I Hate Future Me, That Smug Bastard.

The other day I had my eighteenth birthday party and invited several future Me's. I sat around and got sideways with my twenty-five and thirty-five year old self. We told stories of the parties we went to and all the wild things we had done. Or at least me and the twenty something year old me did. The thirty year old me mostly just talked about his job and his wife and his stupid kids. He barely ever did anything fun. Jeez, when did I get to be such a stick in the mud? Forty year old me didn't even swing by, he had some big project at work. Fifty-five  year old me was there but, g'ah. What a douche. He was totally wearing dork-ass preppie clothes. He was like, successful, and had money and crap. He didn't want to hang out and drink with us, and he didn't know any cool bands. He was just so damn smug. He was like "one day you'll grow up". He even played golf. Golf. Can you believe that?! Frickin' sell out.

   So after every body else left, twenty-five year old me and I were still hanging out and he was bitching about how hard he had to work and how he never has time to play video games or drink or start that band that we always intended to start. Manic Polyester was going to be huge! He was also wishing that he would've gotten a tattoo or piercing before he got out of college, but it was probably good because the advertising firm he worked for had a dress policy. And then we shotgunned a beer and he had to go home because he had an early morning (noon) meeting with a client and he still had to finish the corporate image package.

   Then I was all alone with my thoughts and my Natty Lite. Man, where did I go wrong? I wasn't extreme at all. I was a square. And I was happy about it. Apparently I liked my little slice of suburbia and Americana apple pie. Manic Polyester never materialized and I was in a committed monogamous relationship. There were no groupies in my future. What a waste. I had to do something. I had to save myself from a life of Rockwellian normalcy. And bring that old smug bastard me down a couple of notches.

   What had twenty year old me said about tattoo's and piercings? That was it. I could get some extreme ink and get some holes poked in myself. That'll teach retired me to be so smug and successful and whatnot. I hate that guy. When I woke up the next morning I took all of my birthday cash and went down to Neuronic Heart Tattoo Shop and got a sweet tattoo on my neck. And then I started to gauge my ears out. I already felt more like a rock star. I am gonna be awesome for life. There is no way I will ever get tired of being X-treme!

   The next couple of years were epic. College was incredible. I loved it. All six, (or was it seven?) years of it. By the time college was out I had as many tattoos as credits. And my earlobes could hold a pack of smokes. Unfortunately Manic Polyester never materialized, turns out I didn't have a musical bone in my body. And practice is hard. But I dated some pretty fun chicks who were all were into tats and piercings like I was, but nothing serious or long-term. When college was finally over I had a degree in fine art appreciation and renaissance poetry and I needed a job.

   I went to the marketing firm future me had worked at but they had some lame dress code and fed me some crap about not hiring people with facial tattoos. Like, I'd want to work there anyway. I got a job at Neuronic Heart doing tattoos and piercings. The pay isn't great, and there isn't any room for promotion, but at least I'm not some corporate shill. I hang out at the local bar and listen to indie music and drink lots and lots of beer. Life is perfect.
   I just had my twenty-fifth birthday! It was kick ass! All of Me's showed up. And we all still liked to party. And there was none of this talk about not having enough time to do fun stuff anymore. Forty year old me was a little sketchy, he's living with kind of a rough looking woman and her kids, but they all like to party too!

   But the biggest change was Old Me. Haha. I totally knocked that guy off of his high horse. He wasn't playing golf anymore, I'll tell you that. Or giving out any sage advice. He was alone and kinda seemed sad, and all my tattoos looked pretty silly on him quite frankly. But I still liked him better than that other fancy pants old guy. I showed him a picture of him from my last party to show him what I saved him from becoming. He just stared at me and shook his head. Whatever. I'm non-conformist for life, and if future me doesn't like it, well he can just suck it.

A Black Eye For Fathers Day

I woke up this morning to the yummy smells of breakfast wafting up the stairs. It's Father's Day! I bet I'm gonna get breakfast in bed. I laid in bed for awhile practicing my surprised, oh you guys didn't have to do that speech, but eventually it became apparent that breakfast was not coming. Maybe they are waiting for me downstairs, so I trudged down to see what was going on. My loving family were lounging around the breakfast table mounded over with dirty, empty dishes.
How come you guys didn't tell me breakfast was ready, or at least save me some?
Why would I? I made the kids breakfast, and then we ate.
But it's Father's Day.
Yeah?
I'm the Father. It's supposed to be about me today.
Oh. About that. I think it's high time we had a talk.
A talk?
You see... you're not the kids natural Father. You're adopted.
Wha...?
Yes. One day the kids and I heard a knock on the front door and when we opened it up there you were. You looked all sad and pathetic, so we took you in and raised you as our own.
Wait? What? I'm adopted? I can't believe this.
It's all true. You had a note pinned to your polyester leisure suit, claiming that your real family was no longer able to take care of you and that they hoped that you would find a loving home and that they hoped you wouldn't hold it against them.
It said that?
More or less.
More or less? What did it say exactly?
Hmmmm. I think the exact note said: Idiot. Free to good home. Or bad home for all we care. Whatever. Good riddance.
That doesn't sound like they loved me.
Yeah, I know. I made that up so you wouldn't start crying. You're such a little girl.
I am not. sob... Waaaaaaaah. 
Oh great. There you go Shiela. You know, maybe this is why they gave you up in the first place.
(sniffle) That's not very nice.
Man up, sugar britches.
You're just mean. Why are you saying this?
Your real family was right. You're an idiot. It's time you moved on.
Move on? But where will I go?
I don't know. Maybe try and find your original family. They might have changed their minds.
How will I know who they are? What did they look like? What did they do?
Well judging by the way you were dressed, I would guess either a vaudevillian troupe or a group of colorblind, white trash/gypsy, door-to-door siding salesmen. Gay gypsies most likely.
So, I should go look for for gay gypsies?
Sure. Go with that.
This is just the worst Father's Day ever.
Well it hasn't exactly been a picnic for us either. But there's no time like the present. So off you go. Write when you have news.
OK, I'll go. I guess I'll be seeing you.
No. Just kidding.
You're kidding?
Yeah. Don't bother to write. We don't really care that much.

Missed Connections, A Sort Of Love Story.

Friday May 13th at Grocer Sam's Neighborhood Market. I was in one line, you were in another. We made eye contact, you smiled and said hello. You hung around for awhile. Would love to get a cup of coffee or lunch or maybe a dinner or possibly even a brunch.

Me: tall male. You: attractive female.

Friday May 13th at Grocer Sam's Neighborhood Market. You're an idiot, Rodney. I saw you too. I see you everyday. I "hung around" because I work there, and so do you. I can't help but making eye contact, we work five feet apart. 

Me: attractive female. You: a moron.

Friday May 13th at Grocer Sam's Neighborhood Market. Oh, that explains a couple of things. I thought it was a little odd that you were wearing an apron just like mine. And you looked a little familiar. So how about that coffee?

Me: tall handsome co-worker. You: hot co-worker.

Everyday at Grocer Sam's Neighborhood Market. We have coffee all the time, you knucklehead. For seven years we have had our breaks together. Often we are the only two people in the break room. We do the crossword together. 

Me: hot co-worker. You: terminally unobservant.

Apparently the last seven years at Grocer Sam's Neighborhood Market. I do the crossword? Wow, I must be pretty smart. 

Me: smart hunky co-worker. You: crossword hottie.

The last unbearable seven, seems more like twenty, years at Grocer Sam's Neighborhood Market. You aren't. You think "x-treme" is the answer to almost every clue. That isn't even how you spell extreme. 

Me: the smart one. You: extremely clueless.

The last seven X-TREME years at Grocer Sam's Neighborhood Market. X-TREME is so a word. I saw it on the Mountain Dew Action Sports Tour on FOX. It was totally X-TREME! I'm beginning to rethink this whole asking you out on a date thing. I think you're just a hater.  

Me: awesome to the X-TREME. You: just a hater.

An eternity of suffering at Grocer Sam's Neighborhood Market. Do you really think I was going to go out on a date with you? That is not going to happen. I swore after our second divorce that I wouldn't have anything else to do with you.

Where did you have in mind for brunch?

Me: codependant. You: strangely irresistible.