Twenty More Minutes
An online journal of the nightly (and daily) nonsense endured by a (former) bouncer at two of New York's most popular nightclubs.
Revenge is a bitch to sit and want. I’ve had to learn this the hard way over the past few years. Someone does something to you, you figure out what that something is – and the true extent of it – and then you want a piece of that someone, but you can’t have it because Johnny Law says you can’t. The frustration can rip your guts apart if you let it.
I miss being in funny environments – and having jobs where people are funny. I’m talking about really funny, and not the kind of bullshit funny you’ll find in offices, where you can’t say anything really funny because you have to watch every little thing you say. I’m still not used to that. Sometimes I say things, and people stare at me like they can’t believe I just said what I said. When people do this, they lose me. If this reaction is real, and what I’ve said is shocking to you, you’re not my kind of guy. If it’s fake, you’re an asshole. I used to think I was the problem. I don’t anymore. I’m really not that off-color. Compared to where I've been? Fuck. Come on.
This is going to sound ridiculous to those of you who actually work for a living, but you’re getting ten minutes of “work” out of me with this post. It’s my version of rehab. I’m been monumentally undisciplined lately with regard to doing any writing outside of what I have to do for work, so the idea here is to sit down and get ten minutes of uninterrupted “pleasure writing” in the books. I’m forcing myself to do it.