We’ve had a lot of fun breaking down my attraction to women, but let’s be completely honest here. 1) It’s all about me (which… this is my blog, so that’s cool). 2) It’s a lot of flith. 3) It’s fairly scatterbrained and long as hell. I have to imagine that a fair amount of potential readers were immediately turned off by at least one of those things. So let’s talk about some other shit for a hot minute.
Alright, let’s blog. I’m sick as hell. I’m pretty not happy about this, and not just because I feel like warmed over poop. Whether or not I like my job (I currently do), I hate not doing it. Seriously, even in jobs that I hated, I wanted to get them done. Of course, every job I’ve had has been with at least one person depending on me doing so. The least important job I ever had was as a paper boy, and you can really fuckin’ ruin someone’s job if they don’t get the paper. I think those people are crazy and often assholes, but not getting them their paper goes against one of my very top personal rule – DON’T FUCK IT UP FOR THE REST OF US. My willingness to get the job done even when I’m out of sorts amplifies the negative feelings I have for those who don’t. Far too many people from my generation are ready to say, “Fuck it, I’m staying home” at the drop of a hat. Cowboy/Cowgirl the fuck up. Get in, get the fuckin’ job done, and roll out so you don’t get the rest of us sick. I will admit that I often overstay my sickness welcome, but it’s not like I’m directly breathing on anyone or spitting in their coffee.
Another part of what pisses me off about the current state of my health is why I think I got sick. I did go out with some friends last Friday night, so it is entirely possible that I just caught something out there. However, I wasn’t exactly feeling perfect before the night started. Though a little hung over, I was mostly alright on Saturday. Monday rolled around and I felt rough. Yesterday morning I felt really rough. Today, I feel like complete dogshit. Generally speaking, if I feel kinda rough on Friday, I only go out once for that weekend. I take it easy the rest of the way, and keep warm. Citrus, yo. Get some Vitamins of Charlie. I get to bed early and all that jazz. Except now I have a house “guest”. I say “guest” because he is only half invited.
A few months ago, my Dad let me know that he was seeking a new government job down in D.C. I thought this was crazy -sauce, as he lives just north of Philly. He mentioned something about the commute possibly being a problem, and that he’d need a solution. A few weeks later, said that it’s a good possibility that he would get the job and mentioned – I thought jokingly – that I might end up with a new roommate. Then a few weeks ago he said that he got the job. And that he’d be down on Sunday. It was Friday. Up until this point, I’d never thought it actually possible because I always thought it was a joke. He apparently thought that my laughing at it was actually confirmation and invitation.
At that point, I figured he just needed a place to be like a cheap hotel while he got into a groove for the first couple of days or whatever. He had also said that he would come down on Monday night, stay Tuesday night, go home on Wednesday, be back on Thursday, and then leave on Friday. It has now been three weeks and that hasn’t happened a once.
He comes down on Sunday night and stays ALL FUCKING WEEK until Friday. Night. Yeah. That part I really don’t fucking get. Between driving and the Metro, my place is at least a half-hour commute from his office. It is probably closer to 45 minutes during the government rush hour, and that’s on a good day. His drive from my place to his can’t possibly be less that two hours, and my place really isn’t on the way. Not to mention that getting off the highway, gathering his stuff, and getting back on the highway takes time. As a rational human being, I would take all of my shit with me in the morning so that I could take a direct route from work to home. But I’m not an insane person, so what the fuck do I know?
There is also no real guessing as to when he will get back to my place (6 PM? 8:30? Who knows?), and he’s there until mornings. The parts of my social life that involve using my place – podcasting, booty calls, having people over to smoke hookah or game – all effectively over. AND IT GETS BETTER!
My place has a balcony. Nothing special, just the standard, concrete balcony that many apartments and condos have. It has a sliding glass door. This sliding glass door locks itself from the inside when you close it too hard, and it is impossible to gauge just how hard is too hard. I know this, because I have locked myself out before. I have either had to climb down or trust the kindness of strangers passing by on the path behind my place to help me out. My Dad likes to read books and smoke cigars. Every night. For like, four fuckin’ hours. Since he’s out there, he can’t really shut the door the whole way or he’ll get locked out. If I’ve gone to bed, I’ll have no idea what his plight is. He could call, but his phone is usually near dead and charging – inside my place. So it’s 10 PM and the balcony door is open a crack letting in cold and smoke for at least another hour while it rushed back to its natural collecting point – my bed.
It ain’t over yet, but the way. Then he falls asleep to the TV. If you are a person that needs the TV on to fall asleep, it is time to reevaluate your life. If you think that living at your son’s house for 5.5 out of 7 nights is normal, you need to reevaluate your life. I like it pretty quiet, and can really only handle regular street sounds. So he’s making it cold, smoky, and too loud from Sunday – Thursday and wasting an indeterminate amount of my time every Friday. Yeah. This shit started, I got sick. You do the mathingston.
I was really starting to get into a good groove with my life, and he’s dickin’ it all up. Dicking up like crazy. And the best part? I have no fuckin’ idea how long it’s going to be. I had thought that it wouldn’t only be a few nights. Then just while he gets through training (which I think is over sometime next week). Now I think that living at my place is his only plan for the next two year. And he makes more than me and, as far as I know, no longer has a mortgage. I’m going to have to ask him what his plans are, and if those are them, I have to say no. But not until I’m healthy enough to have my fuckin’ wits about me. Life can eat a bag of dicks.
tl;dr – I’m sick, have a roommate I never wanted, and life should swallow a fuckin’ bullet.
I don’t know what’s next. Maybe I’ll talk about my cold & flu remedies. I have been told that a few are unorthodox.