Fantastically shitty. September 18, 2007

Work yesterday was hard, hard and also hard.
 
I have never talked so much in my entire life. I have never smiled so much in my entire life. I have never been so stressed in my entire life. I have never inhaled a package of Nutter Butters for lunch so fast in my entire life.
 
I got out of the subway at 9pm with my twenty-five pound bag in one arm and the custom signs my assistants accidentally left behind because sometimes they are NOT VERY DETAIL-ORIENTED in the other and I actually contemplated climbing into the fountain at Columbus Circle and drowning myself.
 
But then I thought of the pile of chocolate chip cookies sitting on the counter and I thought to myself, “wait a second, maybe life is worth living.” (Yesterday was an all-cookie, all-the-time day which is disgusting. I am disgusting.)
 
Yesterday morning started fantastically shitty, actually. After I got out of the shower, I searched my closet for my favorite pair of Seven jeans, my very first ones, the pair that made me realize that an ass isn’t just an ass when it’s in Sevens.
 
I couldn’t find them in the pile of jeans on the shelf in my closet. I searched a few more places and slowly, like death via poison that moves like molasses through the body, I started to realize that I couldn’t find the Abercrombie jeans that I have prized since high school (that still, miraculously, fit), the Citizen jeans that I wear when I’m feeling skinny, the Joe’s jeans that I wear when I’m feeling fat, the True Religions that I heart so very much…
 
Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
 
I searched the entire apartment and could not find any of them. I even looked in the bathroom, convinced that maybe - in a fit of moving induced insanity - I misplaced AN ENTIRE PILE OF JEANS IN THE CABINET UNDER THE SINK.
 
But no. Do you want to know what I think happened to the ENTIRE PILE OF JEANS?
 
I will tell you.
 
In what I thought was an act of brilliancy, I stuffed many of my clothes into black garbage bags since I was only moving one floor down and there was no need to pack everything all nice and neat.
 
The problem? When you’re moving, you have a lot of trash. And where do you put that trash? Oh, I don’t know, maybe into some BLACK GARBAGE BAGS, perhaps.
 
We threw out a lot of black garbage bags when we first moved in. There was something deeply cathartic about sending those black garbage bags down the garbage chute. With each and every one, the place felt less like a cluttered shitstorm and more like our place.
 
Except, now, I’ve realized…we accidentally incinerated (or whatever they do to the garbage; I’ve never asked) close to $1,000 worth of denim. Maybe more. I can’t bring myself to think about each and every pair that is gone. Well, no, actually I can’t remember each and every pair that is gone, which leads me to believe that maybe this was a sign from God.
 
A sign that maybe one shouldn’t have more jeans than one can remember and maybe one shouldn’t buy expensive fucking denim because it is just as easy to throw out as cheaper denim.
 
Hey God: lesson learned, ok? But please, don’t touch the shoes. For the love of…well, you…I am begging.
 
It was one of those days, yesterday was. It sucked. Please take a moment of silence for all of my long lost denim. Rest in peace, dear wallet-busting, ass-shapers. Rest in peace.