There was no time to write yesterday, so I'm using some free minutes this morning to cobble together an entry. At least the weekend is here, in eight hours I can collapse into the welcoming arms of Saturday and Sunday.
Here I sit in Chinese class, having just completed the oral portion of my final exam. I think I did well. Last night I was up studying and working past midnight to prepare for what promises to be a packed day. A lot of things work the same, you know? When you're grocery shopping and you're not ready to checkout, the registers are always empty. Of course, as soon as you're done and want to pay, every line is four heaping-baskets of people deep. It's the same with work. You can have a few days of "coasting," but then days like today come around. The customers are here, it's the final exam in Mandarin, and I've got a huge deliverable (I know, what a dumb word) that's due. What's worse, I can't stay late to get it all done because tonight is the annual office Christmas party. You'd think me wholly consumed by work, the way I talk... but I really wouldn't classify myself as a wage-slave or burgeoning office-politico... just some dude who'd rather be camping but needs money.
The other day I was in the men's room peeing out the coffee I had for breakfast, and I started thinking about the peeing process. Based on other dude's behavior in the men's room, it seems peeing is almost a ritual to some. It got me thinking about my process. I'm not too particular about it, but I do notice that I have some standard "motions" and "postures."
I saunter up to the urinal with a cocksure gait ala John Wayne, staring it down with a menacing look, just to let it know that my pee means business. At about a pace-and-a-half from the wall I unleash the heat, ahem, unzip. As I arrive in the pee-position, I plant the feet squarely facing the wall, as if I were bracing for gale-force winds. Planted firmly, I then wrestle for roughly thirty seconds with the damn hide-the-hole flap in my boxers... struggling to pull back the overlapping layers of fabric and bring the stallion forth from his stable. At this point, the left-hand swoops in to ensure the pants stay clear of any stream-stray by holding the zippered opening wide. The right hand stabilizes the immense weight of my manhood, and for some strange reason the middle finger hooks itself under my right nut. I make sure I distribute my processed coffee evenly around the urinal, lest the powerful jet erode the ceramic and power through to the women's room behind the wall. When all is done, there's a little jiggle and then we step away and wash the hands.
Really, why? I apologize for writing that... I got carried away.
Should I be embarrassed that I watch the OC with the giddy enthusiasm of a teenage girl? I've even been known to shriek with joy when Summer and Seth flirtfight. I don't even care.
I have no more time. Have a nice weekend people.