Probably Going To Cry Before I Sleep

Last week when Buddy Hackett died I mistakenly thought Buddy Ebsen had died and I was recounting the story of how I’d heard the former Beverly Hillbilly on the Opie & Anthony show back in the day. I was actually talking about a man that was not yet dead. It was Buddy Hackett that had died, not Buddy Ebsen. And then, what happens today? Fucking Buddy Ebsen dies. (I think it was Sunday, actually).

So, I must partially blame myself for this most unfortunate loss. Once I’m done explaining the rest of my day, I’m sure you’ll agree it was all my fault.

My day started with moving my shit across the hall to my new (old) office. When I finally figured out how to get everything arranged so that the wires weren’t stretched all over the place and making a mess of the new office space, I turned on my computer. Then my computer decided that its hard drive had shit the bed. It had been working fine thirty minutes before on the other side of the office.

It ended up taking half the day for them to finally get a machine up and running for me to use and then the rest of the day was pretty much fucking shot. I did get some reading done on lunch but that was about it.

When I came back from lunch I discovered the whole Buddy Ebsen thing on And then, shortly after that, I discovered the real kicker. I had been paying attention the score of the Red Sox game, even though I never usually give a shit about baseball, and they were winning 1-0. Then they were tied 1-1. Finally, they lost 2-1 and it was all because I actually cared about the outcome.

I have the lousiest fucking luck in the world. This is why I have not won the lottery. It’s not because the odds are as long as my dick is short. No. It’s because even though one part of me was preordained to be filthy stinking rich, the other side was destined to be the unluckiest sap on the face of the fucking planet.

I came home and exercized and discovered that, not only have I not lost any weight in the last two months that I’ve been exercizing even more heavily than usual, I have actually gained a pound and a half. I am now 23 pounds above my ideal weight and I seem forever cursed to stay there.

The truth of the matter is, it really shouldn’t matter to me. I’ve got my MFA program coming up. I’m trying to do something about my writing. My weight shouldn’t matter to me. My wife thinks I’m attractive. That’s all that should matter, right?

Except, what happens when you can’t even please your wife anymore? She may say that it’s her fault but deep down inside, as a guy you know it’s your fault.

So… All of my inadequacies (and spelling is probably one of them), have decided to gang up on me today. Happy fucking day!