I took another 2.5 hour lunch today, but not for fun stuff like miniature golf and throwing stuff at cars passing on the highway. A good friend of mine, an old co-worker actually, emailed and told me that we should get together for another old co-worker's last day at my old company, PissFuckHellDamn Inc. Plus he had something on his mind and would like to talk.

Uh-oh.

Phrases like that from a guy friend typically run along the lines of "I'm in love with/slept with/dismembered your girlfriend," "I'm secretly in love with you and always have been," or "I'm divorcing the only chick I've ever been with that you liked."

Turns out that his new wife just miscarried their twins after 6 months of pregnancy.

Fuck.

You can probably tell by reading any of my entries that I can run a little emotional sometimes, and it usually leans toward the "angry" side of the spectrum.

I'm not angry now.

But... I... am... emotional.

This shit sucks.

My friend's not the most touchy-feely guy (I can be, but usually only do so when I'm trying to embarrass someone, I'm drunk, or both), but when he told me, I could almost feel what he and his wife have been going through. The grief, the loss, the adaptation, the adjustment to life.

I didn't have any answers. I had absolutely no interest in telling him something to make him feel better. I didn't want to sound even remotely optimistic because it wouldn't have been sincere. I had virtually nothing to say, because I didn't know what to say, other than what I felt.

I looked at him, took my sunglasses off so he could see my eyes, said, "Man... that sucks," and hugged him. He didn't expect it, and was kind of stiff, and tried to pull away after the "reasonable amount of time" as set by the Man Rulebook, but I held on to him for another minute. I was about to let him go when I felt him sniffle into my shoulder. Neither of us lost it, but he understood that I felt for him and it kind of sucked thinking of the possibility that he hadn't been hugged like that by the people that love him most. I know his family and most of his friends and I can't quite see them doing that.

I rarely encourage any actions by anyone who happens to read this diary, but I'm telling you now:

First chance you get, go to the ones you love the most and hug them. Not the half-hugs you get from your buddy's girlfriend/boyfriend, and not the man-to-man-golly-this-is-kind-of-awkward-stiff-head hug. No. Hug. Both arms wrapped around with your head touching theirs. Envelop them into you, giving every bit of yourself. Hug them for a while, and when it feels like you should let go...

Hug them some more.

Life is too fucking short to A) not tell those you love that you love them, and 2) feel even remotely hindered by social mores and standards.

Christ, look at ME.

I openly ridicule my office superiors, I cry during movies (Love, Actually got me last), and I look and smell like a 19th Century French Fur Trader.

And I hug my friends when they hurt.

Life isn't always great, but it's always, always worth living to the fullest.

Go. Live.

---

Done being sad and sappy, on to the STINKY front (Day 3 of Complete Lack of Cleanliness or Hygiene).

No hockey last night. Instead, 9-ball pool. I'm no shark, that's the Girl's area, but I'm not bad. I thought. Until I got my fucking ass handed to me.

By a giggly, bouncy, dingybatty chick. The kind of chick that converses with her friends in loud, loud voices for the simple reason that they wish to share everything about themselves with everyone in the bar.

BatDing: "Nice shot, ho-bag!"

BounceDing: "Hey, I'm not the one who's in love with my Doctor!"

BatDing: "Hey, he's gourgeous! And I'm not in love with him!"

Ladies, neither myself, nor all the men gathered at the bar, nor anyone privy to this conversation (everyone in the bar) give even 3 shades of a shit what you are talking about. If you want to get us interested in you, shut the fuck up. Kick some ass at pool, drink a beer with us, or pull your shirt up and smash your breastesses in our face.

What you're doing is annoying as fuck and only makes me want to grasp my pool cue between my legs (mimicking an enormous, pointy, decorative penis), take a big mouthful of beer, and spew it onto you while whacking you about the head and shoulders with my penis-cue.

And I hate to waste beer.

While absorbed in said ass-stomping and shaking my head at the fucktarded conversation, I smoked and drank beer.

And a did a shot (Red-Headed Slut).

And drank more beer.

And smoked some more.

And smoked and drank a lot more beer.

This got me a bit pissy and drunk, but no damage was done (by the penis-cue or otherwise), I'm self-disciplined like that.

We got home relatively early, so I didn't have to save time in my morning routine, but I am a scientist, and am still refusing to shower in the morning.

I've got one of my Super Hats on (thick and black-to hide things like sweat, dirt, and wayward tobacco spit), so it's fully able to handle the greasy hair.

I've stopped touching my balls as much, so problems with ball-stink have been minimized.

I don't go anywhere near my feet.

I'm not even going to talk about my ass.

The hands?

Yep. They still fucking stink.

Now, I've got the cigarette-beer-red-headed-slut smellin' hands, and they've got streaks of blue all over them.

The nicotine-smoke stank is handleable.

The beer and shot only made them kind of sticky.

So, I stick to things. Handleable.

The streaks come from the furious chalking of my cue I did last night in my futile attempt to stem the crashing tide of the Sea of Suckage that kept battering me into the white-sand shores of Suck Beach. Every time I thought I was riding the Suck wave out, another would hammer me back. Fucking Brutal.

I've decided that the beard has to go. It's not that I care that I can't grow decent looking facial hair, or that it looks like I'm mimicking that fucking thief Dilbert,or even that it itches so fucking bad. It's the simple fact that, while scratching the itchy matting on my face, my hands come dangerously close to my nose.

Not good.

My hands no longer smell like my hockey equipment, thank dog. That stench could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon, and I couldn't take it any longer. I've never fainted, but I came seriously close when I forgot about my handstink and rubbed my upper lip.

My legs shot forward into the walls of my cube, my head snapped back so hard my hat flew off, and I almost fell out of my chair as the seeping tendrils of a stench-worse-than-death assailed themselves on my nasal passages.

My more primal instincts kicked in and screamed at me, "RUN! Run Away!" but the logical side of my brain simply told me, "Dude, maybe you should finally wash your hands. I mean, this is for science and all, but it may be time to exercise the better part of valor."

Me: But Self, I haven't even alienated any co-workers.

Self: Yeah? What about the Girl? How do you think SHE's doing?

Me: She hasn't said anything...

Self: Idiot. You practically fucking bathed in the Brut After-Shave she loves and she never said a thing did she? DID SHE?

Me: Damn, I never noticed.

Self: It ain't like she's going to tell you that you fucking stink, retard. But, we're not getting any nookie, are we? ARE WE? Christ, Jenna won't even think you're sexy anymore if you keep this shit up.

My Self takes it kind of hard when my actions result in lack of sex or even lack of sexiness. I can understand that, I guess. He's right, but he's still kind of pushy sometimes. Prick.

*Sigh*

I'll shower tonight, and it will become part of my routine again.

*Sniff*

Good-bye Stinky Hands. I'll miss you.

And you too, Nasty Feet, we had some good times.

And you, Smelly Balls, I'll miss you most of all.

And you, Stank Ass... well, this is probably for the best for both of us.