20nothing.com

I was once asked how many people it takes to change a light bulb.
“None,” I responded. “You light candles.”
My attitude towards fixing anything other than a drink has always had a flavor of I Don’t Care mixed with I Don’t Know How. Some people do something about it. I just cry.

When you live by the philosophy that the Glass Is Half Full (of scotch), you never prepare for the worst. As far as I am concern, every situation I am ever in will turn out to be the epitome of perfect, with me being carried on a magic carpet in a parade along the equator. Subsequently, when anything other than my life falls apart, I simply adapt to it, sigh, and say, “Well, I guess I am living in the dark.”

I was once asked what material possession I couldn’t live without. The loophole being that I couldn’t name alcohol, cigarettes or sex.
“Brilliant,” I responded. “Because I don’t dare dream of a world where they done exist.”
Instead, I named my computer. Because, as a writer, it is my only tool. Sure, I could embrace the pen or the typewriter, but, as a writer, Facebook is my only tool of distraction I have and until someone invents the iTypewriter, I celebrate electricity.

When my computer exploded, I decided that the iMac is mightier than the sword.
“Fuck!” Was all I could say repeatedly, which I admit is shameful considering my passion. My Little Machine Of Ideas And Self Indulgence was expelling smoke and making a sound like a truck I once heard threatening to reverse over me, and I knew I was iFucked.
“I am going to light it on fire,” was my only solution when challenged to devise one.
Like an alcoholic who has just been told the bar has run out of Jack Daniels [story of my life], I curled up into a ball and cried. Unfortunately, the latest member of the I Blatantly Have A Type Club was picking me up to surf in Malibu and had called on my simultaneously broken phone to announce his arrival as my computer made sounds that can only be translated as “Fuck You For Never Baking Me Up.”
“Well,” I responded. To the inanimate object. “I am just going to have to go and look at a naked torso to make this situation better. Yeah. Check Mate.”

I walked to the door of my apartment and tried to unlock it. It wouldn’t.
“Fuck!” Was all I could say repeatedly, which I admit is shameful considering my experience in getting myself into near-unfixable situations.
“Where are you?” Malibu Matt called on my phone, a device that was whispering ‘You’re on idiot. Charge me.”
“I am locked inside,” I told him. “Apparently I am on ‘The Truman Show’ and this is the episode about how retarded I actually am.”

After looking for work and feeling like the least employable retard in all of the Northern Hemisphere, I jumped around my broken gadgets when I found out I had a job interview. I Google Mapped the location on my broken computer, confirmed the time on my malfunctioning phone and broke through my jammed door to get there on time.

I arrived exactly on time, which instantly made the day successful, and sat in a chair surrounded by girls with Gunts wearing shorts nine times too small. I rarely feel above other people [see above], but sometimes I can’t fight the reality that I am in the wrong place at the wrong time and in the dark.
“Are you here for the modeling casting or the job interview?” The personal assistant asked.
I looked at my matching shoes and thumbed my straightened hair. “The job interview.”
“Oh,” he responded. “You would have better luck with the modeling gig.”
Harsher words have never been uttered to me. And I was once broken up with by a Faux Pirate.
I sat in a chair for an hour waiting for the interview.
“So….” The personal assistant began. “Would you like to go to dinner tonight?”
Other than my computer going all Columbia Space Shuttle on me, there is nothing I hate more than confirmation that I would be more successful as a professional escort or, you know, hooker. On the plus side, it is always nice to know that if I just turned up to job interviews and accepted free dinners, I wouldn’t actually need a job.

“How did the job interview go?” My LA girl friend asked after I had walked out of an audition for porn, been serenaded by black kids singing Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” on a curb, tripped over my shoe on a crossing and bought two liters of scotch to pour down my throat and over my iMac.
“There isn’t enough alcohol in the world,” I responded. “I think I may kill myself.”
And, then, the power went out. I couldn’t even electrocute myself.
I kept on living. And then iCried.