Even though there are quite a few hoops to jump through before starting a new job, I’ve never gotten used to peeing in a cup as part of this process.
Sure, the company I’ll be working for needs to know I’m not a crackhead, but I just wish there was a less awkward way to go about it. Whenever I’m handing the tester my cup of urine, I always feel like I should apologize or try my hand at small talk to break the mood. Maybe something like, “Don’t spill” or “It’s nice and fresh just like nature intended.” You know, anything to distract from what’s going on.
And what thoughts are swirling in the person’s mind as they accept my cup of warm liquid waste? Is this really the job they signed up for, or is it just a small part of their regular duties? Whenever they know someone is there for a drug test, do they cringe a little inside? There is no way I could keep my face impassive while I transferred someone’s piss into little tubes scheduled for send off to some lab. I actually commend the people assigned this task, because they really do make it seem like it’s the most normal thing in the world. A person rains gold in a cup, hands it to them, and they take care of the rest. Nothing odd about that at all.
More on warm uriney goodness...
Robert Downey, Jr. is HOT; HOT like a habanero chili pepper soaked in Tabasco sauce, wearing a wool sweater in the flaming recesses of Hell.
I was tempted to limit my post to that one sentence, but I thought it would be a waste. I mean, with so many words in the English language, surely I could expound on my feelings for this man (no offense Jan, but you know how it is).
Last Saturday Jan and I made plans to go to dinner, then see Iron Man afterwards. Needless to say I was 
pretty pumped about the whole evening. We wound up going to Marie Callendars where I gorged myself on their sinfully delicious Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo. My God that dish is good. If you want to know what it feels like to have your taste buds reach a level of euphoria known only to the few strong enough to survive such pleasure, then I suggest you order this entree next time you make it into one of these fine establishments (Best. Sentence. Ever). The sauce was full of flavor and so rich and creamy, the chicken was delicious and tender, the pasta cooked to perfection. Yeah, it was definitely some good shit. I could practically feel my arteries closing up as I shoveled bite after bite into my greasy face. But fuck it. My mom always said I would die with a full stomach, and dammit she’s right. It’s no secret I love a good meal.
This is where it gets good...
Ever since I saw the episode of ER where Noah Wyle pulled a live roach from a patient’s ear, the fear of suffering the same fate has lived in the back of my mind. I’ve thought of wearing earplugs at night to prevent such an occurrence, but I never do. Instead, I clean my ears several times a day. Before I could adopt such a regiment though, I had to face the challenge of choosing the proper tools.
As a kid, I was taught to clean my ears with a Q-tip and a bit of alcohol (NOT the Jack Daniels kind). I would immerse one end of a q-tip in the sanitizing liquid, then stick it in my ear and swirl it around. This accomplished two things: 1) absolutely nothing; and 2) it pissed me off. Apparently this method only served to shift the wax slightly to the right instead of just removing it altogether. After a few failed attempts with this system, the time had come to move on.
More about my bad habit...
**The following story is true in its ENTIRETY as told to me. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and easily embarrassed. Stuff like this will probably not be a regular feature on this blog, but I thought it was something worth sharing. I hope you enjoy (and don’t grade me too harshly on punctuation) And don’t worry, I have obtained permission to share this. Also, the content is adult in nature. You’ve been warned!**
“Ooooo yeah… I’m so close…. ahhhhh….”
I hope he’s almost done, I’m hungry… Once again Amanda would go unsatisfied, she was beginning to think these things called orgasms just did not exist. As much as people talked about them, surely she should have had one by now. Fuck, she thought, this was about as fun as stapling my eyelids shut. Her mom told her it was supposed to get better, that when two people were together for the first time sometimes the “rhythm” was… off. If her count was correct (and it should be, since one isn’t inclined to forget less-than-stellar bedroom activities), this would mark the 7th time Dave has “made it” without bringing her along. Why do I even bother? If other people are having this kind of sex, why in the world are they so happy about it?
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