"GM TONY, let me know when on the way"
I guess I wasn't fired after yesterday's e-tantrum.
Bummer.
Looks like I'll have to give them my two weeks notice then.
It's painfully obvious that I can't keep doing this.
I made an egg scramble with grape tomatoes, baby asparagus, fresh basil and swiss, and reached out to more possible employers. I still haven't heard about the writing position.
It's beyond frustrating at this point.
I showed Lauren the piece I wrote last night for The Annoyance newsletter.
Here it is:
My name is Tony. I'm one of Mick's improv pals.
If Mick were writing today's newsletter I'm sure he would be happy about how rad and gnarly summer is. Plus the gorgeousness of the heatwave. "Bitchin'!" he would write. But Mick isn't here. He's on a cruise ship. Selling out again. This is how he can afford all those fancy leather house music shoes (but can't seem to afford socks to wear with them!).
However I am not Mick. I don't rollerblade everywhere. I don't mooch Mountain Dew off of my students and I don't use binoculars at church. And unlike Mick, I hate summer. This summer in particular has become a steaming sack of mutilated genitals. Let's say Tommy Lasorda's mutilated genitals.
I was trying to think of one positive thing about the mutilated genitalia of former Los Angeles Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda. Maybe the mutilated genitalia of Tommy Lasorda could be used as a puppet in an anti-drugs puppet revue for troubled teens. Oh, but if a teenager is hooked on drugs, it's probably too late.
What if Baseball Hall of Famer Tommy Lasorda's freshly mutilated penis and charred scrotum were used to plug up the nasty gash (hold for laughter) in that BP oil blooper? Oh but wait, that problem has already been solved and we've all moved on.
Jesus cunt. I can't think of one single good thing about the crudely vivisected headless shaft and desiccated testicles of Tommy "The Dugout Wizard" Lasorda. Why do people love his mutilated genitalia so much?
Lauren didn't necessary follow my scattered trail of entrails humor.
I imagine she wouldn't be the only one.
After some research, I noticed that past Annoyance newsletters weren't so blue.
Or so unfunny.
God, I was exhausted and between naps when I wrote that last night.
Fuck, and I had already sent it.
I got bummed out a-fucking-gain.
Ultimately, Mick was able to write the newsletter and I was spared another round of public embarrassment. But it felt shitty to put manure in a friend's hand.
It seems everything I've done in the last month has not been good enough.
I left the house dejected at 1oam and did the weekly mail and payroll runs out to Hermosa.
At 11am I walked into the office.
My boss was the only one there.
Quitting a small company is more difficult than quitting a corporation.
You know everyone on a more personal level.
My boss took over the company about four years ago.
We had about ten drivers and ten bikers, three dispatchers, and a payroll lady.
He was married.
Now he's divorced.
We have about four bikers and four drivers, one dispatcher, and auxiliary folks like Arturo and the payroll lady who dispatches badly.
It's not going to get any better.
He's desperate for drivers.
That's why I didn't get fired for yesterday's nonsense.
I was getting ready to give him the bad news.
"So did you see anything yesterday?" he asked excitedly, referring to the person who jumped off of the Oakton overpass onto the Edens Expresseway yesterday.
"No, just some skid marks."
That killed that conversation.
"How are you doing on drivers?" I asked.
"Not good."
I told him I would tell everyone I knew that the company needed drivers, but that I was giving him my two weeks notice.
He looked at me in the eye for a second and then looked down.
"Right when it's going to start getting busy," he tried.
It's not going to get busy.
Not like it used to.
And that was it.
On Friday, August 13th I will retire from messengering.
Officially.
No more coming back.
I have to leave the abusive relationship once and for all.
Lauren seemed the happiest about this.
"Do you feel a weight off your shoulders?"
No, I feel the weight of a new burden.
What do I do now?
Verdict: Loss
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