Being good at stuff is fucking awesome. Not that I’m good at stuff, except obviously modesty, but it would be an outright fabrication to say I haven’t been lucky enough kick ass in a few things from time to time.

For instance – I dare you to find someone better at sleeping on a couch than I am. Sounds trite, but you have no idea how often the ability to pass out in cramped, confined, uncomfortable places comes in handy. Cross country flights for instance – I’ve been to the other coast about eight or nine times in the last year and as soon as my tray back is up and my seat is in an upright position I’m out until we’re touching back down.

Running is something else I’ve been pretty decent at. I’m probably amongst like half a percent of runners who’s ever actually won a race. There are few things in life better than breaking an opponents will down the back stretch. You basically own his soul for a split second. And soul reaping is good times

Believe it or not I’ve written a few things that don’t suck. This of course is terrible incoherent gibberish, but there’s been a time or two where I’ve looked at something I wrote and been shocked that I was able to be that witty. Of course that’s followed immediately with the realization that you’re actually a terrible hack that got lucky with a couple of good vowels and consonants – but there’s a good thirty seconds where you get to take pride in being good at stuff and things.

But while being good at things you’re good at is good, it really pales in comparison with those times in life you get to be good at stuff that you suck at.

My senior year book quote was the “The greatest feeling in life is doing what others say you can’t do.” I actually think I wrote it was the second greatest feeling in life; because in my clever 18 year old mind the open endedness and heavy sexual connotation was bloody brilliant. I think this was likely done about the same time I thought it would be hilarious to register to vote as a communist. And admittedly it was, but now every time I see a dude in a black suit and dark glasses walking past me I fear I’ll wake up somewhere in Guantanamo getting waterboarded.

Losing focus here.

Point is fuck the Yankees. Not sure how I got to that because that was never the intent of this – originally I planned on writing about how I really fucking suck at working with spreadsheets and csv files and entering data and all the minutia that gives CPA’s raging hardons, but I just completed part of a project that has been kicking me in the nuts for a few weeks. I do in fact suck at all that stuff and the feeling of finally conquering this nerditry has me feeling like Jack Zuta (look it up because it’s a great reference). But it’s lead me to a better point.

The Yankees won the World Series and it’s champagne and BJs for all? Big fucking deal. I mean no shit they won the Series. Their payroll is half a trillion dollars. They have four players that made more this year than the entire Florida Marlins roster. How can it possibly feel good to succeed against such overwhelmingly favorable odds? It’s like beating a retard in 1 on 1, or solving a MadLibs. The real win for them was not continuing to fail. Yay!

The moral of the story is I’ve got two more hours of work to do but I’m blabbering on like a moron about the Yankees. I suck at csv but tonight I got to tell it to fuck itself. I hate the Yankees. And I’m a communist. That’s all.