Friday, May 18, 2012
$19.1 Billion Dollars
So Mark became a billionaire several times over this morning. He was really happy about it. Not like kid on the playground happy, but more like retard diddling a small animal happy. It was terribly disturbing. I asked him if he was going to move out now, but he just laughed and went into his room. He hasn't let me or the cleaning lady in there in months, and the stench from his hoodie collection is just atrocious. No one on his staff dares tell him that he stinks, specifically, his clothes do, especially now that most of them are millionaires. The good thing is, he's been paying rent in stock options for years, so I'm all set too.
So if you are wondering how 19.1 billion dollars can change a man, wonder no further. When the Facebook IPO went for $38 a share, at 421.2 million shares I wondered the same thing. It hasn't changed anything. He still has his normal Friday night escort session set up (he just watches them play Diablo 3 in the nude) and tomorrow he told me that he plans on going to Wal-Mart to shop lift sneakers. He's a weird dude, but such is life. Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go remind him that he's got a company to run, and we've got to go car shopping.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Highlander
This morning started out calm. I was standing in the kitchen fixing some breakfast, a nice bacon and cream cheese sandwich. Mark was no where to be seen, so it was nice and quiet. He rarely woke up before noon anyway, usually only getting up long enough to kick out the call girl. This morning - no call girl. I had opened the sliding glass door to the porch to air out the living room. Mark had dumped half a gallon of milk on the carpet, "just for funsies."
Since the back door was open, I didn't see the guy dressed like a ninja enter, but I did catch him out of the corner of my eye as he lifted a sword in my direction. I dropped my sandwich and ducked as he swung at me. I ran forward a few steps and looked back at him. He wasn't wearing a mask, and looked confused at my flight response. "What the fuck are you..." I started, but was cut off by Mark shoving by me, holding a similar sword and wearing what could only be described as a shirt made of rags and a kilt.
They started to sword fight, badly. The swings were awkward, the swords were real enough though, as both of them felt the impact. The intruder fell backwards. "I sensed your presence," Mark said, "you will not steal my power - I am the highlander!" He swung hard at the man, who scooted backwards, avoiding the blow.
"What the hell?!" He said, dropping his guard for a second, "you didn't pay me to..." He was cut off as he had to defend himself against Mark's next swing.
"Pay you? Pay you? For that insolence I will take your energy!" Mark screamed as he charged at the man, knocking him down again. "Now, feel the defeat at my hands!" Mark raised his sword and hacked at the intruder's neck. The sword cut flesh, not cleanly, and the man started to grab at his wound and scream.
"What the fuck Mark!" I yelled, grabbing a towel and running to apply it to the wound with one hand, dialing 911 with the other. The towel quickly was soaked with blood. "Go get another towel Mark - now!" He shrugged and got another towel.
"I don't feel any different." He said.
"What? Did you pay this guy to sword fight you?" The second towel was becoming soaked as well, the man was slowly losing consciousness. I laid him down and kept the pressure on.
"I wanted to see if I was an immortal. So I needed to steal someone's energy by defeating them in a sword fight. These swords suck."
"Fuck Mark, it doesn't work like that, the other person has to be an immortal too... what the fuck am I saying? You aren't an immortal Mark. Go outside and wait for the Ambulance."
"Can't we just let him bleed out and bury him out back or something? That'd be cheaper than settling with his agency." I ignored Mark as I tried to keep the man from dying on my kitchen floor. Blood is a bitch to get out of grout.
Since the back door was open, I didn't see the guy dressed like a ninja enter, but I did catch him out of the corner of my eye as he lifted a sword in my direction. I dropped my sandwich and ducked as he swung at me. I ran forward a few steps and looked back at him. He wasn't wearing a mask, and looked confused at my flight response. "What the fuck are you..." I started, but was cut off by Mark shoving by me, holding a similar sword and wearing what could only be described as a shirt made of rags and a kilt.
They started to sword fight, badly. The swings were awkward, the swords were real enough though, as both of them felt the impact. The intruder fell backwards. "I sensed your presence," Mark said, "you will not steal my power - I am the highlander!" He swung hard at the man, who scooted backwards, avoiding the blow.
"What the hell?!" He said, dropping his guard for a second, "you didn't pay me to..." He was cut off as he had to defend himself against Mark's next swing.
"Pay you? Pay you? For that insolence I will take your energy!" Mark screamed as he charged at the man, knocking him down again. "Now, feel the defeat at my hands!" Mark raised his sword and hacked at the intruder's neck. The sword cut flesh, not cleanly, and the man started to grab at his wound and scream.
"What the fuck Mark!" I yelled, grabbing a towel and running to apply it to the wound with one hand, dialing 911 with the other. The towel quickly was soaked with blood. "Go get another towel Mark - now!" He shrugged and got another towel.
"I don't feel any different." He said.
"What? Did you pay this guy to sword fight you?" The second towel was becoming soaked as well, the man was slowly losing consciousness. I laid him down and kept the pressure on.
"I wanted to see if I was an immortal. So I needed to steal someone's energy by defeating them in a sword fight. These swords suck."
"Fuck Mark, it doesn't work like that, the other person has to be an immortal too... what the fuck am I saying? You aren't an immortal Mark. Go outside and wait for the Ambulance."
"Can't we just let him bleed out and bury him out back or something? That'd be cheaper than settling with his agency." I ignored Mark as I tried to keep the man from dying on my kitchen floor. Blood is a bitch to get out of grout.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Check-In
Today I walked into the living room after lunch to find Mark laying on the couch with his head hanging off the side. He was furiously tapping on his iPhone. I asked him what he was doing. He informed me that he was checking in via his new application Facebook Places.
"You are checking in at the house? Because it's location based right?" I asked, not sure that I wanted our location revealed to the whole world.
"Yep. And I'm saying that Larry and Sergey are here and we're hanging out in the hot tub talking about world domination." Mark delightfuly replies, referring to Google co-founders Larry Page and Sergey Brin. "Everyone says that Google is Skynet, but I don't think they are. Not without Facebook. And now, with Facebook Places, I know where everyone is!"
"Whether they want you to or not right? Because anyone can technically check in anyone else?"
"Fuck that. They could always do that in their status updates anyways."
"Yeah, but now that it's being tied to a location service, it'll be taken more seriously. A lot of bad mojo if you ask me." I offer, reluctantly.
Mark scoots off the couch, under the coffee table, rolls over and pops up in front of the television. "Doesn't matter what you think. I'm in charge." He points at me with his iPhone, then takes off to his room. I follow. He plops down on his racecar bed, his feet sticking over the end. His room is decorated with posters ranging from the Terminator to the Jonas Brothers to a cardboard cut-out of Serena Williams. I note a small pile of used condoms around the trash can, also noting we've had no women to the house at all lately. Aside from that, there are Hustler magazines strewn about the room, an open pizza box stuffed with dirty socks and it looks like the fan had been set on fire at some point. "What?" He asks.
"Don't you think it's a bit irresponsible to say that people are where they aren't?" I'm afraid to even sit on his desk chair, which is covered in splotches of... something. I have no idea what.
"Not at all. They can turn the actual feature off. If people want to make assumptions and believe what they read, that's their problem. Like I said, saying that someone is here is no different than putting their name in a status update. Plus, privacy is for losers. I mean, their privacy. The idiot consumer making me richer that is." Mark puts down his phone and gets out his Gameboy DS. He starts to play a game. I can't see which one.
I step over a pile of dirty clothes and a teddy bear that looks like it too, has been set on fire. "Mark, we need to let the cleaning lady in this room."
"Hell no. I don't want her touching my stuff. It's private." He does his pouty face at me, the urge to smack him like a bitch grows once more. "Plus, she's one of those immigrants. She shouldn't even be here."
"Mark, she's Hispanic, but born in this country. She speaks fluent English. Her husband is white. Don't you think that is a bit stereotypical?" I notice an ashtray with tiny seeds and stems in it sitting next to his bed.
"Whatever. Dammit!" Mark reacts to the game and chucks his Gameboy across the room. It shatters against the wall. He pulls out a PSP from under his pillow. "The bottom line," Mark says, visibly calmer, "is that if they don't like it they can fuck off. I'm awesome and they suck. Hey, can we have pickles for dinner?"
It appears the ADHD was starting to kick in. "Just pickles?" I ask.
"Yeah, just pickles." Mark says, confident that's what he'll get.
"No." I say, "you need a full meal. Not just pickles. You know you don't sleep well unless you eat well." I back up as he pitches the PSP across the room in anger. I leave the room as he starts to pout, out of portable electronics.
"You are checking in at the house? Because it's location based right?" I asked, not sure that I wanted our location revealed to the whole world.
"Yep. And I'm saying that Larry and Sergey are here and we're hanging out in the hot tub talking about world domination." Mark delightfuly replies, referring to Google co-founders Larry Page and Sergey Brin. "Everyone says that Google is Skynet, but I don't think they are. Not without Facebook. And now, with Facebook Places, I know where everyone is!"
"Whether they want you to or not right? Because anyone can technically check in anyone else?"
"Fuck that. They could always do that in their status updates anyways."
"Yeah, but now that it's being tied to a location service, it'll be taken more seriously. A lot of bad mojo if you ask me." I offer, reluctantly.
Mark scoots off the couch, under the coffee table, rolls over and pops up in front of the television. "Doesn't matter what you think. I'm in charge." He points at me with his iPhone, then takes off to his room. I follow. He plops down on his racecar bed, his feet sticking over the end. His room is decorated with posters ranging from the Terminator to the Jonas Brothers to a cardboard cut-out of Serena Williams. I note a small pile of used condoms around the trash can, also noting we've had no women to the house at all lately. Aside from that, there are Hustler magazines strewn about the room, an open pizza box stuffed with dirty socks and it looks like the fan had been set on fire at some point. "What?" He asks.
"Don't you think it's a bit irresponsible to say that people are where they aren't?" I'm afraid to even sit on his desk chair, which is covered in splotches of... something. I have no idea what.
"Not at all. They can turn the actual feature off. If people want to make assumptions and believe what they read, that's their problem. Like I said, saying that someone is here is no different than putting their name in a status update. Plus, privacy is for losers. I mean, their privacy. The idiot consumer making me richer that is." Mark puts down his phone and gets out his Gameboy DS. He starts to play a game. I can't see which one.
I step over a pile of dirty clothes and a teddy bear that looks like it too, has been set on fire. "Mark, we need to let the cleaning lady in this room."
"Hell no. I don't want her touching my stuff. It's private." He does his pouty face at me, the urge to smack him like a bitch grows once more. "Plus, she's one of those immigrants. She shouldn't even be here."
"Mark, she's Hispanic, but born in this country. She speaks fluent English. Her husband is white. Don't you think that is a bit stereotypical?" I notice an ashtray with tiny seeds and stems in it sitting next to his bed.
"Whatever. Dammit!" Mark reacts to the game and chucks his Gameboy across the room. It shatters against the wall. He pulls out a PSP from under his pillow. "The bottom line," Mark says, visibly calmer, "is that if they don't like it they can fuck off. I'm awesome and they suck. Hey, can we have pickles for dinner?"
It appears the ADHD was starting to kick in. "Just pickles?" I ask.
"Yeah, just pickles." Mark says, confident that's what he'll get.
"No." I say, "you need a full meal. Not just pickles. You know you don't sleep well unless you eat well." I back up as he pitches the PSP across the room in anger. I leave the room as he starts to pout, out of portable electronics.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The Early Morning
Mark woke up early again today, before the sun, anxious about his IPO. I found him pacing the kitchen, eating peanut butter out of the jar and wiping his hands on his Star Wars underpants. He was mumbling about going public, and about putting a hit out on David Finchner and Jesse Eisenberg. I stood in the doorway until he noticed me, then he scooped out a big handful of peanut butter and offered me some. I politely refused and he chucked the glob of peanut butter at the wall. The cleaning lady must love us.
"Mark, what's going on?" I said, still keeping my distance from him and the peanut butter.
"It's this fucking IPO thing. I want to go public now, but this stupid movie is going to ruin my reputation. They say it was just about trying to get girls. It wasn't. It was about knowing everything about everyone in the world." He sat down at the table, and mournfully started drawing on the table with peanut butter. "I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if they had cast me correctly in the movie. That kid from Zombieland is a little weird. I'm not that weird am I?"
I avoid that question like the plague, instead asking him "well who did you want to play you in the movie? I mean, if you had your choice?"
Mark thinks about this for a second, stops with the wasteful behavior with the peanut butter (which has somehow ended up on his bare, boyish chest) and suddenly turned to me, excited with his answer. "Wesley Snipes!"
I pause, considering. "Why?" I ask, almost immediately regretting asking and not just accepting that he wanted to be played by a black actor.
"Because," Mark says, getting up and pointing around the room with a peanut butter covered finger, "he's black. And this girl I was with once told me I was the biggest she'd ever seen, even bigger than a black man."
"You mean a hooker?"
"Yeah, escort. Whatever. She was nice." He sits down again, contemplating the niceness of the hooker. I don't show disgust at the shape change in his Star Wars underpants.
"Uh, you know that they - hookers - will tell you whatever you want to hear right? That's their job." Sometimes I figure, Mark needs to know the truth about the world. I can't just nod and lie to him all the time like I would a small child.
Mark glares at me. He throws the jar of peanut butter at me, it misses and bounces off the wall. "Fuck you!" He yells. "I'm gonna call Wesley Snipes and have him play me in the fucking movie. Then the IPO will come and I'll be fucking rich."
"You are already rich, and the movie is done. You can't go back and have Wesley Snipes do it instead of Eisenberg."
Mark shoves past me out of the kitchen mumbling that he can do whatever he wants. Later, I find smears of peanut butter on the fabric of the pool table. Fantastic.
"Mark, what's going on?" I said, still keeping my distance from him and the peanut butter.
"It's this fucking IPO thing. I want to go public now, but this stupid movie is going to ruin my reputation. They say it was just about trying to get girls. It wasn't. It was about knowing everything about everyone in the world." He sat down at the table, and mournfully started drawing on the table with peanut butter. "I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if they had cast me correctly in the movie. That kid from Zombieland is a little weird. I'm not that weird am I?"
I avoid that question like the plague, instead asking him "well who did you want to play you in the movie? I mean, if you had your choice?"
Mark thinks about this for a second, stops with the wasteful behavior with the peanut butter (which has somehow ended up on his bare, boyish chest) and suddenly turned to me, excited with his answer. "Wesley Snipes!"
I pause, considering. "Why?" I ask, almost immediately regretting asking and not just accepting that he wanted to be played by a black actor.
"Because," Mark says, getting up and pointing around the room with a peanut butter covered finger, "he's black. And this girl I was with once told me I was the biggest she'd ever seen, even bigger than a black man."
"You mean a hooker?"
"Yeah, escort. Whatever. She was nice." He sits down again, contemplating the niceness of the hooker. I don't show disgust at the shape change in his Star Wars underpants.
"Uh, you know that they - hookers - will tell you whatever you want to hear right? That's their job." Sometimes I figure, Mark needs to know the truth about the world. I can't just nod and lie to him all the time like I would a small child.
Mark glares at me. He throws the jar of peanut butter at me, it misses and bounces off the wall. "Fuck you!" He yells. "I'm gonna call Wesley Snipes and have him play me in the fucking movie. Then the IPO will come and I'll be fucking rich."
"You are already rich, and the movie is done. You can't go back and have Wesley Snipes do it instead of Eisenberg."
Mark shoves past me out of the kitchen mumbling that he can do whatever he wants. Later, I find smears of peanut butter on the fabric of the pool table. Fantastic.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Bible Conversation
This morning Mark found a Bible in the house. He came into my office in a tirade about it for some reason. I asked him what was wrong with the Bible. He said that it reminded him that today was Sunday and he wanted to go to church. I told him that church was over for the day, plus I'm not a very religious person. He told me that he wanted some of Jesus' magic. I told him to sit down. I flipped on the recorder - not letting him see otherwise he'd flip out. This is the transcript of that conversation.
Me: Mark, who do you think Jesus was?
Mark: Was? He's the magic statue in church. Remember that movie Mannequin? Like that. He comes alive at night, hops down from his cross and performs magic.
Me: Not exactly.
Mark: No, exactly.
Me: No. Did you read any of that Bible? Ever?
Mark: I don't need to. I know Jesus does magic. Like David Blaine. And those homos with the Tigers.
Me: Look, people believe in miracles, yes. Sometimes they attribute these miracles to faith based beliefs such as religion, such as Jesus.
Mark: No. I'm telling you, Jesus does fucking card tricks and shit!
Me: Settle down. (At this point Mark was standing and scowling at me, hands on the desk.) Sit down Mark. We're just having a conversation. I'm not telling you what is right or wrong. You are allowed to believe what you want.
Mark: Ok. After this can I have a pudding cup?
Me: Yes.
Mark: Butterscotch.
Me: Ok. Now, where were we? Ah, card tricks. Jesus is a symbol of the Christian faith. He was a prophet who died for the sins of his followers. So the story goes.
Mark: No. Chocolate.
Me: Are you paying attention?
Mark: Yeah, something about a story. The Bible? I thought it was true. It sounds true. Like the Matrix. The Matrix is true. And awesome. And lots of leather.
Me: Yes, there was lots of leather in the Matrix. The Bible was written by men, about events that may or may not have actually taken place. I'm guessing there was a lot of embellishment. I can't say for sure, but it's all about faith.
Mark: Faith?
Me: What you believe in.
Mark: Like money? And paying for sex?
Me: That's not a faith.
Mark: Why not?
Me: Paying for sex is not a faith. That's just something you do.
Mark: But faith is something you do, right?
Me: No, that's something you have.
Mark: Well, sex is something you have too. So how is that not faith?
Me: Mark, you are intentionally being contradictory.
Mark: Am not.
Me: I'm not arguing with you.
Mark: Cause I'm right. Bitch. Fuck yeah! (Gestures at his crotch.) Suck it!
Me: Ok Mark, is it nap time?
Mark: Fuck no. I already took a nap.
Me: You didn't take a nap. You watched cartoons and threw popcorn all over the living room.
Mark: Cartoons make me hyper.
Me: That they do.
Mark: So, if Jesus isn't magic, what does he do? Does he have a job or something? Like a software developer? Can I buy him? I bet I could buy him.
Me: You can't buy Jesus, he's a symbol of religion. I already said that.
Mark: Yeah, but I'm rich. I can buy anything. Even Jesus.
Me: Mark, you can't buy Jesus.
Mark: The fuck I can't!
Me: Ok, how are you going to buy Jesus?
Mark: Check eBay.
Me: Ebay.
Mark: Yeah. (We pull up eBay on the computer and search for 'Jesus') See? Tons of Jesus for sale.
Me: Those are just representations of Jesus, not actually Jesus.
Mark: Close enough. I want a bobblehead. Are there any Jesus bobbleheads?
Me: Let's see... yeah. There are.
Mark: Bid on that one.
Me: Done.
Mark: Did I win?
Me: We just placed the bid. It doesn't work like that.
Mark: Why not?
Me: Cause it doesn't.
Mark: Well it should. Can I buy eBay?
Me: You can try, I don't think your board would go for it.
Mark: I'm gonna start my own eBay. I'll call it... Facebook Auctions.
Me: Clever.
Mark: You think so?
Me: Not really.
Mark: Fuck you. I want my damn pudding cup.
Me: They are in the fridge.
Mark: Get it for me.
Me: I'm not your slave.
Mark: I want a slave.
Me: Go take a nap Mark.
Mark: Fuck you! (Mark storms off, presumably to get a pudding cup and not take a nap. I turn off the recorder.)
Me: Mark, who do you think Jesus was?
Mark: Was? He's the magic statue in church. Remember that movie Mannequin? Like that. He comes alive at night, hops down from his cross and performs magic.
Me: Not exactly.
Mark: No, exactly.
Me: No. Did you read any of that Bible? Ever?
Mark: I don't need to. I know Jesus does magic. Like David Blaine. And those homos with the Tigers.
Me: Look, people believe in miracles, yes. Sometimes they attribute these miracles to faith based beliefs such as religion, such as Jesus.
Mark: No. I'm telling you, Jesus does fucking card tricks and shit!
Me: Settle down. (At this point Mark was standing and scowling at me, hands on the desk.) Sit down Mark. We're just having a conversation. I'm not telling you what is right or wrong. You are allowed to believe what you want.
Mark: Ok. After this can I have a pudding cup?
Me: Yes.
Mark: Butterscotch.
Me: Ok. Now, where were we? Ah, card tricks. Jesus is a symbol of the Christian faith. He was a prophet who died for the sins of his followers. So the story goes.
Mark: No. Chocolate.
Me: Are you paying attention?
Mark: Yeah, something about a story. The Bible? I thought it was true. It sounds true. Like the Matrix. The Matrix is true. And awesome. And lots of leather.
Me: Yes, there was lots of leather in the Matrix. The Bible was written by men, about events that may or may not have actually taken place. I'm guessing there was a lot of embellishment. I can't say for sure, but it's all about faith.
Mark: Faith?
Me: What you believe in.
Mark: Like money? And paying for sex?
Me: That's not a faith.
Mark: Why not?
Me: Paying for sex is not a faith. That's just something you do.
Mark: But faith is something you do, right?
Me: No, that's something you have.
Mark: Well, sex is something you have too. So how is that not faith?
Me: Mark, you are intentionally being contradictory.
Mark: Am not.
Me: I'm not arguing with you.
Mark: Cause I'm right. Bitch. Fuck yeah! (Gestures at his crotch.) Suck it!
Me: Ok Mark, is it nap time?
Mark: Fuck no. I already took a nap.
Me: You didn't take a nap. You watched cartoons and threw popcorn all over the living room.
Mark: Cartoons make me hyper.
Me: That they do.
Mark: So, if Jesus isn't magic, what does he do? Does he have a job or something? Like a software developer? Can I buy him? I bet I could buy him.
Me: You can't buy Jesus, he's a symbol of religion. I already said that.
Mark: Yeah, but I'm rich. I can buy anything. Even Jesus.
Me: Mark, you can't buy Jesus.
Mark: The fuck I can't!
Me: Ok, how are you going to buy Jesus?
Mark: Check eBay.
Me: Ebay.
Mark: Yeah. (We pull up eBay on the computer and search for 'Jesus') See? Tons of Jesus for sale.
Me: Those are just representations of Jesus, not actually Jesus.
Mark: Close enough. I want a bobblehead. Are there any Jesus bobbleheads?
Me: Let's see... yeah. There are.
Mark: Bid on that one.
Me: Done.
Mark: Did I win?
Me: We just placed the bid. It doesn't work like that.
Mark: Why not?
Me: Cause it doesn't.
Mark: Well it should. Can I buy eBay?
Me: You can try, I don't think your board would go for it.
Mark: I'm gonna start my own eBay. I'll call it... Facebook Auctions.
Me: Clever.
Mark: You think so?
Me: Not really.
Mark: Fuck you. I want my damn pudding cup.
Me: They are in the fridge.
Mark: Get it for me.
Me: I'm not your slave.
Mark: I want a slave.
Me: Go take a nap Mark.
Mark: Fuck you! (Mark storms off, presumably to get a pudding cup and not take a nap. I turn off the recorder.)
Saturday, August 21, 2010
The Picnic
Today Mark and I went on a picnic. We packed a cooler, and I let Mark pick what he wanted to bring. He stocked the cooler with Gatorade, Ritz crackers, twelve pounds of raisins, a box of caramel corn, corn dog nuggets, a bottle of Cooks Champagne, raw hamburger and a bag of peanuts - which he dumped in after I had already put the ice in the cooler. He thought this was awfully funny as he reared his head back to laugh for much too long than was warranted by the act.
We headed out around 11am. He wanted to drive but I didn't feel comfortable letting him. Instead Mark got into the back seat and lay down across both sides, refusing to put his seat belt on. Arms crossed and pouting, I had to threaten to cancel the picnic if he didn't put his seatbelt on. Finally Mark relented and put the center belt on, saying that the shoulder strap made his "arm bones" hurt. I started the car, when he promptly announced he needed to use the bathroom. I didn't get the car in park before Mark had unlocked the door and bolted back into the house. I parked and got out to open the door for him. I went back to the car and put the child locks back on.
Finally we were on our way, not really going that far but Mark certainly made it feel that way. I had told myself going into this relationship that I was going to have to have more patience with him than I had ever had for anything else in my life before. You see, Mark suffers from severe social anxiety disorder, with a side of anti-social behavior. I also suspect that he may be a bit immature for his age, but then that's hard to tell with the general behavior issues. When he acts out, like a child would, that's a defense mechanism and may not be his true personality. That's what I'm doing with Mark Zuckerberg, trying to find out if the Facebook CEO is more than just an overgrown child.
Today, he wasn't making that determination easy. Bouncing up and down in the back seat one second, then complaining about the music the next second, then demanding that I drive him to Hawaii the next second. I had almost had enough when he started kicking the back of my seat and singing something about Narwhals. We pulled over at the park and he tried to pop open the door. I had to suppress a smile when he couldn't open the door due to the child locks. I opened the door for him and he literally crawled out of the car onto the ground. I told him to get up and he told me, "suck my fucking taint. Then he went on a curse laden tirade while on all fours, finally settling down, picking himself up and brushing himself off. At this point, there were only a couple other people around, but they had quickly dispersed when he yelled that "the fucking Nazis invented MySpace and they want to fuck me until I bleed money. Why won't they go away? I have a tender ass!"
I reassured Mark that MySpace was no threat to his business, then he demanded pizza bagels. I told him we didn't pack any so he ran off into the park, arms flailing. I finally caught up to him and he was urinating into the pond in the middle of the park. I yelled at him to stop, that there were children around but instead he put his arms behind his head and said, "I'm Mark Zuckerberg. My penis' name is Ted. Say hello Ted.. say hello to...." Then he hit the ground, hard. I put my tranquilizer pistol back into my bag and went to collect the now unconscious Mark Zuckerberg. Clearly he isn't ready to go out of the house.
We headed out around 11am. He wanted to drive but I didn't feel comfortable letting him. Instead Mark got into the back seat and lay down across both sides, refusing to put his seat belt on. Arms crossed and pouting, I had to threaten to cancel the picnic if he didn't put his seatbelt on. Finally Mark relented and put the center belt on, saying that the shoulder strap made his "arm bones" hurt. I started the car, when he promptly announced he needed to use the bathroom. I didn't get the car in park before Mark had unlocked the door and bolted back into the house. I parked and got out to open the door for him. I went back to the car and put the child locks back on.
Finally we were on our way, not really going that far but Mark certainly made it feel that way. I had told myself going into this relationship that I was going to have to have more patience with him than I had ever had for anything else in my life before. You see, Mark suffers from severe social anxiety disorder, with a side of anti-social behavior. I also suspect that he may be a bit immature for his age, but then that's hard to tell with the general behavior issues. When he acts out, like a child would, that's a defense mechanism and may not be his true personality. That's what I'm doing with Mark Zuckerberg, trying to find out if the Facebook CEO is more than just an overgrown child.
Today, he wasn't making that determination easy. Bouncing up and down in the back seat one second, then complaining about the music the next second, then demanding that I drive him to Hawaii the next second. I had almost had enough when he started kicking the back of my seat and singing something about Narwhals. We pulled over at the park and he tried to pop open the door. I had to suppress a smile when he couldn't open the door due to the child locks. I opened the door for him and he literally crawled out of the car onto the ground. I told him to get up and he told me, "suck my fucking taint. Then he went on a curse laden tirade while on all fours, finally settling down, picking himself up and brushing himself off. At this point, there were only a couple other people around, but they had quickly dispersed when he yelled that "the fucking Nazis invented MySpace and they want to fuck me until I bleed money. Why won't they go away? I have a tender ass!"
I reassured Mark that MySpace was no threat to his business, then he demanded pizza bagels. I told him we didn't pack any so he ran off into the park, arms flailing. I finally caught up to him and he was urinating into the pond in the middle of the park. I yelled at him to stop, that there were children around but instead he put his arms behind his head and said, "I'm Mark Zuckerberg. My penis' name is Ted. Say hello Ted.. say hello to...." Then he hit the ground, hard. I put my tranquilizer pistol back into my bag and went to collect the now unconscious Mark Zuckerberg. Clearly he isn't ready to go out of the house.
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