blah-blah-blah-BLECHHHHHH!

I like making small talk about as much as I like the Entourage themesong. Let's get to the point; let's get to the Grenier-banging and partying. Same deal. The only "precursor-activity" that's worthwhile is either oral sex or maybe rolling j's before concerts. To me it's about the value. Orgasms and lighting up mid-floor during a Zeppelin cover offer lofty benefits simply not found in weather chit-chat or some raggedy-ass second-grade picture of your kid. I used to be able to fake giving-a-fuck, but it seems my distaste for mundanities has surpassed falsified politeness.

I ran into this bro from an old job on the train last week at about 8 a.m. and it was just awful. Murderous, even. Like, the kind where I wanted to murder myself just to escape. He wouldn't stop talking about sales goals and business hierarchies to which I never even really paid attention to when I worked with him, let alone on this hotass morning while I'm curdling booze through my system and trying to get in some good tunes before sidling up to my dumb desk** all day. **I know I keep saying this. It really is a very stupid desk. It's a shitty old monitor propped up on an OfficeMax paper lid. Guess who propped it up? Me. Myself. I had to crawl and put wires back into the right spots in the back. I mean...this couldn't be stupider.**

Amidst this suited auto-drabble, I wondered some things. As he swirled his always-be-closing hypnoses into my eyes, did this dude pick up my yearning to vomit apathetic bile upon his small doilie in that weird pocket? Stifled in my esophogous, each mention of commission tiers or outbound calls curdled the yellow liquids and they started to surface. I focused on Old-Man-Mural as we departed DePaul as if it was the horizon, and tried to calm my disgruntled insides. We swept south from Fullerton and it was my turn to talk. Great. I had soooo much to say and my iPod was so not dangling from one-ear. You know the one-ear move. The, if-I-just-leave-one-earbud-in-they'll-only-talk-for-just-a-minute-and-get-the-hint-...-oh-shit-they're-not-stopping, blues.

I told him about my shitty desk and said I was "keeping busy." As if idle hands really were the devil's playground, he literally patted me on the back, and just like a baby over Momma's shoulder, I felt the upheaval en route. Full-knowing that I worked downtown and since we were only approaching the Armitage stop, he weird-waved goodbye to me as I burst through the train-doors, exiting like a salmon in a mid-Autumn rush to drop eggs against the current, and completely barfed everywhere. Like...everywhere.

I tried to find a trash can, but they all had those pointless caps on top. I started to revolt last night's conventions into one at first and got legitimately sprayed back in the face, to which, i just lost my shit. Barftown, all over this platform. I spun dizzily to catch a breath and balance over the railing at the edge of the deck, only to go for just a few more rounds of bile-dislodging. Don't worry, the construction site below wasn't populated yet because it was too early, but those gents had a real treat coming their way when they showed up strapped in.

The most revealing part of why I'm fucked up, is that I thought the worst part of all of this is that, in the aftermath, since I was going South to get to work and bailed off my ride, I was on the WRONG SIDE OF THE PLATFORM to go home. Duh, I wasn't going to work. I had puke in my own weird pocket (sans-doilie). Truth be told, and small-talk aside, I hated this stupid monkey-job and I saw this as a clear opportunity to go home, pack it up, and watch Bill and Ted.

I called off work, and it ruled. Not long thereafter my contract expired and I decided not to go full-time since ... well, obviously I didn't belong there. They fucking loved small-talk there. When the job->drinking -> hangovers ->small talk induces vomiting -> calling off work ->happiness...i think we can just skip the middle-man altogether and go straight to drinking and happiness. Well, a girl can dream. I'm poor as shit! But I don't have to talk about the Accounting lady's son's first gay pride parade (snoozer), Millie's cat (dumb), or (no shit)"how awesome Chicago summer is" with nerds, and that alone is worth its weight in gold. Auf Wiedersehen, small talk; you've always been an asshole.