In. Out.

Fun day of failure at the office today. By office, I of course mean, the mailroom. Work went by like usual. Me, and the other, oh so successful, happy, and contributing members of society that worked in the mailroom, spent hours processing and sorting various letters, and packages. The work was incredibly fulfilling. As I'm sure you'd imagine. I don't think my sarcasm will work on the Internet, but it's worth a shot. No?

I spent eight or so hours in a room with stimulating people such as Beatrice. Beatrice looked the way Meryl Streep's skeleton would if you propped it up, and made it walk around the building being nice to everyone. In other words, disgusting. It's hard to have a conversation with someone who annoys the shit out of you, but there isn't really much choice. It's even harder working with someone who thinks you're a complete, and utter, wierdo. Which is what people WILL think of any sort of anti-social behavior. I learned that lesson the way back in high-school. Not that I was anti-social. Just introspective.

The highlight of my day were when Victoria decided to grace us with her repeated presence. Victoria was a secretary, and to put it bluntly, she had tits. Did I just blow the mind of my imaginary reader? I'll just assume I did. Anyway, back on point. Victoria had slut tits. They hung enormous, the way you would think of gods as big. It was amazing to think this woman could find a bra to hold back those two monsters. Not to mention, she must have super strength to even stand up straight. I wonder what her secret is.

She'd come down to the mailroom, like, three times, in one day. I don't even know why, because I was too busy fantasizing about how I'd like to die. I decided that if I was going to go, it'd be right there, smothered in between her mammoth mammaries. I should probably talk to her one of these days, and convince her to do it. It'd probably be classified as assisted suicide, and maybe she wouldn't go to prison.

Like I promised in the first post, nothing too amazing, or entertaining to read here. This was the only noteworthy part of my day, I will end this entry here, with an apology for wasting several minutes of your life.

Introduction

I wish anything that I could document here would ever be as entertaining or an enthralling enough read to deserve a name like Nine Bullet Revolver. I cannot possibly comprehend any portion of my life- no event that has passed nor any event that will happen that could ever stimulate a second party. It is exactly because I am confident no one will find the re-countings of my daily life worth glossing over, that I feel safe enough to keep this blog.

It's only been a few hours since the little incident that would become my inspiration for this glorified diary. You see, I was at a bar. The night was young, and I had every intention of using alcohol to kill two birds with one stone; I was going to spite my kidneys, and my brain in one go. The hangover would be glorious. I don't know how many drinks I had, but I didn't get drunk. I'd like to think I had at least two beers, and was working on a third by the time she came along. It was out of nowhere, I was just ACCOSTED by flowing, chestnut hair, creamy skin, these plump lips that looked like they were invented for the sole purpose of fellatio, hazel eyes.

Being an admittedly, shallow human being my eyes immediately drifted down to the woman's chest. There wasn't much to look for there. Plan B. When a woman doesn't lead with her best foot forward, look behind her, it's probably back there. I made little to no attempt to be subtle when I examined this fine specimen's rear end. I was certain, with just a glance, it was not unlike a bubble.

But there was no hope I could ever reel this one in. This was the prey, but I was a failure as a predator. So, I'm not quite sure how I ended up taking her back to my home. By that I mean, I literally do not remember what the fuck I could have said to this woman. But, whatever it was, it worked. What I would soon learn the hard way, was that getting a woman to your place was only the first half of the battle. Victory came when you could keep her there.

Our night was not like a movie. There were no snags in our journey back to my home that ended up with the two of us going on some willy adventure, wherein we'd fall in love. We left the bar, and took a bus. On the bus ride over to my apartment, I didn't make many attempts at small talk. The situation wasn't anything short of awkward. I'd woo her once he got to our destination. I had to pay for both our rides, the least she could have done was handle conversation. Relationships were supposed to be a team effort. The ride wouldn't be that long, I knew this. Maybe a half an our give or take a few minutes, before we were on the toxic waste part of town. But, on that short little bus ride, I found myself praying for a collision with someone. Anything.

I think deep down, I knew what her reaction would be. The same reaction anyone would have when led to a piece of shit. Disappointment flowed off Monster Ass in waves. Her distaste in my humble abode was obvious. See, I'm not a wealthy guy, I don't have a nice place. My apartment has a room, a bathroom, and a bedroom. There's no view worth mentioning. When you look out of the window, it's only to engage in one hell of staring contest with the brick wall of the building next door.

I had a little mini-fridge over in the corner. Filled with condiments, and no actual food. The sounds of music came from the next apartment over. A little track about thug life here, and a little jingle about pouring a 40oz on a bitch there. How. Embarrasing. I pressed my head against the wall, and cried out, in a weak voice, lacking the appropriate masculinity one requires to be taken seriously by their neighbors, for the music to be turned down.

I was not ignored. It wasn't that they didn't respond, it's simply that the opposite of what I wanted happened. I gave up, and turned my attention back to Monster Ass. If this was the song we'd have to do our business to, then so be it. We sat down on my bed, and I tried to make small-talk. To no avail, which is what originally made me wonder how I even GOT this girl to come back with me in the first place. Then came the kicker. The question I had hoped she wouldn't ask.

''...So, what do you even do?”

I could pull out a win for sure! Bust a nut deep into her bowels, and go to sleep satisfied. She'd stuck around this far, so certainly the next thing that came out of my mouth would not drive her off.

“I work in a mail room.” Yes. That is what I said. It was the truth, and what else could I say. What would she think if I told her 'I SALE CARS HURRRRRR'? I didn't have the proof to back a claim like that up. I am, the all singing, all dancing, twenty one year old MAILBOY for that faceless corporation you see on television. It's even in fiction, owned and operated by some corrupt CEO who wants the hero dead, or working for him.

This was the straw that broke the camels back. She left, and none of my protest, or explanations, or excuses could keep her there. I watched Monster Ass walk right out the door, hips swaying, buttcheeks bouncing, with every step she took, and I couldn't stop her from leaving. I think, after that, I spent an hour or two soaking my bedsheets with tears before writing this. It should have been the fluids of human kindness that made them damp instead.

The highlight of my summer evening is probably going to be the various blogs on the supernatural, and masturbation. I've got to sleep soon too. Can't be late for my great job.

If I had a Nine Bullet Revolver, I'd waste every last round on myself.