July 4, 2001

Ah, I am proud to be an American!  Who’d have thought?

It’s a dark gray, menacing day here in dark gray Dublin.  I just endured the most pointless and ridiculous little interview this afternoon for which I walked for over an hour due to getting turned around.  I fully expected to walk down, find the place, and still have a good half hour to treat myself to something good to eat in honor of this, my proud nation’s birthday.  (See, I can propagandize with the best of them.  Pearl Harbor last night must have gotten patriotic nothing-speech into my head.)

No, instead I arrived tired and hungry to deal with this simpering little personnel manager mouse of a woman with a name I can’t pronounce (Malin) and dark, fine Nordic features.  I discover it is to be a temper for the Guinness Brewery bar staff, collecting classes and smiling to the staff.  She said, “I see you have a lot of experience here in design.  Tell me, how do you think this prepares you for the position you are applying for?”  Always “the position you are applying for.”  I interviewed with a form letter.  Maybe one day they’ll upgrade her software and she can integrate the relevant position into the appropriate conversation.  And THAT’S a job that’s hard to get?  I wanted to say, “Madam, I have drunk out of a glass before.  Therefore I have picked one up.  That seems to be the only qualification.  Therefore anyone past bottle-feeding is qualified.”

Such a formal fucking interview to pick up glasses left by fat tourists and drunk businessmen.  A pre-op heroin addict retard could do the job!  It’s not like I was applying to file and collate Ireland’s nuclear secrets!  However, Personelle-bot 3000 didn’t see it that way, and we talked interview speak about a job they would call me for if they ever have a need.  So I am put in the secretarial pool of pre-op heroin addicted retard glass collectors.  A dubious honor and an equally dubious occupation.  To think that I walked an hour for that.

Thus, starved, I stopped into a café, and got a shepherd’s pie with salad.  “Salad” in this country means 2 cups coleslaw, 1cup corn out of can, a handful of onion and a leaf of lettuce.  Maybe it’s cabbage.  It’s green, succulent, tasteless, and elusive anyway.  But as I got my food they half-pulled down the metal screens outside – though I was assured I needn’t rush, I didn’t fancy pissing the poor, underpaid, overworked woman behind the counter off, nor did I fancy getting imprisoned on Marrion Street for an evening, so I dutifully inhaled the food, which was actually rather nice, forked over the £3.50 and spun out.  Probably 10 minutes, including prep time.

I suppose it was the manager who slurred in that aggravating gravelly half-swallowed Irish accent that there was no hurry.  I’m sorry, but when that iron curtain falls, I feel a little rushed to get the fuck out of Berlin.

I still needed to rest my bones and celebrate July 4 in glutinous style, so I went (am now in) to Café Kylemore, one of the THOUSANDS of incarnations of the Café Kylemore in St. Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre.  Fuck the gallbladder, I had a quite delicious if frozen profiterole and a nice cup of tea.  For under £3.00.  So I’ve finally gotten my rest and am sitting here near the window (not by the window.  People hover like shopping center vultures for those spots.  Not even waiting for the dirty things to be cleared before adding their tray to the 3 or four previous) next to the two gorgeous, elegant, big-breasted Russian women oozing through their husky melodic language and definitely melting my cold little cynical heart.

I guess there’s no point in checking my email because EVERYONE will be out today having a good time.  So I am denied my one real, money-sucking, pleasure/vice/sin.

I’m still hungry, though that sort of makes me wonder.  I try not to eat a lot and stay away from fat, but this morning after toast and Weetabix I felt quite ill and hungry still.  Perhaps the fact that I literally walk for hours each day has raised my metabolism and I need more food.  I have been eating chocolate semi-regularly to no evident ill-effect.  But now I still feel a bit faint and hungry.  And I keep forgetting things – I go to the store and forget the one thing that I needed in the first place.  I just walked past the Irish Ferries office now, even though I wanted to stop in for a brochure so that I can get to France.  Maybe I need to eat more.  I am incredibly active all day.  Maybe I need to eat less and this is the old gallbladder giving me a hint.  One thing the whole whiskey episode taught me is that we have to pay attention to the hints offered by our bodies.  BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!!!

I just wish that I knew what I was being told.  This whole caring about my body thing is still rather new to me.  Plus, for god’s sake, I want to be trim and fit.  My morning and evening exercises seem to be helping my gut a bit.  But there’s still a fair amount of wobble about my midsection.  However, while sitting down today I was pleased to feel my leg muscles quite strong.  My shoulders aren’t too terribly awful either.

Still, I’m not bulking and bulging or near the bouncer/fear inspiring respect-giving point yet.  I’m sort of leaning down.  Which is rather nice in and of itself.  I would just love the fat to go away.  However, as I do not go to the gym or run marathons, it’s not likely.

But, then again, I’m never happy.  And I actually feel guilty a bit when I something that I feel may break the camel’s back and send me back to size 40, 42.  As it is, my pants are getting loose again.  Perhaps that’s not all such a good idea.  But I just want to be handsome, and being attractive is 99% of feeling attractive and being sure about yourself.  And as I don’t vomit my meals away or run a marathon every day or derive sick pleasure from the sensation of being hungry then I guess I’m okay.  Still, it is hard to see the world around you so fit and not feel jealous.  Especially when they eat whatever they want and remain the same.  Maybe I’m getting there.  Which is what I hope.  Just needed to pull the old metabolism out of the dumpster and kickstart it again.

Enough of that.  In any case it is the 4th of July and I am going to gorge myself on fatty food and chocolate and feel truly full and not drink so that there is no chance of ejecting this lovely shepherd’s pie and profiterole and the bar of chocolate or whatever I’m about to buy.  I think I want to try a Chunky Kit Kat.  Intrigued as to the chunkification process of such a sacred staple of the candy aisle.

Want to buy the roommates something for the 4th of July.  Thought about a can of that hideous Budweiser and a Snicker’s bar.  Derek informed me that he thinks Snickers comes from the British Marathon bar.  The Europeans think they were first with everything.  I submit it was the other way around.  Anyway, there’s no use arguing with Derek once he’s decided.  Besides, he hung this random American flag from the pile of crap against the wall in the sitting room in the window for the world to see.  So he’s far in my good graces.

I’ll have to find some other cheap, American food.  I thought a big bag of french fries, but if I had to order them as “chips” then it just wouldn’t be the same.  Sort of perverted from birth.  Fried chicken?  Pizza with corn?  Curry burger?


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