I don't mean to brag, but since leaving Microsoft, my life became awesome-squared. I haven't been writing much lately because I know there are people out there who are all, "Oh, I wish I had Rory's life because it seems like he's always getting himself into fancy hijinks that end in some supermodel's pants."

You're right to think so, but I've been there and done that, and I've now moved on to a whole new echelon of gluttony and depravity.

For the past nine days, for example, I've been taking the liberty of horking up large quantities of sputum from the deepest pockets of my flu-tormented lungs. If you don't know what "sputum" means, I believe the street equivalent is "lung butter". Either way, it's a glob of greenish-blackish-reddish mucous brought forth from your moist breathing chamber by coughs and gurgles. Most of the time, the sputum (or "lung butter" if you will) has a great viscosity that makes the process a challenge. After a big evacuation, it's normal to look around, smiling and nodding, and then pump your fist in the air. You can also say, "Good one!" to recognize that this hork should be distinguished from the rest based on the volume of fluid purged from les poumons. Indeed, it is an accomplishment.

My flu started to run out a little on Monday, and it left with me little to do. For a week, the flu did, in good form, wake me up in the morning and keep me up at night. It never left my side. Or my lungs. Unless you consider horking to be the removal of the flu from your lungs. If that's the case, then the flu left my lungs at the rate of approximately three gallons per hour, all deposited in nearby empty ginger-ale bottles so I wouldn't have to get up.

It was foamy.

To fill the sputum-shaped hole in my life, I went back up to Seattle for the day yesterday. I needed to see my dentist so that I could hand her $500 for two fillings. I was going to get my golden grill on, but I'm unemployed. I couldn't even afford a plastic grill right now. Such is the life of a professional author, which is what I am now, provided "income" isn't required to be a professional at something.

I wasn't bothered by this at all. My dentist is hot. She's worth the drive and the cash, even if it represents and entire week's worth of meals. At least I'll have new mouthware with which to chomp the food I'll no longer be able to afford.

While up there, I picked up a few essential belongings from my pad in Bellevue. That was my midday recreation, and if you aren't jealous now, then just wait. It gets better.

I like to take every opportunity to alert the community to the inability of Seattle drivers to get from one place to another without exhibiting a gross lack of intelligence and self-awareness. This is in part to advise others on the potential for trouble out yonder way, but it's mostly because I'm mad and I want to punch Seattle drivers in their faces. I want to wear those rings that, spread over the fingers of my right hand, spell my name out with reverse letters so that, when I punch you in the face, you wear the mark of this beast on your forehead. I fantasize about about an entire city of terrible drivers all simultaneously picking at the "RORY" scab on their headfaces.

"I see you've met Rory."

"Yeah."

"Yeah. Me too. Gave me this scab [pointing]."

"Ah."

Justice is served with a side of whoop-ass covered in fuck-you sauce.

Thanks to the ways of Seattle drivers, I spent eight hours on the road yesterday when I should have been able to complete my business in five. And this is with speeding and reckless endangerment thrown in for fun. I'm that guy who, when you're in bumper to bumper traffic, you see flooring it every few seconds to aggress the other drivers, asserting his dominance, and then dramatically swerving into another lane where he will enjoy an extra three foot advance over his previous spot, which he'll enjoy until thirty seconds later when the lane he left moves forward without him. Seeing this, he'll swerve back into his old lane just when it stops, and then the lane he just left will advance again, but he isn't going to fall for it this time, so he heads to the third and as yet unvisited lane where, upon his arrival, the other two lanes move up to freeway speeds, leaving him trapped in a line heading to the city's busiest freeway interchange, and one he'd rather avoid. Through this method, he somehow actually moves backward until, several hours after he's begun his conquest of the road, he's roughly twenty feet back from where he started, at which point the freeway is finally clear and he can move on, patting himself on the back all the while for having defeated the traffic jam with his drivey wiles.

That's me. That guy is me.

And, for some reason, it takes a long time to get from place to place.

Six hours into driving, my bottom was damp with sweat because leather doesn't breathe. I don't have leather seats, by the by. I just like the way it feels against my skin. I bought the trousers at a special store where they were on sale, and the owner threw a couple whips in as a thank-you for my patronage. He must have thought I was a cowboy. Joke's on him.

My bottom was also damp because I had peed at least twice in the previous hour without leaving the car. As I said, leather doesn't breathe. Although most of the urine escaped down by my ankle, there was still a significant amount sloshing around "down there". It was getting really warm in my trousers, so I decided to halt my vehicle at a rest stop (for foreign people, an American "rest stop" is a spot at the side of the road where you're scared somebody's going to hurt you, and there are vending machines selling chocolate bars, but the chocolate bars are sold out, so all that's left are packs of microwave popcorn that nobody buys because it turns out you can't cook microwave popcorn in your car just by leaving it on your dashboard with the heat turned on - even if it's set to "High").

I parked and took care of the problem. When I got out the car and straightened my legs, the rest of the pee exited onto the pavement below. While I was there, though, I thought I might as well go to the bathroom. I didn't know when I'd hit the next rest area, and the floor of my car was beginning to stink like a French sidewalk on a humid summer day.

After I took care of business, I decided I kind of liked the place. I said hi to a few other guys hanging out in leather pants, helped myself to a pack of cold microwave popcorn, and walked down to my car to hang out for a while.

I got to the car and then noticed something I missed on the way in. It was probably because I was distracted by trying to shake all the urine down my pant leg.

What I saw was this:

SCORE.

When I saw it, I was like, "HELL YEAH!"

I thought I was going to have to go the entire day without finding a suitable dumpster to play in, on, or around, or to occupy for any purpose. Dumpster recreation is like that. You never know what you're in the mood for until you're in, on, or around, or occupying one for any purpose.

There are lots of games you can play alone or with your friends when you're in, on, or around, or occupying a dumpster for any purpose.

When I'm in a dumpster, I like to play TRASH-SUBMARINE!!! I sit down while I'm in the dumpster, and then I'm all, "PING... PING... PING-PING-PING!" and then I say, "Admiral! We're about to collide with another TRASH-SUBMARINE!!!" and then the admiral (who I'm also playing) is all, "UP PERISCOPE, MAJOR BLYTH!"

Then I push the lid up with my head and take a look around. I don't see anything, so I go back down and report.

"False alarm, sir."

"Never mind, Major. Carry on with the good work."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir... PING... PING... PING..."

When I'm on a dumpster, the lid is kind of a slope, so I pretend I'm skiing in the Alps. I jump from side to side in that way that skiers do when they do it for whatever reason they do it. I'm not a "real" skier, so I don't know why they have to jump like that, although I have it on good authority that they're dodging the Abdominal Snowman who waits for skiers and then tries to grab them for a snack (not to share a snack with them, but to eat them as a snack - hide the children, 'cause this web site just went to RATED 'R' FOR: SCARY!!!).

If I'm not in the mood to play in or on the dumpster, then I play around it. I make believe that I'm in Chariots of Fire, and that every lap around the dumpster is a whole race. I get dizzy, but I never stop yodeling Vangelis's high-tech anthemic original score for the film. People see me and they clap and encourage me to keep on going as an inspiration to others ("You're so courageous!"). So that one's not exactly a game, but more of a service to those who peer in a looking glass and see hopelessness staring back.

Sometimes I don't get to a dumpster until it's really late. When that happens, I don't play in, on, or around it; I occupy it for any purpose. The refuse makes for a natural bed, soft and fragrant, like at home. I use my jacket for a pillow, but other than that, you sure can't complain about the accommodations.

After I've slept the eight hours that are a man's right, I wake up to play in, on, or around the dumpster. Waking up bright and early, I have a whole day ahead of me for a dumpsteriffic good time.

Before I begin, it's a tradition of mine to photograph the serial number of the dumpster for my scrapbook:

6F-6738 - I'm never gonna forget THIS one...

Just before I got around to playing in, on, or around the dumpster, or occupying it for any purpose, I spotted a little yellow sticker. Some dumpsters have "house rules" that are posted on the side. Things like, "FOUR'S A PARTY, BUT TEN'S A FIRE HAZARD" and "MANAGEMENT NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR NECROTIC LESIONS."

I got in close to see what the rules were here, at 6F-6738:

ARE YOU KIDDING ME???!!

That covered everything. I was going to play in, on, or around, or occupy the dumpster ("container" - how pretentious) for any purpose, but apparently somebody wanted to rain on my party.

It's like when you're in California and you're walking down the beach and some pasty bastard in a partially open robe with a martini in one hand while cupping his mouth with the other yells, "HEY! HEY, YOU! THIS IS A PRIVATE BEACH! GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I CALL THE AUTHORITIES!"

You're like, "Beaches are private...?"

Yeah. And it seems some dumpsters are, too.

Oh, excuse me; I mean "containers".

Sickening.