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Have you seen my cat?

This afternoon I went skateboarding

instead of getting drunk by myself. I decided to walk across Curry to the same set of wimpy loading zones and backs of shops with PG ledges that Brian and I had attempted the day before.
I had one of the slummy $1.19 energy drinks from Quick Trip that features a ram wakeboarding or some shit on the label. Sure, it was warm and had been in my back pack for a day and a half or something but as I was sitting in my bed and smoking reefer it proved to be the deal breaker in my attempting to do shit. I couldn't let that ram taunt me with his extreme sports prowess.
I would show him. I would drink his contents in one foul swig and then subsequently gag before I gathered my shit and walked out the door.
Long story short: I have cuts on my ribs and palms and was frightened by the same security trucks that had flanked Brian and I the other day. Marginal outing.
This having transpired, I decided to take the Miata to the gym as my bleeding side made me feel less inclined to bicycle though I would later bicycle to work.
Once I arrived at LA Fitness, I realized I hadn't washed all the gravel from my palm and was forced to do this in the locker room where of course I got into a conversation with a creepy old man. As though we were naked in the sauna, he became intimately familiar with me and volunteered me multiple ointments from his bag for my hand. Fuck me. And fuck whatever other lotions were contained within his duffle bag.
Saw a wonderfully off-center cookie cutter bullshit tattoo of the ever-enduring climbing panther. Sinking those claws into the ripped bicep of it's owner. Almost better than the bro with the American flag ripping through his flesh.
Focused on my shoulders since my right one has been fucking up lately. This shit started when I was in elementary school and realized that I could slide my right shoulder out of the socket and spin in around in a sickening pinwheel. This slipping shoulder did not become a liability until I was 19 and working the graveyard shift at Gold's Gym.
Being alone, more or less, between the hours or 1 and 5 a.m., there was not much better to do than combine vodka or gin with the (then legal) ephedrine energy supplements and work out for my minimum wage. One morning while performing shoulder presses, my right shoulder slid out and a 50 pound dumbbell fell to the top of my head.
This is just one example of me knocking myself unconscious at work.

Arising at an uncharacteristic unless I have shit

to do hour of 9:30 a.m. after Monday evening's festivities celebrating the removal of Brian's catheter, I proceeded to clean the kitchen and fold my laundry and throw away beer cans. When I strolled to the nearby dumpster, I was greeted by a middle aged tweaker male with a pharaoh beard and dreadlock mullet clad in a black FUBU jersey. His disheveled female companion enthusiastically approached me and offered her assistance with the trash I was carrying all the while greedily salivating at the opaque kitchen bag burgeoning with the 60 or so cans utilized for the Hills drinking game.
"That looks like a great bag you've got for us," she said and proceeded to grab the other trash bags and beer boxes I was carrying while machine-gunning her mouth this way and that "Got those for you, brother," "Give you a hand...," "Lemme get..." and shit like that. Her body odor was stifling and caused me to resist her assistance. I tried to usher her away but it proved impossible as her targets had already locked on the cornucopia of aluminum I had in my left hand. Tweaker female grabbed all the random trash I was carrying while Pharaoh Beard supervised the cans.
While Pharaoh beard was busy with the task, the woman busied herself by pulling out a knife and gutting open the trash bag I had carried in from the kitchen.
The one containing slimy, shit trash.
She proceeded to sift through it and pull out anything that contained metal.
I walked back to my condo.
An hour later, they were still doing this.
I wonder if anyone has every stolen a tweaker's bicycle blind when they are physically inside the dumpster foraging?
This would have been ample opportunity to do so.
But, the bikes are often lashed with bags containing cans...this may act as an alarm and allow the dumpster diver ample time to surface and defend/recover their vehicle. Or this may act as a deterrent for bike theft as it indicates the bikes would be sticky and covered with the syrup emitting from the bottom of each acquired can.
To the street person's eye, the bags might represent wealth. Swinging like a saddle bag containing crown jewels, they entice tweakers who recall tales of the brave Robin of Locksley or those who stayed up for three days watching Kevin Costner movies.

I wish you all could have seen my face

when I rode my bicycle through 4th street on the home stretch to work last Friday morning. I was greeted by a gigantic sign proclaiming 'College Game Day Deals' and a line consisting of hundreds of dorm-room-trash in the obligatory yellow ASU t-shirts.
My cigarette dropped from my mouth. My ipod probably fucked up. My bicycle cried.
Apparently, a text message had been sent to them through some marketing shit which earned them a free small sandwich at 11:00 a.m. I, myself, was scheduled to work at 11:00 a.m. and being the punctual motherfucker that I am arrived ten minutes prior. Alarmed by the line, I proceeded to shout expletives to my superiors. Fortunate for my temper, they too were also bothered by this event as they had not been informed of it until the day previous and were going to be giving away around $800 worth of shit. So, I got to be a little rude.
There was a consistent deluge of 17-18 year old shits for a good three hours, the vast unfamiliar with the process of tipping people when you get free shit. Stonefaced and dreading the time expiration on the blunt I had smoked shift prior I tried to handle the nonsense without saying anything awful.
Mostly worked.
Around 2 p.m. I recognized a girl who had been there first thing in the morning. Now, positioned at the cash register I had obtained sufficient minimum wage leverage to interrogate her. Upon her demanding a second free sandwich, the following ensued:
Me: Yeah, I saw you this morning.
Liar: What...what?
Me: Was there an 'e' and an 'es' after the word 'sandwich' on the promotion?
Liar: I just figured...
Me: ...you just figured you would come back here for dinner.
Liar:...
Me: You also figured that nobody would recognize you.
Liar: Yeah.
Me: Why are you making me take my shitty job seriously and apply observational skills?
Liar:...
Me: You will get your second charity meal. You are really motherfucking dumb.
This promotion entailed students picking up yellow t-shirts which read 'BEAT CAL' and read the time and date of the university's homecoming game. Ironically, I took advantage of several of the promotions listed on the back and would this afternoon modify the over a week old t-shirt with a shock of relevance as the only color sharpie in the house I could find was red. Crossing out the word 'CAL' and replacing it with USC clearly made up for my five and a half years worth of a lack of school spirit.
I only wore the thing for a total of two and a half hours. Despite this, it was photographed with enough frequency as though to denote the modification had been something I was stoked for since the ASU loss to California and couldn't wait to have USC's blood. Didn't know they were playing USC until Chuck told me two days ago. Would never though of donning the shirt again if not for the fact that Chuck and his parents and friends were tailgaiting that afternoon.
Soco-water-honey. No fresh-cut lemons for the shit, but I am making it work and smoking lots of resin and cigarettes...

I can

I must
I will

My God, have you ever farted so loud

in your tiled bathroom in your tiled house that it sounds as though somebody has told a fantastic joke in an adjoining room and it is being received by a crowd in an uproar?

Being so sick that you feel like

doing nothing is surprisingly a challenge for someone who often feels like just fucking sitting there. I enjoy the option and not the physical compulsion. This week was motherfucking boring as tears.
As a result of this, I was actually excited to go to work as it afforded me the opportunity to talk to a bunch of people. Funny, I am saying this as though there aren't people in and out of my house on a regular basis. It was hardly just the Orange Cat and myself, but that is not the point.
Anticipating thousands of dollars in business and thousands of wasted brosephs, I drank the duration of the afternoon as I had decided that I felt better and actually did. Sure, I coughed most of the day (as I had Tuesday-Friday) but luckily it was because I was getting high. We're going to go ahead and blame cigarettes for this bout. A couple days without and I already feel better in my distance cycling as well as in my right nostril which usually bleeds.
I didn't want to kill myself at work tonight.
As noted earlier, my afternoon was spent doing jack shit so this meant that I was able to prepare for my evening's labors at my leisure. Listening to Crystal Castles and digging on the leftovers from the vaporizer in the kitchen actually had my pace quickened and my backpack filled with the shit that I did not want to forget.
Left house via bicycle at 7:37, went uphill as opposed to westward aside artificial lake, arrived at work, parlayed a later arrival due to lack of business, arrived home at 8:06. Able to nap until roughly an hour later when Brian's arrival from loosely regulated university job awoke me though I wasn't actually asleep but instead laying underneath my sheets and pillows and silently counting until the highest number possible.
Refreshed, I consumed Top Ramen, took a shower, did push ups, drank Miller High Life, and put more dope shit on my iPod because I would need something to listen to for less than ten minutes when I rode back to work. It was an interesting night. Some little fat girl named Ricki or something stood next to me for an awkwardly long time while her friends stood outside. She rambled to me about my tattoos and kept asking me to pull up my sleeves while she, in turn, proceeded to pull up her shit and brandish some awkward shit with a fairy and a moon or something.
I am watching a movie about heroin.

So, I heard that

one hundred proof Southern Comfort is great for colds.

I need to score more reefer.