I enjoy drinking wine. Vino pairs well with food, even as well as experts claim. I just can't stand talking about it.
Like one of those Gone Wild Girls, I took my shirt off in the bar to a cacophony of popping flashbulbs. “Okay James, suck in your gut and make a six pack.”
I’m moving in with the first man who ever kissed me. Three months ago my current roommate asked me to move out on account of he wants his girlfriend to move in.
My resume reads like the list of ingredients in a pack of cigarettes. Most of the components are toxic or poisonous, and none seem to go together in any kind of purposeful way.
<p>I stalk my prey downwind and uphill, crouched, muscles taut. A real predator is never anxious nor hurried, not even at full sprint. I lay silent in the reeds, waiting for my quarry to err. That’s when I strike. I’m a hunter. Job Hunter. </p>
<p>We went to see <em>The Avengers</em> on opening day, buying Fandango tickets the morning of and arriving at the theater well ahead of time. I had been looking forward to this for a long time, and I’d be shot in the back before I settled on substandard seating for a film of this scale. I had to see these inimitable heroes on screen. I consider myself one of them.<br />
We are the soldiers of sustenance, well-versed in our individual roles and unified by a blanket sense of urgency. In one moment I lead the fray. In the next, I am dragged off the floor for a word with Chef.
<p>“...what I want and all my days I pine for is to go back to my house and see my day of homecoming. And if some god batters me far out on the wine-blue water, I will endure it, keeping a stubborn spirit inside me, for already I have suffered much and done much hard work on the waves and in the fighting. So let this adventure follow.” — Odysseus, The Odyssey<br />
I can usually tell if a restaurant is going to be shit right away, but this place toed the line. The restaurant was perched by the sea in Bodega Bay, CA, the famous locale of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds.
I learn patience. I stop sleeping at work. I talk to HR and admit that the overnight is killing me. I stop charging what I can’t afford. I admit that this is a marathon and not a sprint.
Chandler is my hero. In him I see a sad soul, standing desperately against the storm, parrying blows artfully with sarcasm and cynicism, keeping his feet despite his compounded shortcomings.
This is hell week, eight straight work days in the hotel. It's a scheduling anomaly, the bi-product from honoring the time-off requests of co-workers. I'm happy to do it—but not without my sleep.