The prospect of having to enter the professional world at some point in the near future doesn't scare me, it just really bums me out. I work for my Dad, Floyd, at his office. He's a mortgage broker and has been running his business since the late eighties. I work there now cause I really feel incapable of finding an actual job somewhere else. I always fill out applications but then when I try and follow up on them I get really nervous/awkward and never do.
I'm very open with Floyd and I often tell him that I hate my job. It's fine with him because he knows I'm too lazy to get a different one. I don't have an official job title so I labeled myself as the Office Administrator/Entertainer. My main job is to scan the old loan files into the computer and then burn them onto password encrypted Cd's. It's such a boring job that I got bored just typing that description. The scanner literally jams itself every 2 seconds, frustrating me to no end. I have elaborate daydreams of taking a sledgehammer to the stupid thing. (your probably thinking, 'How elaborate can those daydreams be?' but trust me, they get intense, including sometimes when I imagine several lines of dialogue between myself and the copier, whose voice is Alec Baldwin's)
At one point I got a hold of a label maker cause I was charged with Labeling something, I don't even know what, but after I finished that I made a label that said "Nothing of Consequence" and put it on the fire-proof filing cabinet that contains very very important stuff. I thought it was funny, Floyd did not. It's still there though and is a hopeful reminder that I might one day rise above corporate bullying and do absolutely nothing for a living.
The Boss very recently hired someone new. She sits at the desk closest to mine and she is very nice but a combination of my awkwardness and desire to not talk to anybody creates very stunted and sometimes less than friendly conversations. For instance the other day I was listening to my iPod:
Her: "What are you listening to?"
Me: "The Shins"
Her: "Oh I thought it was something else"
Me: "Yup"
Who knows though, we might become the best of friends eventually and whenever the boss leaves the office giggle and gossip about him. To reach this level of friendship is on my list of workplace goals, along with finding out where the thermostat controls are and eating an entire sleeve of thin mints in one shift. My previous goal of making the water cooler the cool place to hang out during breaks didn't work, it ended up just being me thinking up mean rumors that I could spread about fictional co-workers.
My favorite is when I get to run errands. Usually it's just to wash Floyd's car, which is awesome because then I get to play the Arcade games at the car wash. The other day I was charged with buying a new vacuum cleaner for the office because the other one had literally been in use since 1992. Floyd finally caved and bought a new one when the old one ceased existing in one piece, and even in that state I had to use it for a few months.
This post makes me look like a terrible employee and I'm not really going to deny that it does. But if there are any potential employers reading this, don't believe a single word you've just read. It is all a lie.
Hire me.
Please.
20 March 2011
16 February 2011
An Ode to Tools
A Tools World
by Jacob Walters
/
I awoke with a start
the day had begun
my eyes barely open
my alarm loudly rung.
/
I took off the sunglasses
That I wear while I sleep,
Cause the sun never sets
on this cool, awesome peep.
/
I yawned a big yawn
and walked down the hall
we were out of Reese's Puffs,
so I punched through a wall.
/
I yelled at my mom
for a minute or two
then I showered and dressed
and took a pic of my pooh.
/
Sleeveless and shaved
my arms looked real good.
Hat and pants in the style
I always see in the hood.
/
Fire up the Prius,
drink a Monster or two.
Gotta get my fix,
cause you know how I do. (*shirt flick*)
/
Roll into school
chin always up in the air
Walk like I've got
something stuck up in there.
/
Running late to my class.
pshhh it's whatever,
I'm gonna be an MMA fighter
I don't need to be clever.
/
Call all the girls babe,
sweety, cutie, and honey
when in reality I get
with the girls that are funny...looking.
/
The weekend, it's coming,
I'm pumped out of my mind.
I wanna go crazy
but there's so little time.
/
I bring my guitar
everywhere that I go
I can play 3 different chords
and I want everyone to know.
/
My crew is legit
we always roll phat
and we've all got cool nicknames
like Vinny and Pat.
/
On the weekends we cruise
in Mikey's 350 Z
trolling for babes
and any hot mom's that we see.
/
We fill water balloons
with our bodily fluid
then fling them at cars
and old women, cause they're stupid.
/
So as you can see,
my life ain't no joke.
'till ten years from now,
when I'm strung out on coke.
/
So maybe I should stop
acting like such a fool,
but that would be impossible
because I'm a tool.
*END*
So yeah, that's a poem that I wrote. I made myself angry while writing it just cause the main character guy is such an idiotstupidface.
BONUS STANZA THAT I COULDN'T USE CAUSE IT DOESN'T RHYME:
My earphones hang loosely,
from the front of my shirt
even though they're not plugged into anything
I just want people to know that I'm really into music and listening to it and stuff.
27 January 2011
It Could've Been Drugs
I'm not going to apologize for not posting in a while because I always find it so pretentious when people do that. It's like, "I'm sorry for not posting in a while, thus depriving you of how awesome I am." when in reality there is a total of 7 people who read your blog and they didn't even notice how long it's been since the last post about the new comforter your roommate Rachel got for Kwanzaa. Sheesh.
So no, you won't see any apologies on this blog, because we here at The Narwhal think it is very important to be humble. You don't need us telling you how awesome we are.*(Notice how I said we, as if I have a staff working for me. Nope, just me...and my schizophrenia .)
I've only been admitted to the hospital once and it was really lame and I hesitate to tell this story (ha! not really though). But something happened during this whole incident that really intrigued/bothered me and I'd like to share to see what you think.
If you've ever woken up to the smell of bacon cooking then you'll understand my reaction to such an event. It was a Saturday morning and I woke up to the smell of bacon and I got really excited. So excited in fact, that instead of doing my usual laying in bed for an hour and a half before I actually get up, I instantly sprang to my feet and sprinted down the hallway.
!!!!Pause story here to explain some science!!!!
When I jumped out of bed so quickly the blood that had been lazily pumping through my body had to suddenly cope with being vertical and trying to reach my brain which was made nearly impossible because of gravity. (gravity is the name of the big magnets in the center of the earth that keeps stuff from floating away, it's true look it up)
So anyway as I arrived in the kitchen I was devastated to learn that all of the bacon had been devoured and I was too late. Immediately after my mother informed me of this sad news, my vision started tunneling and I distinctly remember saying out loud, "Welp...I'm passing out."
And I did.
When I return to consciousness I was sitting in a chair in the kitchen and Floyd was knelt down in front of me, slapping my face mildly hard. The concern in his voice was very real, and very urgent.
"Son! Son, look at me! Son!" I groggily looked up at my father and was trying to tell him I was alright when he said this:
"Son! Son have you been doing any drugs? Now is the time to tell me!"
I was very disoriented, but I was able to understand the ultimatum very clearly. My first inclination was to make a joke out of it, like "Yeah I was dropping acid in my room at 7 in the morning and then I smelled bacon, sorry." But Floyd doesn't like those jokes even in situations where I haven't recently passed out in the kitchen.
I'm not saying his question wasn't justified, I just think it was funny. When I asked him about it later, all he said was "It could've been drugs" and that was it.
Something that wasn't funny at the time was my mother in the computer room talking to the 911 operator. The most disappointing part of this whole ordeal was when my mom told the 911 people never mind when I came to. That they would drive me to the hospital themselves. I would've been down for an ambulance ride. That's all there really is to the story. I passed out for literally 5 seconds which earned me a trip to the emergency room where I was informed that I got up from bed too quickly and was too dehydrated. The doctor even gave me a lesson on how to properly get up from bed so that I wouldn't pass out. To this day, I sit up for five seconds and slowly step out of bed every morning just in case. I've also stopped doing the drugs. Just kidding, I've never done drugs. Unless you count love.
*irony
So no, you won't see any apologies on this blog, because we here at The Narwhal think it is very important to be humble. You don't need us telling you how awesome we are.*(Notice how I said we, as if I have a staff working for me. Nope, just me...and my schizophrenia .)
I've only been admitted to the hospital once and it was really lame and I hesitate to tell this story (ha! not really though). But something happened during this whole incident that really intrigued/bothered me and I'd like to share to see what you think.
If you've ever woken up to the smell of bacon cooking then you'll understand my reaction to such an event. It was a Saturday morning and I woke up to the smell of bacon and I got really excited. So excited in fact, that instead of doing my usual laying in bed for an hour and a half before I actually get up, I instantly sprang to my feet and sprinted down the hallway.
!!!!Pause story here to explain some science!!!!
When I jumped out of bed so quickly the blood that had been lazily pumping through my body had to suddenly cope with being vertical and trying to reach my brain which was made nearly impossible because of gravity. (gravity is the name of the big magnets in the center of the earth that keeps stuff from floating away, it's true look it up)
So anyway as I arrived in the kitchen I was devastated to learn that all of the bacon had been devoured and I was too late. Immediately after my mother informed me of this sad news, my vision started tunneling and I distinctly remember saying out loud, "Welp...I'm passing out."
And I did.
When I return to consciousness I was sitting in a chair in the kitchen and Floyd was knelt down in front of me, slapping my face mildly hard. The concern in his voice was very real, and very urgent.
"Son! Son, look at me! Son!" I groggily looked up at my father and was trying to tell him I was alright when he said this:
"Son! Son have you been doing any drugs? Now is the time to tell me!"
I was very disoriented, but I was able to understand the ultimatum very clearly. My first inclination was to make a joke out of it, like "Yeah I was dropping acid in my room at 7 in the morning and then I smelled bacon, sorry." But Floyd doesn't like those jokes even in situations where I haven't recently passed out in the kitchen.
I'm not saying his question wasn't justified, I just think it was funny. When I asked him about it later, all he said was "It could've been drugs" and that was it.
Something that wasn't funny at the time was my mother in the computer room talking to the 911 operator. The most disappointing part of this whole ordeal was when my mom told the 911 people never mind when I came to. That they would drive me to the hospital themselves. I would've been down for an ambulance ride. That's all there really is to the story. I passed out for literally 5 seconds which earned me a trip to the emergency room where I was informed that I got up from bed too quickly and was too dehydrated. The doctor even gave me a lesson on how to properly get up from bed so that I wouldn't pass out. To this day, I sit up for five seconds and slowly step out of bed every morning just in case. I've also stopped doing the drugs. Just kidding, I've never done drugs. Unless you count love.
*irony
24 December 2010
Jacobmu and the Shame I Feel
I love swimming in pools and I love entertaining people. At one point I was able to combine these two passions into one spectacular event that can only be described as the low point of my adolescence.
As an overweight twelve year old there are only so many ways to pass time. Your options are basically narrowed down to eating and finding ways to make people laugh. In the movies, the protagonist is never fat...but his best friend usually is. He also usually has red hair and freckles and provides the majority of the comic relief. I aspired to be that guy. I also aspired to be accepted by my older siblings. In such a pursuit one is subjected to doing things that when you look back on them weren't funny because you made them funny, but were funny because you were fat when you did them.
My older sister successfully manipulated my love for acting and marine life, thereby nurturing the creation of a character that has come to be known as Jacobmu. It is a play on words of the name of the popular Orca whale, Shamu, who regularly headlines at the animal prison known as SeaWorld.
A typical Jacobmu performance included me diving underwater, pushing up from the bottom of the pool and breaching the surface with spectacular grace only to splash back down with a resounding smack. My sister found this hilarious, which pleased me, which made me keep doing it. And then I realized. "I don't think they're laughing with me."
And so, with a shame similar to that felt by a white guy in Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, I retired Jacobmu. I have taken a vow against ever doing any physical comedy involving my weight ever again. Unless I get paid.
While I am extremely ashamed of my Jacobmu phase, nothing compares to the embarrassment felt when I think of the Sharky McSharkington incident, which involved one of these and very little, if anything, else:
As an overweight twelve year old there are only so many ways to pass time. Your options are basically narrowed down to eating and finding ways to make people laugh. In the movies, the protagonist is never fat...but his best friend usually is. He also usually has red hair and freckles and provides the majority of the comic relief. I aspired to be that guy. I also aspired to be accepted by my older siblings. In such a pursuit one is subjected to doing things that when you look back on them weren't funny because you made them funny, but were funny because you were fat when you did them.
My older sister successfully manipulated my love for acting and marine life, thereby nurturing the creation of a character that has come to be known as Jacobmu. It is a play on words of the name of the popular Orca whale, Shamu, who regularly headlines at the animal prison known as SeaWorld.
A typical Jacobmu performance included me diving underwater, pushing up from the bottom of the pool and breaching the surface with spectacular grace only to splash back down with a resounding smack. My sister found this hilarious, which pleased me, which made me keep doing it. And then I realized. "I don't think they're laughing with me."
And so, with a shame similar to that felt by a white guy in Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles, I retired Jacobmu. I have taken a vow against ever doing any physical comedy involving my weight ever again. Unless I get paid.
While I am extremely ashamed of my Jacobmu phase, nothing compares to the embarrassment felt when I think of the Sharky McSharkington incident, which involved one of these and very little, if anything, else:
I'll let you figure it out.
12 December 2010
I'm Doing it for the Babes
Everyone makes bad decisions all the time. For instance, just yesterday I ate at Burger King. That restaurant has the most expensive fast food but the quality and taste isn't even that great. I was left to ponder questions such as, "Why did I pay 8 dollars for this?" and "Why is my burger hot everywhere?" Turns out they microwave your burger right before they give it to you. Buns, lettuce, tomato, everything just gets nuked before they serve it up. It's an abomination.
But that's not what this is about.
I was using the bathroom at BK when I noticed several epitaphs scratched into the porcelain sink. It was the same type of graffiti you see in every public bathroom but it made me wonder, who actually takes the time after they're done peeing in Burger King to pull out they're keys or whatever and scratch "tweetyburd" into the urinal? People who want to be famous that's who. Do you really there was any ethical/dignity induced restraint keeping me from scratching the URL to this blog on the toilet seat? There definitely wasn't. I only didn't do it because I didn't have my car keys and also I sooner die than touch a public toilet seat. And please don't comment on this post saying that there is more bacteria on the floor of the bathroom than the toilet seat because that was just a lie spread around by pervs who don't wash their hands. But seriously it is disgusting how many people leave public facilities without washing their hands. "Oh I didn't touch anything" is the non-hand washing persons excuse most of the time. BS! because A) that's impossible and B) it's just effing disgusting. The tenth circle of hell is reserved for those people.
I digress. Fame entices a great number of people. I mean, all of the plans I've made for my future depend on this blog becoming famous*. So I can't really blame "tweetyburd" or "AXLEHAMMER" for their amateur epitaphs because dey really only esspressin demsselves da only way dey know how. Who knows, tweety is probably an amazing poet but the world doesn't recognize his talent and so his meekly carved name on an unkown bathroom sink represents a small plea for some recognition from his fellow human beings. Right on tweetyburd, right on.
Just kidding. It was probably just some angsty 13 year old with identity issues and a rusty nail.
*but seriously if I don't start making some money off of this thing soon I'm looking at the inside of a refrigerator box. But at least in a nice neighborhood.
But that's not what this is about.
I was using the bathroom at BK when I noticed several epitaphs scratched into the porcelain sink. It was the same type of graffiti you see in every public bathroom but it made me wonder, who actually takes the time after they're done peeing in Burger King to pull out they're keys or whatever and scratch "tweetyburd" into the urinal? People who want to be famous that's who. Do you really there was any ethical/dignity induced restraint keeping me from scratching the URL to this blog on the toilet seat? There definitely wasn't. I only didn't do it because I didn't have my car keys and also I sooner die than touch a public toilet seat. And please don't comment on this post saying that there is more bacteria on the floor of the bathroom than the toilet seat because that was just a lie spread around by pervs who don't wash their hands. But seriously it is disgusting how many people leave public facilities without washing their hands. "Oh I didn't touch anything" is the non-hand washing persons excuse most of the time. BS! because A) that's impossible and B) it's just effing disgusting. The tenth circle of hell is reserved for those people.
I digress. Fame entices a great number of people. I mean, all of the plans I've made for my future depend on this blog becoming famous*. So I can't really blame "tweetyburd" or "AXLEHAMMER" for their amateur epitaphs because dey really only esspressin demsselves da only way dey know how. Who knows, tweety is probably an amazing poet but the world doesn't recognize his talent and so his meekly carved name on an unkown bathroom sink represents a small plea for some recognition from his fellow human beings. Right on tweetyburd, right on.
Just kidding. It was probably just some angsty 13 year old with identity issues and a rusty nail.
*but seriously if I don't start making some money off of this thing soon I'm looking at the inside of a refrigerator box. But at least in a nice neighborhood.
25 November 2010
Speech! Speech! Speech!
What does it take to motivate somebody with words? Because I can say to you, "go save Africa" but that's hardly inspirational and you'll most likely just continue watching the Cricket match on the telly instead of saving Africa.
But, if I say to you, "go save Africa" and I tell you a couple heart wrenching stories about sick children, along with a couple reflective rhetorical questions and a "shame on you" or two thrown in there, then BOOM! you are on the next flight to Zimbabwe with nothing more than a canteen full of water and a heart full of love.
But words can be dangerous too. The old adage, Sticks and Stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me is a lie that was generated by Bullies so they wouldn't have to feel bad about saying mean things. I mean sure, maybe I wasn't physically wounded by that insult, but if you were to open me up you would probably find a bunch of dead butterflies. (the butterflies obviously representing happiness)
So i have written an inspirational speech, and I hope to one day give it to a crowd of thousands. Hopefully they will laugh, and then cry, and then be like, "that was awesome." People will then say for years afterwards, "that was a wonderful speech he should give another one" and "whatever happened to that fellow who gave the best speech ever?" and they will never find out because I will be living under a different name, in the English country side, raising chickens and wearing finely knit sweaters while composing a Symphony based on the life of Abraham Lincoln. My friend, Edgar, from London, will visit and we shall sit in the study and discuss all manners of things, from Philosophy to how his Aunt's bicycle shop is doing. And then one day I will be tending the spice garden outside of my cottage and a lovely young lady will walk by and I will say, "I once gave the best speech ever" and she will say, "Marry me." and I will. And we will have three children, Emeline, Linus, and Delia. All my chickens will die in an unexpected blizzard and we will have no income, but then my lovely wife will convince me to send my numerous poems to a publisher who will then publish them and thereby put food on my families table. Unfortunately Delia will develop a rare disease that can only be treated in America. I of course, loving my child, will return to America so she would be able to recieve treatment. Eventually I would be recognized as the awesome speech giver and will have to leave as soon as Delia gets better. I will spend the rest of my life writing Jeff Facer's biography and eventually passing away at the wonderful age of 82.
This is what I think about in Math class. As opposed to, well, Math.
21 November 2010
You Are all Invited to my Wedding
Usually it is the bride's job to plan and carry out all wedding plans since she is the one who actually cares about what a wedding looks/smells/feels/tastes like. While the bride is making decisions which caterer to hire and whether or not to have live music, the groom is playing golf with his future Father-in-law and making a reservation at the Motel 6 closest to the wedding venue.
Unfortunately, my future wife has no time to plan a wedding. Also, her husband might get suspicious if he finds her looking at different flower/color combinations for the centerpieces. Because let's just face it, when you're Zooey Deschanel there isn't much time for anything.
Which is fine, because I don't mind planning a wedding, in fact I kind of want to. I have already made most of the important decisions:
Wedding Location: Forest Lawn Memorial Chapel. (sure it's kind of creepy, but there's plenty of parking and they gave me a fantastic rate.)
Reception Location: Mike's apartment. (he just got a Wii)
Colors: Dodger blue and Mustard yellow
Music: a mix tape I found in my grandpa's car titled: "Sweet Jamz"
First dance song: "The Christmas Shoes" by NewSong.
Unfortunately, my future wife has no time to plan a wedding. Also, her husband might get suspicious if he finds her looking at different flower/color combinations for the centerpieces. Because let's just face it, when you're Zooey Deschanel there isn't much time for anything.
Which is fine, because I don't mind planning a wedding, in fact I kind of want to. I have already made most of the important decisions:
Wedding Location: Forest Lawn Memorial Chapel. (sure it's kind of creepy, but there's plenty of parking and they gave me a fantastic rate.)
Reception Location: Mike's apartment. (he just got a Wii)
Colors: Dodger blue and Mustard yellow
Music: a mix tape I found in my grandpa's car titled: "Sweet Jamz"
First dance song: "The Christmas Shoes" by NewSong.
There won't be any need to hire a photographer to take pictures, becuase I've already made my own:
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