May 17th, 2005

(no subject)

Ladies and Gents, you are currently reading the journal of someone with a drinking problem.


One of my first friends on livejournal was pillowhead. He was a twenty-something gorgeous artist with a tag he wanted to spread around the world and an absolutely tremendous alcohol problem. Pillowhead was great at keeping up a journal I later realized was perfect documentation of an alcoholic artist, and it interested the hell out of me. All his pictures were either of his manifested tag, or of his pretty face masking a completely wasted mind. Pillowhead had a problem, but it was amazing to read about.

I guess through the years, and my experiments with other drugs that I eventually found to be tiresome, I stumbled upon alcohol and continued Pillowhead's legacy. Completely unintentionally, I developed a tag that I slowly became obsessed with an wanted to print on every bulldozer and backhoe I saw. I started getting better at writing about my happenings in a way that justified their excellence, but were still a good read. I worked on my artistic style and developed a passion and found the things I wanted to persue. And I did it all while dipping into the liquor cabinet and carrying a leaky flask of whiskey with me at all times.

And I woke up this morning and realized that I had developed a good lifestyle and a bad problem. I had been drunk practically every night for the past couple of weeks, and thinking about whiskey was as appetizing as thinking about Tiramisu. Although I'd had fun, my every nights consisted of me and my best friends Audra, Ananda, Matt, Jack Daniels, and Jim Beam. Alcohol had never been a problem with me before. If I was going to get hooked on anything, I thought it was going to be ecstasy or percoset. But I soon realized that Pillowhead had something going when he hooked my interests so easily in his sloppy depictions of the night before.

So friends, I hope you have much appreciated my Pillowhead phase, just as I appreciated him before he fled the internet, met a pretty girl, and settled with his drinking habbits. As much as I'd love to invent a calorie free whiskey and a life of juicy written details of promiscuity, I must take my tags and my writing to a more sober place. I don't exactly know how to cut back on my drinking, because I've never been in a place like this before. If it's anything like quitting cigarettes, then I won't make it for more than four days. But I speeding down a dead end path, my inhibitions are low and my vision is altered and if I close my eyes I'll go off the road and get the spins, so I think I should slow down.

(no subject)

Foul Soap.

The day you quit your job is always destined to be a good day. Especially if you hated it anywhere near as much as I hated mine. And you may find this interesting, because I have not yet spoken of my place of employment for the last three weeks.

I worked at a soap factory. Yes. A soap factory is where soap is made, and that is where I worked. Today I realized the long list of interesting jobs I'd held, and this one was no exception. From amateur screen printing, to a teddy bear factory, and straight into manual labor at a soap factory, my brain has ventured into every fucked up employment situation one could dream of. And I think this one may have topped the list.

For some reason, soap is so important to this society that it has to be made twenty four hours a day. As a result, I was waking up at 5AM every morning to work until 4PM, when another shift would come in and work through the night. I worked ten hour shifts that killed my feet on concrete floors and my head amongst the ugliest, dirtiest, toothless people on the planet. I thought the Teddy Bear Company housed some bizarre people, but that was only until I was an official Twincraft employee.

There was about an 8th of the amount of teeth that there should've been in this place, and that was because brushing one's teeth obviously hadn't been a priority to 90% of the employees for the past thirty years. I worked with absolutely nobody my age, and only a few people with a full set of teeth and full-bodied hair. Everyone there was middle-aged and balding, and I ran into the same problem I had at all the other factories I'd worked at: I'm a girl. You see, not many young and somewhat attractive girls hit up factory work often, so when a warehouse of dirty and divorced men lay eyes on a fresh girl, there's bound to be disgusting comments in higher quantities than the soap they're packaging. There is a reason people work at factories their whole lives: it's because they're too repulsive and unsanitary to be working around the public. I could usually find shelter in the friendship of another young and attractive face my age that I could marvel in such oddities with, but here I had nobody. The only woman I became remotely close to was a 45-year-old woman named Mo who had an ass twice the size of the rest of her body and an obvious desire to be her 17-year-old daughter. That meant that for ten hours a day, I had balding men sharing gross comments relating to baby oil and my naked body when I wasn't around, and I had nobody to share revolted laughs with but a conveyor belt.

I played with soap all day long and ended the day being dirtier than I was when I'd gotten there. I spent all day having all the negativity in the air shoved down my throat until I felt like I would vomit. I swear, it was the most negative place I'd ever stepped into; you could tell that everyone there was so unhappy with their lives, and I had no wonder as to why: they worked ten hour shifts in a soap factory. Feeling overdosed by pessimism, I quit today. I didn't think I could take one more day of dirty men, dirty floors, dirty mouths, and dirty soap. You could never imagine how dirty a place that makes items for cleanliness could be.