Wedding Diary

I want to go back to where nobody knew about Greatsociety so I can badmouth my bosses and co-workers without having to make bitchy little threads in member-only sections of the forums.

I used to believe, in those days, that GS was a combination of therapy and public service.  Therapy for me in that I could ramble on about how most of the people I encounter throughout the day are horrible, filthy creatures whose very existence causes me deep and irreparable harm.  A public service in the hopes that some lunatic 15 year old would stumble upon GS, put two and two together, order a gun through the mail, and then go on a shooting spree to wipe out all of the people who make my day Not Enjoyable.

Because I want my days to be enjoyable.  I don’t enjoy moody bitterness.  I want to float around on fairy wings and bask in the sun and talk to enlightened like-minds.  Don’t we all?

I think I should start a cult.  The Cult of Nacho.  Everyone be happy and shut the fuck up about your problems.  Nobody really cares.  It’s not interesting.  Your hardships don’t matter.

Though, perhaps, I’m just a bit too jaded.  Maybe if I had had a comfortable or even vaguely functional life, I’d be more respectful of other people’s problems.  But now, no, I just don’t want to hear it.  Being raped every night and burned by cigarettes would be better than trigeminal pain.  Trust me.  Or a childhood where everything was betrayed and nothing was peaceful.

What I’ve been doing for many, many years is, when people tell me their problems, I focus on everything that’s good in their life and think: Fuck you.  I didn’t even have the chance to have good things in my life (or properly enjoy them if they were available) until 2007.  I went right from abusive, horrific childhood to endless physical pain and drug-addled neurosis.

So I have all that silly baggage and two jobs that really are idiotic and insulting.  During the week, just lumpin’ customer service.  During the weekend, “hosting” weddings.  Essentially a glorified janitor.  That’s a dangerous combination:  Jobs that don’t challenge me and support fools and foolish behavior, and running a webpage where I can write about anything under a pen-name.  Though, of course, I’ve been outed a dozen times over.  Years ago, I denied any connection to Greatsociety whenever someone put two and two together.  Now I just sigh and say, yeah, what about it?

Yet I still feel compelled to censor myself.  Occasionally I do so under threat of HR activity.  Sometimes I do it just because I hate the fucking retards at my weekend job who bring it up whenever I badmouth them – even though they all have it coming and they deserve far worse.  These are people who are so soul-suckingly lonely that I catch them hard at work at 2am on Saturday when I’m closing up after a wedding.  A tiny non-profit member-based organization with 20 employees and you need to put in more than 40 hours a week?  My day job is a massive, national professional non-profit with a thousand employees spread between two buildings sitting on prime DC real estate and even the hyper-dedicated fucktards just put in 35 hours a week.  That’s dictated, mainly, by the higher ups.  Take it easy, live your life.

I can see coming in on a Saturday if, by chance, you spent the entire week at your desk playing Oblivion or something but, really, to work 12 hours on a Saturday into the early AM?  You have a problem.  You should probably be executed by the State.

My current trick, if I know someone is up in the offices, is to not warn them that the party’s over and then set the alarm.  That way, as soon as they get up to take a piss, the ear-shattering alarm system kicks in and, next thing you know, they’re spread-eagle on the ground with a dozen cops circling them with shotguns.  Also, there’s a $300 fine per false alarm.

When confronted by my boss, I say I swept the house for stragglers but, really, the offices are all closed and locked.  How am I supposed to know that an employee has locked themselves in at 2am on a Saturday?  Who does that, boss?  Does anybody in their right mind come to work at 2am on a Saturday while the house and grounds are closed to the public and rented out to a client?

Then that email circulates among the higher ups, who are all too stupid to read.  But my hope is that it sinks in at some level.  You all are sick and terrible people.  You all should drink bleach right now.

The only reason you should be at work at 2am is if you have a goal.  Like me.  My goal is to have sex with a girl on every single desk at my weekend job.  There are 14 offices in the old house, and maybe twice as many desks.  So I want to sit a girl down on each one and fuck her, and then hide the condom deep in the back of one of the desk drawers.  So far, I’ve only managed to have sex on three desks.  My old boss from when I started the job in high school (at the tiny gift shop), my current boss for the weekend job, and the executive director’s desk/chair (I came in his fern).

Sex at my weekend job is fun because you never know which damaged fucker is there working when no human being should be out of bed.  Plus, the old house is haunted.  Even I’ve had an experience there, which still bugs me today.  That’s another reason people should not be working at 2am, because when some motherfucker comes out of their office while I’m sweeping through the upstairs looking for passed out drunks, I’m likely to scream like a girl and blindly stab at their faces with my keys until they stop struggling.