| June 6, 2003 - They're just sooo jealous |
| Dear Friends, yesterday afternoon at work we had a little party on the rooftop. It was catered, so there were delectable yummies like shrimp and peapods, little biscuit boats filled with hummus and olives, fruit, candies, and, of course, alcohol. Anyway, it was all bootilicious and since I had known I was going to be attending, I had already determined that I wouldn't be working out afterwards. So after this little hoedown was over, I busted a move over to Ye Olde Watering Hole, which I have faithfully avoided since Sunday. I went there because I knew I would never make it home without stopping somewhere to take a leak and also because I knew I wouldn't do anything else at home. So while I was there I was chatting with this guy I'll call Harold. Anyway, we were just chitty-chatting when I told him that I had been working out twice a day and that I had avoided coming to Ye Olde Watering Hole because I saw the same people there all the time. And that if I saw the same people all the time, that meant they had a drinking problem which would also mean I had a drinking problem because they were seeing me all the time, too. (However, Harold isn't one of the ones I see there all the time.) Make sense? So it ended up with Harold buying me a shot of Sambuca which I was only able to drink half of. I like licorice fine, it's just that the drink was so strong I knew I would be sick if I finished it. Anyway, this morning I woke up and worked out and as I was doing my manly he-bosom strengthing routine, I was wondering why Harold would buy me a shot when it was clear that I really didn't need any more alcohol than what I already had. Then it dawned on me, Dear Readers. I think Harold was trying to sabotage my efforts to get in really good shape and that could only mean one thing: He's jealous of me and was trying to bring me down! Suddenly a lot of things fell into place about the patrons of Ye Olde Watering Hole. I had always wondered why they never seemed interested in any of the fantabulous trips I went on. For example, when I got back from England a few people said, "Where have you been?" And when I answered "England", they said, "Oh, that's right. I forgot you were going. Did you have a good time?" As soon as I answered "yes", the subject would immediately change. Wouldn't you think people would ask me what I saw and what I did? I mean, I would do that if I found out someone had just got back from England, wouldn't you? So, as I was saying, the topic would immediately get changed, and usually it was to some malfeasance or other they themselves had done, like "While you were in England, I got really drunk and tried to outrun the cops. But they caught me and now I have to go to court." Or "I met this really nice girl and slept with her, but now she doesn't return my phone calls." You know the kind of trite idiocy self-absorbed people yack about (whereas I know that you, My Dear and Faithful Readers, hang upon every word that falls like a pearl from my lips, or rather my keyboard). Now, after the episode with Harold, I finally realized why there was so little interest in any of my trips. It's because they're envious! Their lives are filled with one mishap after another and listening to anything I might have said would only make their lives seem shabbier. Don't you think I'm right? To give them a little credit, I must say it can't be easy comparing oneself to a fantabulous person such as me. And I'm sure that if I met someone fantabulouser than myself, I would probably feel a little intimidated. But at the same time I would examine my life and see how I could make it fantabulouser based on my interaction with that other fantabulous person. Wouldn't you? So now that I've realized this I know you're all dying to know what I'll do with the information. Nothing major, I can assure you. I just won't let them know anything about my life because every facet of it, even down to cutting my toenails, is fantabulous and it would only depress them more. Next entry Previous entry Go to diary entries Go back home |