Something's Wrong.

Another bad day at work. I don't know why I've been in such a slump lately. But nothing has brought me joy all week. I had a brilliant idea today in the bathroom, while examining myself in the mirror after taking a piss. I noticed a large dry booger in my nose, and I picked at it, but decided to not take it completely out of my nose. Grinning at myself in the mirror, with the booger slightly protruding from my nose, made me feel something. It was a feeling of joy, the first I'd felt in days. I left the bathroom, booger in place, trying hard not to laugh. I walked around the office, making a point to talk to as many people as possible...asking them some useless bullshit question about the so and so project or account, all while keeping a serious face. No one said a thing. The best part was the forcefully sober look on each one of my co-worker's faces. And how awkward and tense it was. So many weird pauses and fumbling for words, and nervous laughter, eyes darting everywhere. After I grew bored of wasting everybody's time with my booger, I picked it out of my nose and smeared it on the "3" button on the fax machine dialpad. The rest of the day was a test in self-control, trying not to break out in giggles.

I am such a coward.

The past week's been a rough one. I haven't made love to her in two weeks...neither of us seem at all interested. I've been staying up late doing old jigsaw puzzles from my childhood that I found in my father's attic. But more disconcerting than my lack of sex that is how my rage has been much worse than it usually is. Perhaps it's the passing of summer or because I keep seeing previews for that Wanda Sykes show on FOX (I had to buy a pumpkin just to smash it in my driveway to relieve the tension seeing those commercials instils in me). Things have been really uncomfortable at work lately. It seems like I'm forgetting how to calmly deal with situations that irritate me.

Anyway, I was on the phone with my mother earlier in the week while I was stuck in traffic on I-95, and she was excitedly telling me about going to the brand new Best Buy store that opened up back home. For a moment, my heart sunk and the sky seemed to turn grey as I pondered why the grand opening of some stupid megastore would be some worth getting excited about, and I wanted to cry knowing that going to Best Buy would be the highlight of my mother's week. Then, just as quickly, I imagined about twenty DVDs that I've been meaning to pick up. I continued talking to my mother for the next fifteen minutes, not hearing a word she was saying, then told her I loved her and said goodbye. I then got off the highway and spent an hour looking for the nearest Best Buy store, but sadly I didn't find one. Luckily I found two Targets, three Walmarts, and two Blockbusters. Between all five stores I spent two hundred and eighty dollars on the following DVDs: The new Harry Potter movie, the new Lord of the Rings movie, Minority Report, Black Hawk Down, Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace (even though it was terrible, I thought of how awesome it would look on the Sony HDTV and progressive scan DVD player I plan on purchasing), Training Day, The complete third season of the Sopranos, Moulin Rouge, the Back to the Future Trilogy, Chicago, and The Matrix (I already own a copy but a friend's been borrowing it for two months, and this one was value-priced at 14.99). My DVD binge ended my shitty week on a high note, but so far I've only watched two episodes on Disc One of the Sopranos, and the rest of the DVDs lay, still shrink-wrapped, in a stack on my bedroom floor, next to a bookcase full of books I've never read.

Today at the office, Will told me that he had found this great personality test online. He urged me to take it, as he was dying to know what character type I would be classified as. I indulged him and, curious myself, took the test. It was a series of sixty questions, based on social preferences, interaction, goals etc. In the end, it classified me as a 'dispassionate introvert,' whatever the fuck that means. Will seemed a little taken aback when I told him that these were the results the test had given me. He then quickly started telling me about his own results and why he thought they were really accurate, and how he's a really amazing person and statistically a very rare personality type. But while he was talking, it was as if I were watching a foreign film. It seemed that his lips moved, and words came out, yet I could not understand them. I imagined subtitles appearing below his face, and I spent more time trying to read the subtitles than actually listening to his drivel. He stopped talking, awaiting some sort of validation on my end. "Well?" he asked. I wasn't sure what he wanted to hear from me. The only thing I was able to get out was "I'd kill for a peanut butter and banana sandwich right now."

I had another episode again last night. It had been a few months and it rather took me by suprise. The boys and I went out to a number of popular bars and drank heavily. I remember drinking a lot of six dollar beers, smoking a joint in someone's car, and taking some pills in a bathroom (But I think this is completely unrelated to my episode). I got home somehow and thought that I should make a phonecall. I reached for my Motorola T-720 mobile phone but accidently picked up my Gameboy Advance SP instead. I stared at it in confusion, feeling completely nauseaus and not understanding why it was in my hand. I placed it back on the desk and picked up my Sony RZ-900 minidisc recorder and placed it up to my head as if I was about to speak into it. I became more confused and grew annoyed. Minutes later I was sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, surrounded by my numerous consumer electronics. I became frantic, desperately trying to figure out which one was my cell phone and what I wanted to do with it. Everything looked the same, performed the same function. Small, Japanese, efficient. Cost $179.99, $280.00, $99.99, $499.99. Before I knew it, tears of frustration were running down my cheeks as I tried cramming Gameboy cartridges into my Nikon Coolpix 700 digital camera, then eventually into my cell phone. The phone snapped in half and I laughed. My tears stopped. I shoved all of my electronics into a corner next to my nightstand and went into the kitchen to make a protein shake. Tired and runny-nosed, I stayed up for another four hours bidding on toys from my childhood on Ebay.

As I looked into her eyes I could see nothing but undevoted love, but all I could feel was the desire to be more powerful, move more quickly, feel like more of a man. She told me she loved me and I said "I love you too," but all I could think about was 230 horsepower, turbocharged with all wheel drive. With optional high-performance semi-racing flywheel and triple-plate clutch. I'm not even sure what that is, but i'm positive that I need it, in case I ever want to do some high-performance, off-road driving, which I'll probably get around to, one day. Optional foglights. Heated seats. Roof Rack. I'll definately need a new mountain bike to go on the roof rack. Like the one John from the office has. A Cannondale, maybe.

While making love to her I imagined racing through all gears, passing all others on the highway. Well, maybe on fridays. Highway traffic on fridays seems to be much better than from mondays through thursdays. Yeah, that turbo would really be sweet on a friday morning. The thought of the sound that the engine makes through the fully-functional hood scoop (I can imagine it perfectly in my head from watching the commercial so many times on the internet) got me even more aroused. More turned-on. She screamed my name and I imagined another woman, beautiful with large breasts and long blonde hair, sitting in the passenger seat of my new sportscar. Wearing Expensive Sunglasses. Something Gucci. I tried to whisper her name but I'm so out of shape that I was wheezing, and it comes out more like "Oh meehmmmmff." She really loves me. But I really want that car.

The woman sitting in front of me on the train this morning had a terrible cough. She coughed every thirty seconds or so for the duration of the forty five minute train ride. It drove me close to madness. I restrained myself from yelling at her and asking her to stop her incessant coughing when I realized that it probably wasn't her fault. She couldn't help it. Though maybe it could have been prevented through better hygiene and more vitamins. I could not decide on whether or not to offer this poor woman a cough drop. I didn't work up the courage to ask her. Her coughing continued. But then the question plagued me for the rest of the day: did I want to offer her a cough drop for my comfort or for hers?

I am convinced that the fat fuck sitting next to me on the second train washed his clothes with cigarette butts.