By the time four o' clock rolls around I am pretty much through with work. I get paid to stay in the office for about another two hours, but I'm exhausted after six grueling hours of answering emails, checking purchase orders and perusing AwfulPlasticSurgery.com. Besides, the outcome of any request or decision made so late in the day wouldn't matter until the following morning, so I find it perfectly acceptable to mentally check out. Most of my co-workers run to Starbucks or out for a cigarette break under the pretense of caffeine or nicotene actually helping them sealing that last minute deal or miraculously speeding up the clock. I prefer to use these precious hours for my personal endeavors - like cruising Craigslist for lucrative part-time gigs so I can pay off my Visa card. Most of the work that piques my interest either sounds kinda sketchy (Make $500 a day working from home...on the internet...in your panties); Or seems like way too much effort for the measly wages. When Craigslist fails me, I often fantasize about writing an edgy, inspirational memoir-ish novel about how I succeeded in completing a 350 page tour de force during my office downtime. Each page would be about whatever random thoughts were floating through my head at the moment - and I was off to a pretty good start until i proofed it and realized I'd gone from erratically talking about the joys of writing to wanting a new haircut to strengthening my Keigels in the first two paragraphs.
One afternoon activity where my lack of focus is not a problem is cyber-hunting. I get transfixed for hours online searching for a sale pair of over-the-knee boots, mentally masturbating over delicious online menus and keeping tabs on people from my past- mainly those people from my past who I slept with. Because I am single-handedly fighting the crusade for preserving traditional social skills, I refuse to join Facebook or any other "social" networking sites that would make my people search tremendously easier. Please forgive me for opting to periodically call or email the long lost friends (who I still care about) instead of posting, "Remember me from Mr. De Los Santos' Level B spanish class in 1988?" and expecting to rekindle some flimsy relationship I probably never had. I'm not too keen on the idea of someone cyber-hunting me either, which is why if they do they're gonna have to put in some work on Google like I do.
Yesterday I googled my most recent ex and surprisingly quite a few links popped up about him. I immediately hated on his seeming popularity. Sixteen out of 171,000 results with both first and last name matches?! But, upon closer inspection I realized the first page of results yielded websites created about himself by himself. I opened the first page, which bore his most recent namesake (but the same name he went by when we were dating), and that led to a page of other sites, each one using a different moniker. He considered himself either a chameleon or a spy, so he went by various names- much like the devil.
The first page I visited led to a free download of his debut album, "Remy Sundae." I refused to download the album because one of the ridiculous reasons he gave for dumping me was that our eight month relationship was too much of a distraction for him while he created his funky, hip-hop harmonious noise. That could've been a viable excuse had he not been concocting this musical masterpiece for the past twenty years. Besides, I didn't want to boost his ego by having him thinking he had supporters enjoying his music.
Next I was directed to his first single's video, which was a four minute montage of abstract views of the Brooklyn bridge, unflattering extreme close ups of his mug, and some random chick, who I'm assuming is his new girlfriend since the lead female role of his first video was once promised to me. After viewing the video seven more times, i really wanted to share it with my my girlfriends so that they too could enjoy a hearty laugh at his visual triumph. However, once again, I didn't want him getting the idea that he had actual fans when his video counter miraculously switched from three to ten (my extra hits didn't count since they were from the same computer).
I continued on to one of his many blogs, "Free From F," in which he warns readers through arbitrary pseudo-radical diatribes of the imminent dangers of things beginning with the letter "F," most notably faiths, fructose and fat chickens. He keeps the postings short since he thinks his terse musings are super potent and packed with ponderous data and nutrients.
When I could no longer stand reading about fatal fromage, I clicked on one last link to feed whatever sadistic part of my brain that was craving ex-BF updates, and my urethra leaked. He had the nerve to create an e-commerce site selling his own paraphernalia. To be clear, this was not an online garage sale or e-bay-type setup where he sold old sneakers or bongs. On this site, a customer could shop for graphically monogrammed tee-shirts and baseball caps with HIS initials. Initially, I was under the impression that this sort of thing was usually reserved for celebrities, but in retrospect, I can't even recall Britney hawking "B.S." shirts (though I'd get it if she did). Jay-Z at least has the brains to spell out his highly recognizable initials for those dying for an item with his name. And my ex's initials aren't nearly as profound as MLK or JFK- nor as interesting as XYZ. How narcissistic does one have to be to think that anybody other than his nana would spend $24.99 plus shipping on a shirt with some anonymous initials on it? Unless he's trying to add fashion designer to his repertoire, this behavior is unacceptable.
Then I thought about it and would not have been surprised in the least if he was trying to become a fashion designer. What was left? He's already dropped an album and a video. Might as well make like Beyonce and become a triple threat by adding apparel. One of the traits that first attracted me to him was his passion and "I can do anything" attitude. Ironically, that same quality ended up driving me nuts when every cockamaime idea either one of us thought had to come to fruition. "I hate the effing trains," I'd gripe after my half-hour trek to his house took a full hour due to mysterious smoke conditions on the tracks. "You need to stop whining and start a blog about what's wrong with the MTA," he'd defiantly retort.
"These fries are soggy," I'd casually observe while eating. "You should go to the supermarket, buy some potatoes and make your own fresh fries," then he'd persist, "You could package and sell those fries and make a shitload of money...You need to get on your grind, B."
I could definitely imagine him abhorring every song on the radio and taking action by making his own music. That would certainly explain his Itunes library filled with over 2000 of his own tunes. Maybe that CK shirt just didn't do it for him, hence designing a shirt with his own letters. Good for him. Perhaps if I had the same drive, ambition and free time (he was underemployed), my manuscript would be complete by now, or I'd be $8000 richer from that Craigslist egg donor posting. Who knows what I could achieve if I just up and did something and followed through with it?
ADDENDUM: I could've wrapped it up nice and sweet with that last paragraph, but I wouldn't be completely true to my HATER self. I would like to add that while my ex boyfriend's determination and demented visions of grandeur might be somewhat admirable, I still think he made music, videos and evil blogs to divert him from more pressing matters like working a "real" job and taking care of his woman (me). And if 2000 songs are made but nobody is around to hear them, then is it really music? Please refer to the tree falling in the woods scenario to make sense of that question. And there's nothing wrong with making items with your name on it in arts and crafts class for your own personal pleasure, but it is ostentatiously arrogant to try to sell them to a public who doesn't even know you exist.