Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Foie Gras Is For The Birds, And From The Birds - or - Easily Crushable Dreams

I got real sick late last week. I had to stay home from work on Monday. Actually, I went to work and left 35 minutes later, after everyone who worked there asked if I had been punched in the face the night before. I guess I looked kinda rough; blood shot eyes, stuffy nose, sore throat, bright green clumps of phlegm dripping out of my face. It was gross. I left work, only to return the next day to a genuinely concerned boss. “Do you feel 100%?” Nope. “Why did you come in?” I need the money. “You have sick days. Go home, sleep and feel better.” Does that mean I got paid for sleeping yesterday? “7.5 hours. You don’t get paid for lunch.” I didn’t eat lunch yesterday. “And you didn’t get paid for it, either.” Before this job, I have never had a job with sick days, I usually just had to make up the time later in the week when I didn’t have any free time anyway. It made me realize something.

I want the life. I want the good life.

I want all the good stuff the world has to offer. I want the job. That great job that pays so much money for such little effort. The job that demands respect, and looks great on a resume and a business card. Something socially conscience and authoritative. CEO of saving the world. I want the girl. The Bond girl. The good girl turned bad girl that would walk out on you in a second if she sees fit, or leave you tied up for days with no food or water, but at heart is still a good girl. With perfect eyes, perfect hair, perfect legs and a secret that could destroy you and everything within a four-block radius. I want the house. That huge one with the great view that you drive past every day on your way to work and it makes you gag because you know there are rooms in that monstrosity that are never used but are filled with stuff that you hate just so there is stuff in there. I want the huge closet with the rows of suits, the racks of ties, the slickest tee-shirts and those untouched spandex workout shorts. I want the prescription sunglasses, the impromptu trips to Hawaii, Europe and Jersey, the perfect suntan, a gold chain given to me by a dead hero of mine and a monkey head paper weight. I want shoes with real arch support and a pair of dogs that follow every command including, “fly”. I want the lobster, the duck and the veil, all on top of each other with a toothpick through them. I want skylights in every room I enter and canned applause to play when I walk into a room. I want the sound of whale songs mixed with luxury car engines to lull me to sleep at night and women in veils, with first names that start with three consonances or three vouls, to fan me with banana leaves while I sleep. I want Foie Gras from a goose that has only eaten Foie Gras. I want a catapult in my back yard, next to life sized chess board with midgets in costumes as the pieces. I want artwork on my walls, a stocked freezer in the basement and room for two in my shower. Two elephants. I want to wake up in the morning, put on a white fuzzy bathrobe, pour a cup of coffee, walk out onto a huge patio overlooking the ocean and say, “ahhhhh, what a morning.” I want my blood to heal the blind. I want my hobbies to include kite surfing, stunt aeronautics, lounge act, baby seal advocate, and professional smirker. I want to own a solid gold something ridiculous, like an ironing board or garage door opener. I want my poop to sell on E-bay for more than the price of the food that I ate to make it. I want the good stuff.

I guess this “sick day” thing kinda got to my head. That, and the all the cold medicine. I didn’t take two days off in a row, I worked today and I feel much better, but not as good as I would feel if I had the good stuff.

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