Yesterday the apartment mate came home steamed. She had chauffeured her boyfriend ("wheelie boy") down to San Jose, and apparently "the motha-f**ker didn't shut up the entire g-dda**ed time!" From which one can deduce that he's a lousy back-seat driver. As well as not entirely sane, because a sane person does NOT irritate someone with Asperger's syndrome driving on the freeway in the middle of a rainstorm.
After ranting for half an hour about her boyfriend, she turned on real-life crime on teevee, to help her relax. Jealous wives and husbands, guns, murder, and blood spattered walls.
In retrospect, I had a much better day. North of San Francisco, the rain stopped shortly after I got to work. The sun even came out briefly. No conversational hazards to speak of, as the cigar smokers were too busy howling at the football game on teevee.
I got a lot done.
Her pressing need for a drink afterwards does disturb me somewhat. She opened up a can of Hansen's Orange Soda to reward herself and unwind. This is not normal. I usually fix myself a nice soothing cup of coffee upon coming home, that's the ticket. It clears the mind.
I seldom if ever drink soda at home.
But I did not grow up here.
It's very American.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
A DUMPSTER FIRE OF TWITTERY
Often while at work I get to hear the sour old dingbats in the backroom spouting Republican drivel and venom. Which does not leave me positi...
No comments:
Post a Comment