I pour not my weaknesses
but my restlessness

what i actually wrote was:

Fuck you gin baron!
I pour not my weaknesses
but my recklessness

I wish all my bosses were beautiful Nubian Goddesses. For now, I'll settle with Monday.

Also:

Are my intentions less than pure?
I've travelled thirteen hours at least.
I've never sojourned far for church...
but when have I bed-down a priest?

overheardinnewyork.com is the new stuffonmycat.com

i have developed a twitch in my... right eye. i had to think about which one it is. and the funny thing is, aside from one moment at the gym, it only happens at work. i hate that job ( Read more... )

I like the "idea" of a strike. But that shit sucked. And now it's over.

In March, turn on your TVs to the Discovery Channel's "Most Evil" series. I play Westley Dodd, a guy who touched, tortured, raped and killed little boys.

I'm so famous.

I wanna pull the "gimme more money or I quit card." Not specifically at work. Just in general. GIMME!

I was looking for a new book to read, but I never want to say that to the people at the bookstore, so yesterday I went into Shakespeare and Co. and went up to the man behind the counter and asked, "I'm looking to buy a book for a friend. Could you suggest something? I know he likes Ayn Rand." The man chortled loudly and said, "How about a soul?"

Paul Rudd came into my restaurant today. Paul Rudd. He came in and had lunch at my restaurant. I was not his waiter, but he was about ten feet away. Paul Motherfucking Rudd.

There aren't enough dumplings to swallow these past four days.

And as I left work today I saw a man whistling across the street to get his friend's attention, in that very sharp piercing whistle, over and over, and my first thought was, "Jesus that's so rude, just be a fucking human being and call him on his cell phone and tell him where you are."

So, I'm working the communal table, the long-ass table that suits parties over seven, and this group of Italians stroll on in. I am not ethnocentric, but for the love of Caviezel, these fucking Italians didn't speak a Goddamn lick of English. Thirteen of them. And by this point, I'm used to the foreigners, pointing, asking questions in broken ( Read more... )