Aha!

Hey jukebox guy, our bad.

So we looked in our wallet this morning and *then* we got it. One dolla dolla bill, ya'll. One. We had four when we walked into the bar last night (and no, we didn't need a drink *that* bad, silly).

This is so not a story about desolution and emptiness, because we got an ATM card, b*tches.

Anyway, when we went to the ol' jukebox, we pulled out two dollars, but did we? One must've dropped to the floor. Thus, jukebox guy gave it to us. Sure, he wasn't the best communicator in the world ("Here, fella, you dropped this," would've been nice), but his heart was in the right place.

***
Currently listening to: Birds chirping outside our window. And no, we don't wish they'd shut the f*ck up.

Sadly, does anyone give a sh*t?

So there's this.

To the jukebox guy

We're still confused.

All we wanted to do was eat in peace and maybe work a little bit on our presentation for tomorrow so we can become a teacher and actually go to work, well, happy.

We ordered a porter and our favorite sammich. Then we sauntered over to the ol' jukebox to play, in no particular order: Into the Mystic, Darling Nikki, Tuesday's Gone, Walkaways, Atlantic City, I Still Miss Someone and So Lonely.

And there you were, with your dollar bill and the lingering behind us. As we punched in the numbers for Tuesday's Gone, you put your dollar in the box. Confused, we asked if our second dollar had fallen to the floor. It hadn't.

"It's for you," you said, kind of creepily. "It's yours now."

"No," we said. "(We) mean was that our dollar? Did it fall onto the floor?"

"No," you said again. "It's your dollar now."

And then you walked away.

So we picked Dylan, the Stones and Men At Work, cautiously. Our sammich came a second later, and we continued on with the eating and the planning for the presenting and the enjoying our porter and all of these things.

And not one of our songs came on. Not one.

We're still confused.

Even coworkers get the blues

We'll do this right quick, because we don't really talk about what we really do in these here parts. So we'll do this in metaphor-speak, sort of.

Say you're 8. And when you're 8, you don't feel like going to school. So when you're 8, you wait until your parents leave for work, and then you decide to maybe miss the bus. Then you stay home and you don't tell anybody all morning.

And then maybe your teachers, sh*t, maybe your fellow li'l third-graders, begin to worry so, so the school calls you at home and leaves a message on your answering machine, which we guess people still have.

Anyway, the school maybe leaves a message reminding you that it's a school day and nobody called you in sick. So miraculously, 10 minutes later, your parents call your school to tell your teacher and fellow students that you are indeed sick, and you won't be in school for the day.

Forget that thing you had to do first thing in the morning, that of course one of your fellow students steps in for you, again. Nevermind that school starts everyday at 8:15 and this all happens a li'l before lunch.

Nevermind all of this, really. Because when you're 8 and you do this, this normally means an ol' hammer to the chest, or at least a good talking to so this doesn't happen when you're a grown adult and pulling the same sh*t at work.

Just saying.

***
Currently listening to: Harry Hood (Phish).

To the crunches girl (and this is not a fat joke)

Honest. It's more just a commentary.

Let's say you're at the gym. And let's say you're doing "crunches" at the gym. And let's say you're friend has an impeccable bod, the one pretty much everyone else is jealous of, especially you, and *maybe* OMS.

Let's say you're still trying, though, so there's honor in that. Sound body, sound mind. These things are important in the long run, we hear.

But our issue here isn't how you look or what you're trying to do about it. Our issue here is the lack of honesty.

"I can't do the crunches like that," you said. "I have short arms."

We are *so* using that excuse next time we -- wait. Waitaminute. Our arms don't straighten. You have short arms. We hate crunches, too. Maybe you're right, short-armed crunch complainer.

See? No punchline. No fat joke. We're not losing our edge, we just have an affinity for arms, is all. Or something.

***
Currently listening to: No One is to Blame (Howard Jones).