So a group of friends and I were sitting in some craptastic bar last night and I was the only one NOT Facebooking at the table. I felt disturbed. Because really? Has it finally come to this? We are actually NOT shut-ins who stay at home wishing they could be out on a Saturday night having fun and mingling with people. We actually were out and there was some potential for fun. But no. We sat there trying to find the video of Adam Savage spreading his butt cheeks and commenting on people’s Facebooks. I guess at least we were together. I suppose it might be similar to the concept of mutual J-O buddies—at least you’re not really alone. But does it make it any less sad? Part of me wants desperately to deactivate Facebook because I think it’s actually detrimental to life, love, happiness and connectedness. But can I unplug myself? Will I feel like I’m missing out on a whole social scene everyone (even my own father) subscribes to? These are all very good questions.

I’m not sure why I’m feeling so misanthropic these days—just a short while ago I was partying it up in Morro Bay, CA, making sausage and dedicating 12 hours to drinking and meeting local eccentrics. And now…this. It might have started when my eye doctor told me that despite my believing that my vision has gotten worse, I was fine and that my blurred sight was “subjective.” I knew hysterical blindness would strike me sooner or later.

Or I guess my general grouchiness could have begun Friday. After hours of waiting in lines and hearing and experiencing people’s complaints and woes and aggravations, I finally managed to hail a cab in front of the Hall of Justice. A pretty African lady cab driver stopped and I asked her to take me to Polk and Golden Gate—a seemingly well-recognized intersection in this small, small city of ours. She immediately zoomed off in the wrong direction and as soon as I noticed, she turned around to ask me if I could tell her how to get there. I managed to navigate her in at least the right direction. We were speeding recklessly through the Tenderloin when we came to a light and some black dude in an Audi asked her to roll down her window and so she did. “When you gonna let me ride you?” he asked romantically. She giggled and sped off and turned around to tell me she thought he was cute. At the next stoplight he said, “It’s not too late.” Over the next two stoplights she managed to give him her phone number and basically set up a date. I asked her to let me out early. I was disappointed in my pretty lady cab driver—that was entirely too easy. For whatever reason it put me in a terrible mood.

Wait no…maybe this jerky rage in me began a couple weeks ago with that temp they hired to replace Esteban who had fallen off his bike and broke his crown. He really did. So, we called up our usual go-to guy, the Temp. A corpulent man, he came in wearing different colored sweats everyday. He did, however, manage to wear the same Indiana Jones-type hat and satchel. Anyhow, the usual course of events: get in on time, take off shoes, root around in bag looking for book, walk in stocking feet to the bathroom down the hall and be gone for about 20 minutes. I could set my clock to the rumblings of this man’s tummy. This was pretty disturbing to have to live through. The last day he was there, he apologized for not seeming himself—he had eaten too much sugar the day before. This might explain his moans and groans. But the sucking sound? I turned around when I heard some sucking sounds and he explained he had cut himself with his own fingernail while peeling an orange. He came over to my desk and squeezed his finger to show me that he was, in fact, bleeding. I don’t know. He entertained me and was nice enough, so maybe he didn’t contribute to my miserly condition. Need answers.

I like to think I’m generally upbeat and a lover of life. So why this newfound dread? Could it be because my brother just told me I could get a job in Vegas as a cocktail waitress—in OLD Town? Nah, I have no clue but I just heard a story that cheered me up some. Wow that sounds a little manic. My grandparents recently made a trip out to visit their house in Mexico. My grandmother has funky feet that hurt her all the time. It is possibly due to her severe high heel habit. The orthotics salesman told her she needed to see a doctor for her issues. “You seem like an honest man,” said my grandpa, “who do you recommend?” So the man told my ever-trusting grandparents that most of his clients go see some nuns in some sanitarium. The line to see the sanitarium’s doctor was far too long and my grandfather, not blessed with patience, decided to bypass that altogether and instead go straight to the farmacia. After listening to my grandmother’s foot-related woes, the nun recommended a bottle of holy water. “How much?” “Depends on which size you want.” “We’ll take the biggest size you have.” I guess my granny dunked her feet in this water when they got home and my grandfather beheld some kind of miracle because there she was—walking without pain. I think she plans on going back there to visit the doctor who will give her some special blessed oil. This oil promises to turn it all around for her. I might ask her to bring me a large sized bottle.

In the meantime, I’ve dumped Facebook for 1 month as a sort of test of my will. Imm’a do it.