Random passive-aggressive lash-out: Sweat to fucking God, if that immature incel reacts to anything I say that he even remotely thinks questions his so-called superiority on the rules of football, I will say something.  Probably won't scream or completely insult him.  But I am too old for this shit, and I do not know if I can keep being stepped on by some twenty-something prick who believes he's got a ticket to move up in the industry he's wanted to work in since seeing SportsCenter for the first time without coming back on him.  Just saying that I cannot be complicit in my debasement for much longer.  Jesus, what a fucking goddamn asshole he was/is. ...

Fucking Sister's Fucking Mad At Me

So on Tuesday I was downtown at our college Game-watching bar watching the Match for the final World Cup spot between Iraq and Bolivia (the Iraqis won) when I got a text from WhatsApp.  My sister texted me a picture of a piece of mail she got ... and it was in my name.  I don't live where she lives -- how in the hell is my name on a piece of mail sent to my sister's place?

So I texted her, not really upset as she was, I soon realized.  I was hanging out by myself watching some important soccer, so I texted back something innocuous but showing that I am empathizing with her.  That conversation petered out, though, so after I got home and then when I woke up Wednesday morning I thought I would check up on her.  "Do you need me to do anything?" I basically asked, to which she replied, "No, just stop talking about it."  Now I know she's mad about this, and I have to now understand whether she is mad at me.  So I ask her, and she says, "Yes, but stop talking about it."

Well, fuckin' A.  She obviously is upset that my name appears on a piece of mail (junk mail she said -- she threw it away) that has my name on it.  I don't know why or how that happened.  But it's dawned on me that she blames me for this. I texted her, both Tuesday night and Wednesday, how she wants me to help solve this.  But telling me to stop talking about it isn't solving a goddamn thing.  She just shut me down, and not only is that not productive, but it's pretty damn hurtful, too.  She won't let me fix this, so the only thing I can think of as to why she is acting like this is because she's mad at me and she wants to stay mad at me.

I thought for a long, long time to just end the conversation by giving her the middle finger emoji.  Shit, I'm still thinking about giving her that.  But I have to look to the long term, stop needing to have the last word, and not do anything that could really, really piss her off, even though by what she said she's already plenty pissed.

We have very occasional blow-ups.  I don't remember the last time she was this upset with me.  But whenever we do, it's a damn knock-down drag-out.  She can be extremely petty and unreasonable, and in turn, I decide I need to be defensive.  So, instead of giving her the finger, I didn't come back on her at all.  In fact, I muted her on WhatsApp.  And I would mute her on Facebook too if I knew how to do that without blocking her entirely.

I hate how she's making me feel.  Out of all the family members, I'm the closest to her.  She's the only one I think I can be honest and even a bit vulnerable with.  I think she understands me more than the others.  But I don't understand her right now, and I have spent a long, long time since this "exchange" thinking about what she thinks of me right now and when all of this is going to be over.  I'm trying to help, but her silent treatment is making me angry because I don't deserve that.  And I really, really don't know how in the fuck my name got on a piece of junk mail sent to her place.

This fucking sucks.  I feel like the black sheep of this family, but moreso now that I'm fighting with the only family member I am on good terms with.

A Gig Or Democracy (Or Neither)?

I anticipated working a Wild Game this week.  I signed up for it and everything.  But I have yet to hear back from them confirming I would be working for them.  At some point, if I don't hear anything from them (and I swear I looked everywhere -- e-mails, texts, and especially the junk boxes for both just in case their messages went there), I have to figure they're not going to hire me.

I decided that yesterday/Monday afternoon was the deadline.  I checked everywhere one more time, but no one said, "Hey, can you work the Wild Game this week?"  I knew this was a Game for which they could use a runner, so a few months ago I blocked off two days this week at work.  Well, I'm not going to work the Game even if I get a late-night, desperation text right now asking me if I could work it.  Too late, you know?

That means I now can work this week ... however, you may have heard that there is not one but two walkouts planned for this week, one today/Tuesday and one on Friday.  I want to support democracy and protest our fascist regime in my own passive-aggressive way ... by taking those days off.  And I might as well give up the ghost to illustrate the absurd irony of this situation: The two days I had to block off to work the Wild Game are tomorrow/Wednesday and Thursday.  So I am going from taking tomorrow/Wednesday and Thursday off to taking today/Tuesday and Friday off ... well, seeing as last-minute as this change is, taking this/Tuesday afternoon off, which would coincide with a planned nationwide walkout this/Tuesday afternoon.

And, well, wanting to take today/Tuesday and Friday off.  This is very last-minute, but I tried reaching out to my new boss about flipping my days off this week.  I haven't heard back from her yet.  I hope I can still do it, and I hope this change doesn't affect all the plans she and my co-workers may have had when it comes to where they're working.  But, well, if I can't work a hockey Game, I may as well protest our freedoms being taken from us, right?

Living Like This

I just heard that there is an application that can pinpoint where people of color live in a given neighborhood.  All the information we have given through the Internet and our cellphones has finally been weaponized against us under this installed government.  Finally comes the surveillance state.  Meanwhile, the "small government" militias should be taking up arms now, but they're awfully quiet.  Turns out some of us knew all along: They're only small government when the people they don't like are in charge.  When people they do like are in charge, they're totally cool with that.  Shit, they might just take arms and become the hatchet men of the government.  Fucking posers.

---

I gave myself a nightmare whereby I have just shut the door on my way to my car in the morning and two of these pricks, standing against my house, jump me and try to hustle me into their SUV.  But I resist, punching and kicking and biting all the way.  Finally, I reach for some guy's gun and blast the two fuckers who were holding me down ... only to get shot by reinforcements standing a few feet away.

That might be how I go.

---

They got really close today.  These monsters were hanging out at the hospital, trying to get in.  Luckily, if I heard correctly, they weren't allowed in.  But they keep coming at us like this.

And now I hear they're vulturing around the elementary school.  What they're doing is kidnapping.  It's not lawful no matter what anyone says, it's kidnapping.  And kidnapping kids?  I don't care who they are, and I don't care what happens to them if, Lord willing, we the people finally stop them.  Disgusting.

---

I was invited to a party this weekend.  Want to, mostly because one of my ATFs is going, but I won't attend.  For one thing, it's at an area that feels as though it'll be visited.  For another, there's football, and I want to watch both Games.  But I have to tell you, the stripper organizing the house party has turned into a fucking MAGAt.  I had no idea she was so racist, but ever since he was installed a second time last year, she hasn't been shy about sharing memes on her Facebook that make my stomach turn.  And I'm very surprised it's coming from her because she's mixed.  Who does she think she is, White?

I have dropped on occasional comment on her Facebook implying what she's posting is wrong and/or Republican, but she hasn't said anything back to me on that front.  But when I told her I couldn't go to her party, she gave me a sad emoticon.  Does she understand how racist she is, and I'm not really digging that shit?  But why am I being so strident?  If this fascism dies down, I'll probably go to one of her parties again.

---

It seems as though there wasn't a whole lot of activity yesterday/Thursday, attempted invasion of the hospital aside.  I could be imagining things.  Maybe this is a lull before another surge.  Or, they might be hesitating because it turned cold yesterday/Thursday.  It'll get even colder today/Friday, and it'll be that way for the next week or so.  By God, if this gives these assholes a second thought, we just might get out of this.

Ah, Men Who Aren't

So Saturday night, after working the Gopher football Game, I was hanging out with a couple dudes downtown who saw our alma mater's football Game.  They left, but I wanted to hang out a little while longer.

I was standing up scrolling through my phone.  I was the only one of this table that had three chairs; although it was busy, there were other tables around me.  One that was occupied was occupied by a lot of people.  I didn't notice that another person joined them.  He apparently wanted a chair.  He saw the one that was next to me.  And he just took it, and used it to sit down with his friends.

No, he didn't ask me.  And he should've.  Sure, I wasn't using it.  But it was obvious that it was a chair that was at a table I was at, so a quick, "Hey, you using this?" would have sufficed.  That was too much to ask of this guy, who sat his incel ass down and, I think, began scrolling through his phone.

---

It was a bear to drive down the Megamall Black Friday.  The on-ramp to the first highway I hit was backed up, the drive into The Lowry Tunnel was backed up, and my God, the traffic to park at MOA was backed up for half a mile.

I finally parked.  I'm walking in, and I hear these clomping footsteps behind me.  There's this tall White dude who has this IDGAF attitude coming up behind me.  I fling the first door open for him; he keeps it open while not saying thanks.  At this point he's about to clip my heel with his toe, so I open the second door for him.  He doesn't say thanks; he just keeps striding, almost leaving what looks to be his kids in his dust.  I sarcastically give him the thumb's up; it's only comeback I can think of to let him know what I feel about his fast, intrusive walking.

---

There has been a school of thought that video games cause violence.  That idea has been debunked by researched a long time ago, even though I think a lot of people still cling to the notion.  But there has been very small evidence that video games cause aggression.  There are some studies that note a correlation, especially in the short term.

I'm going to be so bold as to believe that video games do cause aggression, and not just in the short term.  I think that the advent of video games coincide with societal coarseness.  I believe that more people have become dicks since video games became popular.  I will go out on a limb that these two arrested development motherfuckers play them, and as a result have no manners and go about life thinking everything's about them, they don't have to wait their turn, and they do whatever they want, fuck everybody else.  A lot of people are like that now, in this country and around the world.  And that's also partially why Trump's in office -- well, that and Russian interference (which Trump asked for, which is illegal) and Musk and social media (also illegal).  And while aggression isn't the same as violence, the former can easily bleed into and beget the latter.  That would be a correlation, wouldn't it?

People scoff at calls to ban or limit video games from the youth until their brains are more fully developed.  Those calls have been proposed to curb violence.  I'm going to say it: Maybe video games should be limited as a way to curb aggression, and then that curb on aggression can lead to a curb in violence.  All things are connected to each other, and in a world that is going mad and is hellbent on screwing the little guy, maybe we need to think about doing that.  Then, maybe these supposedly "frustrated" boys will actually grow the fuck up.

Nothing Like The Thanksgiving Spirit Like A False Accusation

I've decided I need to use my heater, so today/Thursday/Thanksgiving Day, after lunch (there's turkey, but we had pizza!), I had to go into what is now Mother's bedroom to find it.  I store it there during the summer.  Well, I thought I did, but that was before my folks rearranged that room and in so doing threw away all my stuff without my goddamn permission.

Anyway, I went looking throughout that room and couldn't find it.  That finally got the attention of Mother, who asked me what I was doing.  When I told her, she asked Father, who said he'd look later (presumably after Thanksgiving dinner), and if he couldn't find it, he'll buy one for me.  Sure, pops.  And that's not what I want. But this is My Fucking Father being an asshole.

One of my parental units asked me if the heater was in my room, to which I replied if it were in my room, I wouldn't be looking in a place other than my room.  But, well, I checked my room ... and sure enough, I should have looked on the other side of my chair, right in front of my desk, and underneath this box.  That's where the heater is.  Whoops.

I had to tell them I found it.  I have to take the hit.  If they want to give me more attitude, I want to tell them that I accused them of "having it" because the source of all my shortcomings in my life is also because of them.  Still, Father probably did not take it well when I said I found it in my room when I answered he/her/them that of course it wasn't in my room.  Let's hope Thanksgiving dinner at about 4 o'clock or so is convivial, or at least not passive-aggressively hostile.

I totally need some relief tomorrow/Sunday, and I'll get that when I see ****e -- I think.  I thought I was going to see her a few Sundays ago, but her door was locked and I had no way to contact her asking what was up.  She texted me a few hours later that she was home, but by that time I was home.  I was perturbed, but she is the only one who'd do me like she does, so I kept my text short in case I needed her again ... and I do, tomorrow/Sunday.  God, I hope she's there.  She said so, even in the morning, when I'll be in her area.

Looks Like My Fucking Sister Doesn't Trust Me Now

So my sister used the bathroom after I washed up my sweaty bits and, in a fit of petulant passive-aggressiveness, she texted me, "Flush the toilet!"

OK, go beyond the fact that she didn't say this to my face even though I was in my bedroom and my bedroom is three steps from the bathroom we use.  (I've been texting her about stuff even though I could just as easily walk over to her bedroom, which is about 20 steps away.)  I did flush the toilet while I was in there.  I used it once, I washed myself, I dried myself, and then I left.  But it's obvious that after I got busted for not flushing the toilet just one goddamn time, she is going to suspect that I would do it again.  So, if she saw something in the toilet bowl she deems amiss, she is going to accuse me of not flushing the toilet.  And being accused of something I didn't do really pisses me off.

And pulling back on this shitty situation, it's clear she no longer trusts me.  If she is going to keep up being suspicious of me ... well, that's a third person in this house who thinks that way.  It is very hard to have peace in a home where no one believes you.  I can confide in her about family things I would never bring up with anyone else.  Now, after this bullshit she pulled on me?  Maybe I'm ready to see her leave the house and go back to where she lives.  Don't fuckin' accuse me of something I didn't do. ...

Tea Does Not Go With Steak, That's Fucking Ridiculous

I have resolved to drink more tea, and possibly more tea than coffee.  My parents and sister drink it religiously, and knowing the health benefits, I should probably get into it a lot more.  But that doesn't mean I want to drink it with everything, like I was forced to last/Sunday night.

My Fucking Mother detected this bug that I picked up watching my alma mater at a bar and told my sister to give me tea.  And she did it again last/Sunday night, but this was when we were having a steak dinner.  I don't care, tea doesn't go with steak.  I drank it because I need to fucking keep the peace around the house, but it's bullshit to even think that tea goes with steak.  I had a Coke waiting for me inside the fridge, and I was going to drink that with my steak because that's a perfect marriage of food and drink.  But tea and steak ... pffft.  The taste of each ruins the other.  There's a time and place for tea and a time and place for steak.  That time and place are not together.  But that's what I friggin' had last night.

I shouldn't be so mad at this.  But I am.  So, to passive-aggressively rebel, I ate nuts about an hour ago and washed it down with that Coke I wanted to drink for dinner.  So there.

Well, My Fucking Father changed my bedspread.  He put in a powerstrip at the outlet where I plug in the fan; don't know why he thinks I need that.  And, of course, he rearranged my three pairs of slippers.

Fuck it.  I am going to order the slippers in a neat row, but upside-down.  Let's see if he turns them right-side up.  Let's see if he's OCD enough to invade my bedroom again.  Let's see if he really, really doesn't have a goddamn hobby.

My Fucking Father Has No Other Hobbies

When I come home, usually something that I put somewhere in my bedroom has been moved, meaning My Fucking Father has been in there.  That's annoying enough, but it didn't happen every goddamn day like it's happening now.  In the past when that happened I figured he was just bored.  Now, I think it's a measure of control over me.

Last/Monday night, after seeing The Great Dictator (excellent; the blurb of the theater I saw it in called it, "The most important comedy film ever," and even though that sounds ironic, I think it's true) I came home.  My Fucking Father didn't touch anything except for the three pairs of slippers I use.  I strewed them around the floor; he fuckin' stacked them up, all neat and shit.  Besides hating this invasion of privacy, I want y'all to know that I did not pay for these slippers.  My Fucking Parents bought them and gave them to me.  Not all at once, but several years apart.  I don't know really know why.  One pair I use, and then out of the blue they just give me another pair.  The newest pair, which they got me a couple months ago, they said they wanted me to use because, "They were quiet."  Like I stomp around in the old slippers to the point where they get woken up.  They have bought so many slippers for me thinking they know what's best for me; wouldn't they have found the perfect, most quietest slippers for me by now?

The more I think of this, the more I fucking hate him.  Get a fucking hobby, you creepy goddamn dolt.

And what the fuck is My Fucking Father doing with the shower curtains???  I have opened the shower curtains all the way.  It's what you're supposed to do to air it out and let it dry after showers.  But for some goddamn reason, for the past week or so I see the curtain tied up, or touched in a way that is obvious that My Fucking Father came into the bathroom.  Why?  I think that's his way of telling me to make sure I shower every day, like that's any of his fucking business.  If that's why he's doing that, well, I just faked taking a shower just now.  I know it's petty, and you could say I might as well shower for real if I'm going to do that, but seriously, fuck him, it ain't any of his goddamn business why I don't shower every goddamn day.  How fucking creepy is that bullshit?

Oh, every day he straightens out the bath towel I use, too.  That asshole doesn't have anything else to do in his doddering old age, does he?

Maybe Fuck Dinner

I am doing my level best to convey how upset I am that they have gone through and literally thrown away most of my stuff, but doing so in a passive-aggressive way so that I don't get thrown out of the house.  That's tough to do, considering that they still don't seem to give a shit.  But I might have been pushed to do something that could get their attention, if only because I am now tired of it myself.

Yesterday/Thursday was a no-spend day.  I was going to go in to work, leave work, and go home.  (I have my trepidations about doing that, but I will blog post about that at a later time.)  Work actually was light, light enough for me to come home at a decent hour, early enough to eat dinner with my folks.  But that didn't happen.  My Fucking Mother recently alluded to the fact that, because I had worked so late so often, My Fucking Parents don't eat dinner much, either.  So, regardless of when I come home, eating together has gotten quite rare in the last, oh, couple months, and we really haven't eaten together all that much since they came home.

What they do is leave food for me, and usually it's too much, way more than I would get for myself if we were eating together.  My Fucking Parents continue to say that I don't have to eat all the food they leave for me, but I know that's a goddamn lie.  I mean, they used the impetus of me spearheading donating my old car as an excuse to clean everything else I hold near and dear out.  (Don't care if that sounds like a conspiracy; I believe it.)  So I am under the gun to eat everything they laid out for me.  And for dinner last night, they laid out two pork chops, three pieces of Kentucky Fried Chicken, a bowl of spicy vegetables, tofu soup, and about a cup of rice.

That was so goddamn much it took me two hours to eat it all.  And I feel fat because I am fat after consuming that all.  And they're not even there.  So now, after they've taken everything important from me and done so under false pretenses, why in the fuck am I eating all this shit by myself?  If dinner is something we don't do anymore, why should I even eat at home anymore?  I mean, sometimes I will eat out.  But I am thinking that even on these no-spend days, I just go home and ... not eat.  And it doesn't matter if I get home late or early.  I just won't eat.  You know, I keep complaining about all this food and how it's fattening my belly and making me gain weight.  Why not ... just not eat?

And hey, it might send a message that I don't think we're a family anymore.  Because after the bullshit they just pulled, we're not.

Passive-Aggressive Confrontation At The Ice Cream Place

OK, so a few weeks ago I was enjoying a final Sunday before my folks came home, and I decided to go to this ice cream parlor kind of close to me -- not for ice cream (I think I've gotten more lactose intolerant, if that's possible), but for their burger, which is consistently lauded around town.  I think they're good, but I have had a few in the area that have blown me away.

Anyway, I was going to sit down to eat my burger and fries.  There is an outside deck and it was fairly crowded, but there were a couple seats available.  So I promptly lay on the counter my food right above a seat that was next to this couple.  And the male of the couple says, "Aup -- my son's sitting here," and he quickly jerked the stool right next to him.

I did the polite Minnesota thing.  No, I only did a blend of the polite Minnesota thing.  See, my old age has given me repeated instances of honing my passive-aggressiveness -- come to think of it, that's a Minnesota thing too -- to the point where I am getting better at shooting off comebacks that are nice on the surface but is delivered with a side of bile and bite.  Maybe it's not good in a polite society to be so on-edge that you have such a witticism at the ready, but we are no longer in a polite society.  So, as I picked up my food to move down to another open seat, I said, "Ope, sorry about that," and I know I had an unmistakable tone I said that with.  Heh-heh.

It's not as if the old guy was lying; his son came out from the bathroom and starting eating with his parents.  I could've just left it there ... but that's not me.  From that point onward, I was thinking of one more shot, one more dig whereby I could taunt or bait him, maybe even pick a fight with him if he is as prone to anger as I am.  Hell, my parents were coming home -- why not fight?

(Aside: This place is great if car-cruising was a thing.  The place is fronted by a three-lane road, with one lane in the middle for cars taking lefts.  It's speed-controlled, too, which is a good thing for pedestrians.  It's also good for drive-bys.  All guys who are strapped need to do is roll by at 15 miles per hours and light up the place, and me.  Glad I didn't have any enemies out to get me then -- well, besides this dude.  Anyway, back to my story:)

I finally decided I would look at him, and I mean stare at him until I got his attention, then say goodbye to him.  Not say anything, but acknowledge his leaving in a way that would make him notice.  That would assume a few things.  For one, he would have to leave before I do.  For another, he would have to walk my way in order for me to flag his attention.  And, for finally, he would have to see me.  But if all those conditions were met, bam!  I got his ass!

So he and his family got done before me.  Then, they walked on the sidewalk in front of me.  See, this is my chance.  They were walking slow, so I just stopped eating and looked at him, intently.  He glanced at me -- and I just gave him a wink, a "See ya around, pal!" type of thing.  And he ... gave me a smile.

Uh, what was that?  He didn't seem triggered or put off.  In fact, he didn't seem, uh, mad at all.  Now, he could've been cursing me up and down by the time those three got into their car -- "What the hell was that?" type of thing.  Or -- um, he just honestly said that stool was for his son, and that's all he meant by it.  Which means I overreacted to something that just happens.  And there's nothing more to it than that.

Shit, was that all that it was?

Since When Did They Care What Time I Came Home For Dinner?

God, I'm racked with so much damn guilt right now.  It was another punishing day at work for me in The Third Department.  By now I am resigned/determined to work way past my eight hours (though that may change soon; I'll discuss that some other time), and so it's been routine for me to call my parents late in the afternoon to tell them I'm coming back some time in the evening.  That was the case yesterday/Friday.  I told them 7, but I was hedging that it could be later than that.  See, it was my last day of the week at work, and I am not the type to leave a lot of work for one of my co-workers to pick up the next day.  We are leaving some work in The Third Department for the next day anyway, but I don't like it when I am faced with a ton of work that I consider to be the previous day's work because it pushes back when I get to today's work, which I also have to dedicate a lot of time to.  And since I don't like it when it's done to me, yesterday/Friday I felt like I could go a ways in order to do my part, and to leave my co-worker with something slightly more manageable so that she doesn't curse me under her breath.

Because of that, not only did I blow through eight hours of work, my set limit of ten hours of work has been obliterated often as well.  Now I'm just staying until I'm damn good and ready to leave.  And yesterday/Friday, I just kept going and going and going until I felt like my co-worker won't be pissed at how much I left for her.  That, however, caused me to stay past 7 -- like, way past 7.

I got done around a quarter to 8.  I called my parents in my car, to which Father told me I could heat up dinner myself.  No problem nowadays; I've done that several times for dinner after my folks have been home.  So I got home, turned off the alarm, and heated up the spaghetti they left for me.  And when they came home a bit later, they asked me why I didn't call to tell them I'd be later than 7.

Dammit.  I got caught up on work that I hurriedly tried to do.  But frankly, it didn't dawn on me to call because there have been several times where I would call, say I wasn't coming home until 7, I get home at around 7 ... and they have left dinner for me to heat up and help myself.  Once or twice they were going out for a walk to exercise off whatever they ate for dinner, which they had eaten before me.  More often, they were just cleaning dishes or scrolling through their phones or downstairs doing whatever they wanted to do.  I don't remember the last time they asked me why I didn't call to tell them I was going to be late, if ever.  And if they have never asked me why, I did not think it was a big deal that I came back 45 minutes after I told them I was coming home, which, again, was a time I was soft on.

Then again ... well, I think I did tell Father over the phone when I told him 7 that if I was going to be late, I'd call.  And I didn't.  And I can tell that Father was a little miffed about it, even though, like I said, I don't remember the last time he wondered why I didn't call to tell them I would be late.  I think it's water under the bridge, but knowing how passive-aggressive My Father can be, and knowing that they are leaving soon, he might think one day in the next couple weeks would be a good time to bust my balls over this, just to shore up his masculinity.

I feel so fucking guilty.  But goddamn, man, since when did they care what time I came home for dinner?

Couldn't Hide My Annoyance

So whenever I buy coffee or a mocha before coming to work, I transfer the cup into my mug so it keeps hot.  I do this in the break room, obviously, so I can get a stirrer and to make sure I pour it into the mug over a sink in case I spill.

The break room, however, has only one sink.  I guess it doesn't need two, but when it gets crowded, and it oftentimes does at work because some departments get scheduled breaks, it would make sense.  But it would make sense for me in this different case because, the other day, as I was about to do this pour, this guy from the lab comes up and starts to wash his hands.  He has done this before, and that is what annoyed me on this day.  Since it would be weird to remain right next to him, I scooted a couple feet away.  

Because I didn't want him to splash water or soap onto or into my cup or mug (usually there is still coffee left in the to-go cup, so I drink what's left in that, pour out a little more from my mug back into the to-go cup, drink all of that, then drink from my mug -- it's my thing), I grabbed both (or maybe one of the two, I don't remember that distinctly) when I scooted over.  And then, well, I just looked at him.  I looked at him while he thoroughly washed his hands, then grabbed a couple sheets of towels to dry them, then he started to walk away from the sink as he was drying his hands.  And that's when I swooped in to do my thing.  So, I think he got the impression that I was impatient and annoyed with him and that I would have rather him not be there.

And you know what?  That's totally true.  He ruined my routine.  All I wanted to do was pour my coffee/mocha and he interrupted that, and it wasn't the first time.  My problem was that I didn't hide it or give off the idea that what he did was not a big deal.  But by staring at him and waiting, I was totally saying, "Are you done yet?"  I didn't sigh heavily, but I might as well have.

So I'm afraid this incident is going to come back on me.  What happens if he does this again?  What happens if we cross paths in the lab?  Will he throw soapy water into my drink when I'm not looking?  Will he tip it over?  I'm not saying it will happen ... but there's a non-zero chance.  Just sayin'.

Motherfucker Back To His Cruel Ways

I'm just kind of running red right now because Father went through my bedroom and threw everything away.  Well, not everything, but the papers I keep around my bedroom which, for some goddamn reason, has always set him off.  I didn't think he would do it, but the occasion of my sister and brother-in-law gave him an excuse to go on his fucking cleaning jags.

I went home to see my bedroom a lot less, uh, "cluttered" than usual, and then I had to really control my temper in order not to lose it.  I acted passive-aggressively after that -- I had to go out and retrieve two bags of my stuff that motherfucker stuffed into the recycling bin (glad I did that; recycling day's today), I stomped into my sister's room and my former bedroom to find my other stuff, and I didn't eat much dinner (there wasn't much I liked anyway).  I didn't want to start a fight with My Fucking Father, but if My Fucking Father wanted to start a fight, I was ready to meet his challenge.  But he didn't, so I didn't.

And yet my paranoia and anger still wells in me.  I had to alter my plans tonight; I wanted to buy stuff at Target in anticipation of them coming back home, but I had to go to my storage unit to give my stuff safe harbor.  But there is still one big bag of my stuff that, for some fuckin' reason, My Fucking Father put into my old room and not the recycling bin.  He might've thought he couldn't throw it away.  But after I leave in the morning -- and I will leave earlier than I do, and because it's Halloween, I won't be coming back till late -- I could see him going outside, looking into the bin, see that I pulled stuff out (if he hasn't already suspected it), and dumping the rest of my stuff there.  Would he be so cruel?  Yes.  He's My Fucking Father.

The only reason I haven't is because, if he doesn't care enough to look at the bin in the morning, then he has done all he wanted to do, and moving even more stuff into storage is wasted energy when I have other shit I need to do.  But considering this supreme violation, I cannot put anything past him.  He had to fucking escalate again because he has nothing else in his life, that asshole.

Nope, Still Pissed (It Was Rigged!!!)

Yep, the more I see that bullshit sequence of Breanna Stewart shuffling her feet, taking at least five steps, shooting a miss but getting a bailout call on Alanna Smith, and then learning that all of that was upheld upon review ... yeah, that pisses me off.

Others have pointed out that there was a huge pro-New York Liberty slant on the broadcast, from the announcers to the graphics to the fans (to be fair, Game 5 was in Brooklyn).  But the goddamn Commissioner of the WNBA wearing a frock with the New York City skyline on it is ... it's either tone-deaf or a very, very inappropriate case of favoritism.  No, I'll go further -- all that bias proved that Game 5 was rigged so that the Liberty could win.  I mean it.  You may say that's a conspiracy theory, but the trick is in not believing the fake conspiracy theories and believing the real ones.  And swear to Buddha, Game 5 being in the bag for New York City is a real one, goddammit.

Work And Job

This week has been kind of weird, to be honest.  I initially took all this week off in anticipation of working somewhere else all week, even though I didn't work this Game last Year and wanted to.  When it wasn't looking as though I was working the Game all week, I had the option of taking back my paid time off to work at my day job instead.  I was severely lacking in paid time off later in the year.  But ... I really, really don't want to work in My Main Department right now.  Why?  Because I might hit somebody in the lab.

Guess I should talk about this now.  Once a week, all of us in The Main Department have to go in and open up packages to start getting urine samples ready to be tested.  It's a menial job, so everybody has to do it.  I think I've complained about this before, but sometimes these samples leak, and so you're reaching in to an open package and touching piss.  Sometimes it's really gross.  I don't know how people are unfazed by this, but I think I'm a very different person now that I have a job whereby I touch piss on occasion.  It's ... debasing.

Moreover, I had a run-in with one of the lab people a couple weeks ago.  This isn't the asshole who was riding me like a high schooler over accidentally cutting myself.  This was some older lady who has her own way of getting through all the hundreds of packages that we need to cut open and whose contents we need to get out for her, in that position, to scan into our system.  She was, let's just say, impatient, and I got that hostile vibe and so I kept away from her as much as possible.  I, of course, don't want to be there at all, but that does not motivate me to work faster.  Anyway, we were getting down to large packages, which the lab has as protocol the thing we do last because it takes time to open boxes that large packages usually come in.  I'm throwing the last of the packages onto the counter, and apparently one of them just happened to slide too close to her, so she throws it back to the other side of the counter -- missing me, but not by a lot -- and says, "No!  Not that!"  And that just made me vent at her: "Hey, sorry I threw that package your way!"  And it was loud enough for her and the other people at the workstation to hear, and probably to sense my defensive tone.

That was a couple weeks ago.  I am sure that if I added back dates this week, I would be sent into the lab.  And not as if I would run into her again -- like us, they are on a rotation as to who opens up packages at this station every day and every week -- but after that blow-up, I think it was a good idea to ensure that I don't go into that lab for another week.  I didn't go in there last week either (that was a decision made by my boss), and I think it's good I go at least two weeks without being seen in there.  Maybe cooler heads will prevail.

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Where was I?  I didn't think I would talk about that incident because I want to talk about the gig I have today.  Anyway, I compromised; I went in to my main job on Monday because I wanted to take back one day of work.  Turns out, by the way, that the day I am taking off next week I am getting back; my boss asked me to come in on Saturday, and that would replace Tuesday, when I am coming back on my flight.  After these two weeks, I will have two more days off of paid time off I can take this fall and winter, which is two more than I thought I would have.

But I am only working this other gig today/Thursday.  The other days ... well, I went and am going to the State Fair.  It's weird to wake up whenever you want to instead of when you have to wake up.  I mean, it's great, but I remember that for three of these four days I could have gone in to work instead.  Instead, I'm waking up largely when my body wants to wake up, which was, I think, 10:45 Tuesday and around 9:15, maybe, yesterday/Wednesday.  And I have been lazing around thinking, "OK, what should I do?"  I am, hate to say it, kind of bored.

And this gig, by the way, starts at 1.  It's a lot better than having, say, a 7 a.m. call time.  But I woke up on my own at a quarter to 10 when I set my alarm for 11:30.  I think I'm ready to go to work now.  But I have 90 minutes to go before it's showtime.  And by the way, I think I am setting my alarm for 11 (to go to the Fair) tomorrow, but my body might be awake well before then.  I was looking forward to my body having time overnight to sleep and wake on its own, and yet it seems like I'm waking up too early.  I might be scaring myself more than I need to.

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This blog post became different than what I initially thought it would be.

I'm A Teenage Rebel Again!

And just as I feared, Father talked to me last/Saturday night about today/Sunday.  He first asked me if I were going anywhere, to which I said, "Uh, I don't know."  And so he asked me to mow the lawn.  I checked the lawn yesterday/Saturday afternoon after I woke up.  From the second floor, the grass doesn't look tall at all.  Now, when I got into my car and was able to see it close-up, yesh, I guess it could use a military trim, but it wasn't that bad.  It was last mowed last Sunday.  I know that because Father fuckin' mowed the lawn and woke me out of bed at 8 o'clock in the goddamn morning.

And then, as he was leaving, he threw in a, "Maybe you should go to bed!"  And it's 3 in the fucking morning and I have no fucking plans on going to bed.  He just turned me back into a teenage rebel again!  You want me to mow the lawn!  OK then, I'll go wake up in the early morning and go to the Black Hart to watch EPL first, then go to St. Thomas and see the Tommies women's soccer team play the University of Minnesota, and then I'll go get gas for my car, and then I'll stop by Dairy Queen because it'll probably be past 1 p.m. and that's when the Excessive Heat Warning starts (and it won't end until 8 Monday evening), and then I'll mow.  OK?  I ain't staying home.  I'll mow the lawn, but I ain't staying home.  And I'll mow when I want to fucking mow.

But ... OK, so I spent last night at the MNUFC Match.  I got there on time even though the kickoff was 5:30 and not 7:30.  I actually prefer earlier kickoff times, but only if we eat dinner early, and we didn't this time around, probably because we had lunch at noon.  In my mad drive to Allianz Field, I realized I couldn't take my usual route because I would come to a screeching halt in State Fair traffic.  I got to the Match in time, but because I had to drive longer than I usual do, I eschewed sunscreen, and my seat got hit with the blazing sun about 15 minutes into the Game.  Right now, my skin feels like it's on fire.  So, do I really feel good about sitting on iron bleachers with sunscreen but no other sun protection for 105 Minutes when the temperature is supposed to be hotter than it was?  I do not.

Add to it that I would have to wake up early in order to see the EPL, and that I would be driving to essentially the same place in St. Paul two days in a row, something I don't like to do unless it's home or work, and there are many, many reasons not to go out.  Frankly, on the way home from the Match I thought about sleeping in instead of going out.  And even though I can't really do that if I have to mow the fucking lawn ... well, maybe I won't go out.  I take that back; I should get gas for my car, and in my own impotent way of semi-rebellion, I might go out to DQ anyway, because my parents are leaving in the morning to do repairs on the house they own.  So I am going out!  Just not in the way I kind of wanted to go out.  Sorta.

Yeah, I'm a total rebel.