An Avalanche

I've got blogs. This is a new blog. It has no purpose.

Early to bed and early to rise. makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. But I work nights, so I'm going to remian a poor, stupid fat guy. Whatevs. It's late. I just got off my four to midnight shift, and can't sleep because I usually do midnight to eight. I was supposed to be in bed by two, but that hasn't happened. I'm downstairs, here, trying to be as quiet as possible, and it's just not working out, because I'm an oaf. A big fat clumsy oaf. And I also purposely ignore grammar while blogging to have a better "flow", so fuck off. Oh, I also swear.

I'm down here trying to watch some Netflix on my Xbox, which is like some Jetson's level shit, without making any noise. I'm also trying to read the news websites and Twitter and Facebook. I reach for the keyboard, and knock over my drink. "OH GOD DAMNIT!" Look for the paper towels, they're gone. Close my thumb in the cabinet. Run upstairs, like a ninja. Trip, on the stairs. Stub my toe on the wall. Knock the soap off the bathroom sink. Grab toilet paper. Run downstairs. Clean up spilled drink. Baby wakes up. Run upstairs. Baby's asleep. Run downstairs. Cat knocks something down, loud as hell. 'GET OFF THE TABLE!" Cat runs, knocking more stuff down. How the hell is the whole house not awake right now?

I'm hungry. They say it's never good to eat after eight, but whatever. I open the cupboard as the cat noisily vomits out whatever he had initially knocked over, and decide on the nutritiousness of Frito's left over from chili pie. With the precision of a brain surgeon, and the tenacity and motivation of a squirrel on methamphetamine, I gingerly reach into the cupboard. Like a ninja, I pull that bag out of there. It does not - I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH: IT DOES NOT FUCKING TOUCH A THING - and yet, some how, the jar of innocent looking creamy peanut butter comes flying off of that shelf like a whore poltergeist in heat, and tumbles down onto the dish rack, which is, somehow, packed full of pots, pans, and baking sheets.

WHAT THE FUCK?!

It tumbles down, spinning like a top, and collides with every metallic object on that rack. Every. Damn. Thing.  I, of course, let out a swear. But, since I swear so much in my casual everyday conversation - you know, at work - I use one of the swear words that my brain still considers to be an actual swear word, which, is not really a swear word at all. "BALLS!" which was promptly followed up by "FUCKING GOD DAMN SCROTUM SNATCHERS!" (That's right. If you've ever heard swears like this on Xbox Live, you were playing with NozeDive)

Some how, by some miracle, I manage to catch everything and hold them in place. I gingerly start to let go, testing the stability of this newly created crag of a pot and pan mountain, and marvel at the avalanche of silvery noise that, by all rights, should have awakened Cthulhu himself. 

But, no one woke up! So I just cut my losses, left the Jiffy where it lay, and take my Frito's into the living room. Do I feel good at this point? No. How do I feel? I feel like Jodi Foster on that pinball machine, that's how I feel!

So, you see, I am a klutz. The kind of person, who, upon trying to open a jar, can immediately and instantaneously coat the kitchen floor in shards of broken glass, brine, and pickle fragments. The kind of person that would accidentally cook their own hand (second degree burns suck). The kind of person who can break their own ankle by tripping over literally nothing.

Not the kind of person you'd want around your kids, since they, like glass pickle jars, are very, very fragile.

Did I mention I'm a father?

Also the kind of person you don't want in charge of anything dangerous, or that could put some one's life in the balance.

In the past, I have manufactured and detonated high explosives, rockets, missiles, and other projectiles.

I am an FAA certified pilot. That means I go to the airport, strap on an airplane, and blast off into the sky above your heads.

I used to work in a medical facility where I operated machines attached to people that, if they were to malfunction, or there was some operator error, could kill the "patient". (Sodium Citrate poisoning, air embolism, blood infections such as AIDS, you get the picture.)

And now, as in the past, I work in law enforcement, in the realm of in house security. I work on what is essentially a private police force in a scary apartment complex (ask me more about what I mean by 'scary' later). I am a patrol officer, and yes, I carry a gun. The man who once accidentally COOKED HIS OWN HAND is entrusted with a firearm in a law enforcement capacity.

It's not my place to question the judgement of those who put me into a position of responsibility. I mean, shit, those guys are fucking crazy.

Goodnight.