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Today Was A Tough Day

I don’t subscribe to the “worst day of the year” mentality regarding Mondays after holidays. But holy cow, I’m having a tough time today. What’s the point? We have less than a month until Christmas and I’m fairly sure that all my best work is behind me. This is the darkest time of the year. It’s raining and I wore leather boots that will spoil in the rain because I didn’t “treat” them. When I bought the boots, the lady told me to cover them in some sort of balm or cream to protect them from inclement weather. “Sure,” I said, meaning fuck off. I don’t take advice from women who work in boots.

We should kick it back into gear tomorrow, probably. I understand that it’s important to finish the year on a high note. That’s a major theme in all those self-help books which offer broad lessons and vague principles that only dumb people can understand. The same people who write those books also write the inscriptions for fortune cookies. Their books talk about the importance of keeping your resumé up-to-date. But I’ll tell you this: I didn’t need to submit a resumé for my dream job. If a job requires a resumé, it’s not your dream job. Don’t waste your time. Seek guidance from your heroes. Treat each day like you’ll be hit by a bus tomorrow blah blah blah pull yourself up by the bootstraps that you forgot to rub with waterproof neosporin.

Frankie, Brett, and I have formed a smoothie group. Every day, Brett orders smoothies to be delivered via postmates. Being New York, the smoothies cost about $14 each. But when you tack on the astronomical sherpa fees, the strange taxes that will never build new schools, and the additional gratuities that are expected thanks to Liz’s nonstop campaign to ensure the overpayment of the service industry, it turns into a $18 smoothie. At first, I balked at the price. But when our smoothies arrive, and our coworkers grow jealous, and we stain our mouths with açai jism through noisy slurps, the fee doesn’t feel so painful.

Frankie says that he orders his green smoothie because he sometimes goes weeks without consuming something healthy. His body isn’t good. You can tell he wouldn’t do well in a survival situation. The leaders would take turns on him for a few weeks. But in the end, we’d eat him.

I’m growing a beard for the first time in my life. It’s extremely itchy. I feel like I’m dying face-first. As though some hellish spider laid eggs in my cheeks while I slept. The only upside is that everyone seems to like it. Kayce especially. Sometimes I think she has a crush on me. But then I remind myself that just because a woman is nice to me does not mean we’re dating. I don’t know how they do it. They’re so full of deceit.

But maybe I’m wrong? Maybe there is something there. I’ll play it cool for now. Maybe I’ll rig our office secret santa to get her this year. I bet she would love a picture of me wearing my new beard. Wearing only my new beard.

Trent is wearing a beanie indoors. He’s got his headphones on outside the beanie. My head would be so hot in that getup. My ears would be sweating. Does that mean I’m healthier than Trent? Probably. He eats corndogs away from carnivals. Like it’s normal Tuesday food. Like he’s a character in the movie Interstellar. We don’t have much in common. He’s super nice like Kayce. I’ll bet their grandparents made them take etiquette classes growing up. lol who am I kidding. Kayce maybe. Trent holds his forks in a closed fist.

Three of the “candles” of our massive menorah are lit, one for each of the Jewish people who work at Barstool. I say Jewish people instead of “Jews” because “Jews” feels dangerous these days. So dangerous, in fact, that I enunciate “juice” more than any other word in my lexicon. I would hate for someone to overhear me denigrating a cup of cider and start a reddit thread about my anti-semitism.

Sometimes I watch compilations of people breaking their legs on YouTube. I feel nothing.

For the third year in a row, there is no chance I’m going to Super Bowl week. The house looks awesome too. They had two pianos last year. Two. And not a single fucking pianist in the house. What’s the point, mom?

Tomorrow is a new day. I’ll have it tomorrow. Probably just need to get a good night’s sleep.