Tuesday, November 16, 2004
11:30 PM
A Prisoner In My Own Home

I knew it wouldn't take too long. But what I didn't know is that pretzel crumbs would be the catalyst for the first one. That's my bad - everyone knows Bavarian-sytle pretzels are impossible to eat and not get all over. Crumbs get in the cracks and crevices of couches and chairs along with getting on the floor, the carpetless hardwood kind especially.

Looking forward to watching a Curb Your Enthusiasm re-run, I grabbed my box of pretzels and headed toward the living room. Earlier in the night I mentioned to Erin that it would be on later. Since she was also a fan of the show I figured we'd both watch it. However, she was glued to the tube for The Amazing Race, so I didn't think she would join me. She had moved into their bedroom to watch Race while I flipped around the channels.

I don't remember exactly how she said it but her message was loud and clear that I wasn't going to eat "that" on the couch. And she was right, especially because I had eaten such a pretzel last week and it probably landed on and in the couch and the chair. It's their furniture, it's their TV, their PC on their desk beside their filing cabinet with their pictures everywhere. If I was either of them I wouldn't want someone eating a messy fucking pretzel on their furniture whether they want to sell the shit or not. But I'm a stubborn German prick who's always up for a good shouting match. I rarely lose those thanks to the vocal cord gods.

But I knew it would be this way. I told everyone and their mother that it would be a miracle if we all survived 'till Christmas. That's over a month away and a cruise with Erin and John and their friends - yes even on a cruise and on land seperate from the continental United States - even the friends aren't mine. Sure I know them and have become friends with many of them through knowing John, but like the pictures on the wall, the towels in the linen closet, and the table in the dining room, they're not mine.

The argument wasn't that heated. She claimed that I never clean the place and I reminded her that I wasn't the one with the the domesticated zoo. Then it went to the who washes whose dishes and the typical roommate not pulling his or her own weight bullshit. That's some shit that I'm fuckin' sick of. Not from her or John or any of my laundry list of former roommates in particular. I'm sick of this way of life altogether. When I'm on the road, it's my show - literally. I drive how I want, where I want, while listening to what I want. I use as much of the covers or as many pillows as I want - or as the hotel will allow. Then I come home to be the third wheel and have to wait to pee or put a request in to have the TV at 4:30 p.m., clearly PTI time.

This isn't what 30 was supposed to look like. Sure, it would be different if my roommates were comedians or the Swedish bikini team, but they're not. And I'll even bet that if some hot blonde with a sexy accent pranced around this place in a thong I'd get sick of her dirty dishes and rice cake crumbs, too.

"Nice tits. Clean this shit up!"

But I just may have to suck it up through the end of the year. What a concept! Me shutting my fucking mouth and cutting back on the bitching and whining? Seems virtually impossible. But so does living in my own place on my laughable comedy income. Can you say a second or even a third job?

Then there's the parking tickets to pay off and the Christmas presents to buy. And yes I'm buying a few. I'm fuckin' sick of saying "hopefully next year I'll have money to get you something nice." If I keep up with the shitty attitude and horrible joke writing, I'll never buy anything but calendars as gifts. Or maybe if things go well I can buy them before they're 75% off and give them as actual gifts with wrapping paper and all the fixins!

Erin knew that I would write about this. Hell, I knew it way before her. I just didn't know when. She figured I would cast her in a bad light, but there's no need for that. Granted, this is my Website and I can write whatever I want, but why? Who really reads this shit? Nobody cares where I have shows or what happens in my life? Hell, I barely care where the shows are and since nothing good happens, I rarely fuckin' care. Like the pretzel crumbs, it's all on me. Did I think I'd have a married couple and their 4 pets as roommates as I approached 30? Not a chance. Okay, so it may seem like a great sit-com or lame reality show, but the only real reality is that it's my life and my fault that it's where it is.

I spent over an hour today watching 60-second clips from the new season of Comedy Central's Premium Blend that debuts this Friday night. Although I didn't know most of the comedians, I did know a handful. And while they're watching themselves on TV with all their family and friends gathered around to congratulate them, I'll be alone and bitter, wondering why my would-be clever take on hotel bathrooms hasn't landed me on television.

It's late and this has been one big rambling pile of shit. Even bigger than the two piles of cat shit on the floor near my bedroom yesterday morning. Time to remove the headphones that helped me "watch" some free DVD porn and get to bed. Such a classy guy I am. I wonder if Martha Stewart has it this good?