Genesis Sans Fratricide

It's been a long time since I last blogged: three years or so if my failing mind recalls correctly. I'm not sure why I've decided to start up again. I think that I, like pretty much every other blogger, would like to take this opportunity to bitch and moan. Let us commence with the Inquisition.

I work a menial job that requires no thought and little labor on my part. I work to support my prime vices: movies and food. I'm a cashier at a big-box retailer whose box is neither as big nor as stretchy as Walmart's. I deal primarily with people, although there seems to be an unnerving number of non-humans wandering about these days; toothless, heavily made-up hooker rejects barely count as people in my book.

I'm an English major, which means I have to analyze things that were perfectly fine un-analyzed and warp them into something that that is probably more than the author intended yet less than my professor hoped for. I have a gift for writing formal yet vacuous prose--read all preceding words--a dubious honor which has enabled me to coast through much of my college career.
In my head I live alone; in reality I live with annoying people. I tend to be a magnet for unintelligent, athletic types . . . what's the word I'm searching for here? It's a word that often describes a particular group, a word for which the stereotype always proves entirely true. Chalk? Rock? . . . I'm sure it'll come to me.

I'm currently preparing to move from my current apartment. I'm having some dark chocolate feelings about it. First of all, there have been stretches of time, weeks, in which I have neither seen nor heard from my roommates. That's the bitter part. I'll miss that. The sweet part is this: moving away from the biggest fuck God ever put on this earth, a fuck who I once had the privilege of hearing being given, in his words, "the most amazing blowjob ever"; a fuck who has decided his musical talents far surpass those of your average shit musician (i.e. Mozart); a fuck with a certain propensity to make rather spectacular messes, messes by which I, as a messy person myself, am shocked. I'll stop. Too much nostalgia and I risk an aneurism. Or a hernia; trying to lift this fellow's ego just might make some of my lower intestine drop into my ballsack--or my scrotum, for the medically inclined. Once I finish reinserting the little brain blood vessels that have leaked out of my ear--damn, didn't I just warn myself about this?--I'll continue.

There. All better. I figure a rage-induced stroke or two won't hurt me all that much; Alzheimer's runs in the family, after all. Why delay the inevitable? Where was I?