My slow, slow day at work.

THIS IS TOTALLY A WORK OF FICTION AND NOT REAL AT ALL. I WORK REALLY HARD AND SOBER.

Knowing I'd have all of jackshit to do today. My breakfast was two percocet, a steak marinaded in whiskey and a half-pint of Scotch. Let's see how this goes:

7:00- Leave the house, stop for cuban coffee, take colada as shot. Realize later it is a hot beverage, a very hot one. I regret nothing.

7:05- Regret settles in, I realize the scotch in my pocket in slightly colder. I excuse myself to the bathroom for more of that. I remember scotch also burns. I chew some gum hastily and exit the men's room, which smells at 7am like it should at 7pm.

8:00- I begin filing every piece of paper, cardboard and linoleum ever produced. I wonder how four people can generate so much paper. I wonder why I am filing physical copies of documents we have saved on six computers and seven backup drives. I am wondering why we kept a receipt for an .80 pastry. I find the answers to neither of these in punching my own head, so once again I check the bottom of the bottle. It too, has no answers.

9:00- I am amazed I still have paper to file. And even that there is even a single tree standing. I begin to wonder how much all this paper weighs. I wonder if it weighs more than I do. I realize drunken rambling can also happen in typed blog posts.

9:05- I find a power bill for a model home that is more than my monthly salary. That's right, I can't afford to live in a fake house. With fake appliances. For fake people. I can however, afford to take my benzodiazepene.

9:10- I just heard my boss ask "Are you the lady with whom I am speaking?" and the language and logic sections of my brain melt.

9:30- I realize whoever filed these last believes honestly and truly that "R" comes after "S" in the alphabet. I perpetuate their lie.

9:40- I get a case of the "OH GOD MY HANDS FEEL LIKE PILLOWS" munchies so I call my Grandma to make sure she's cooking tomorrow night. I am very insistent she buys wine. I use every last bit of Spanish vocabulary I have to stress the point, she agrees. This hurts my head, I take some more percocet.

9:50- Cuban coffee arrives. See 7:00.

10:20- I go out to get coffee for the office. I stop by the liquor store and pick up a half pint of skol and a cigarillo (having just seen fistful of dollars) burn the SHIT out of my finger lighting it. Seriously, it looks like some scanners shit. I pound the skol in the bathroom. I notice my breath reeks, I gargle mouthwash, I swallow some.

10:25- "Hey, please sort and pay these wicked complex bills, k? Thx!"

11:00- I go downstairs and pound a colada and two beers, which I now buy at a discount. Costco can suck it. If that sounds like a Viking's pre-battle breakfast, it probably was, as I have to get pumped for...

11:40- I basically have four managers between me and the head honcho. They have no other lackeys (nobody took ECO1101. One of them is my mom (Sweet!), one of them is on vacation (sweet!), one of them is the world's prissiest accountant who is too busy pretending to be cultured, listening to taylor swift and dealing with his own form to be of any help or supervision. The last manager happens to be a decent, down to earth, honest, competent dude. So, of course, he is never there. So, he shows up for twenty minutes and I have to ask him questions at a pace that would make an auctioneer wonder if he had been dosed. Despite being a decent human being, he expects me to produce twenty checks to twenty different companies within ten minutes.

12:00- BOOYAH. Complete it and take a celebratory pull of scotch. Start singing "The Body of an American to celebrate. It is met with harsh stares. I stumble back into my office and type into my blogger. Which is a fucking dumb dumb dumb word. dumb dumb dumb.

1:00- I Hvae a steak with tequila lime sauce. the sauce has no other ingredients and is raw. all other bosses have left. will now listen to tom waits for rest of day and answer phone. hopefully in english. Wish luck on me you fine fellows and fellowettes.

‎1:30- been to the bar downstairs so often I get rusty nails half price if I keep tipping the guy like a g. Also, some old cigar smoking dude came up to me and told me "Mijo! Los jovenes que fumen cigarillos son delinquentes, tu fumas puros? Asi se hace los hombres, trata este!" and gave me a mondecino. His name is Rodolfo. He is now my homeboy.