2004-08-02
ME, THE SKINNY, LITERATE, RHETORICALLY SENSITIVE IRISH KID: "Brady, do you want red label or white label whiskey?"BRADY, THE HUGE, WIFE BEATER-SPORTING, COWBOY-LOOKING MOTHERFUCKER: "What's the difference?"
ME: "I dunno." ::Checks labels:: "Oh, red label is 86 proof and white label is only 80 proof."
BRADY: "Better go white. I got church in the morning."
And that's why Brady is my friend.
Tomorrow, I leave for Nashville to see my film footage. Today, I was whining to Joe at work about how nervous I was, telling him about my past act of God failures, and he said, "What the fuck can you do now? So stop worrying about it." You know? ...That's arguably the simplest, most uncomplicated solution to my particular problem. And I never stepped back from my neurosis to consider it. And then he said, "One day you'll be thirty." And that confused me.
So I'm not going to worry. Additionally, I'm not going to sleep.
There are four - FOUR - girls moving next door into 7450B Grant Village Drive. While this excites me, I'm sure that it'll end up like the first day of a new class, when you're walking to the classroom and saying to God, "God, if you're really up there, I dare you to deposit some hot girls in my class. Preferably in some desks in close proximity to my own, so when they bend over to pick up a pen or pull a book out of a backpack, I can cast my eyes slighty south and take in the green thong line cutting through the tattoo of a celtic knot two inches above her butt crack. In fact, I double-dog dare you. Love, your pal, Andy."
And God proves that He exists. There are hotties. They sit by me. There are thongs and there are knots. And God said, "Now, actually talk to the hotties." And I say to God, "Wait, what?"
And this is why I have time to do things like update my diary. I could say that it's almost sad in a way that I've become a better writer, but then I'd have to kick my own whiny ass.
-Andy