small crack of their driver’s-side window in order to flip me off while getting as little rain inside of their car as possible.
The woman with the Beanie Babies filling the rear window of her car seems more concerned with her stuffed animal collection than she is with the condition of the paint on her 2002 Toyota Corolla. The faded paint resembles a geriatric hospice patient’s liver spots.
The man next to me on the train spread his legs wide enough to invade my personal space. I pressed my leg into his, and he didn’t move. It was uncomfortable.
I ate too many Swedish Fish at work today. This could easily be abbreviated: I ate a Swedish Fish at work today.
Saw a guy dressed up as Batman at the Santa Monica boardwalk today. I’m pretty sure it may have actually been Val Kilmer.
The drunk guy sitting next to me at the lunch counter looks like a used car salesman and is talking to himself about the quality of his Caesar salad. Apparently it’s “very good.”
Ate three-quarters of a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch today, so just in case you needed another reason to be totally impressed with me, you may add that to the list, right below “Still owns a pair of JNCO jeans he wore in high school.”
Someone left cookies on the counter in the breakroom at work. I took more than one.
What’s the proper etiquette for taking a free sample at Trader Joe’s? Do I make an overture of saying “Thank you” to the person preparing and distributing them, or do they prefer to be left alone? It’s not like they pour their heart and soul into heating up a frozen dish of fettuccine alfredo, but then I feel like an asshole for just walking up and taking free food without making eye contact.
The most interesting thing that happened at work today was someone accidentally turning off the lights in the office.
I very much need a haircut.
Update: I tried saying hello to the woman giving samples at Trader Joe’s. She didn’t say hello back.
At checkout there was a heated exchange between an older woman in line in front of me and a guy with a ponytail who she claimed had cut in front of her. He let her go ahead of him, and after she left, I told the guy that he had cut in front of me, too.
At the gym, playing “what’s that smell?”
It would be really creepy if I listened to Yanni at the gym.
Upon further investigation, I’ve determined that that smell is me.
Would it be creepier to listen to Dionne Warwick at the gym?
Gave blood today and still came to the gym because I don’t need platelets to have a good time.
I’ve decided that it’s creepiest to listen to Yanni while working out and Dionne Warwick while killing people in my basement if I were a serial killer.