Mid Month Lull?

When I I first got my fancy new phone (or a phone as others call it), my roommate told me how she hoped I’d blog from different places. I haven’t really blogged that many places considering I’ve had my fancy new phone since mid Spring. Or was it late spring? Damn it, it was right after I met Hotty McHotster. So whenever that was. Regardless, I haven’t really taken my blog on the road as I could have been… That is until today. Roommate, your hopes and dreams are coming true! For I am blogging at work.

Wild and exciting times indeed! Today was one of those days when everyone on my schedule must have coordinated with each other. Either they were going to have ridiculously short sessions or not show up at all. This synchronised move allowed me/gave me zero excuse not to get at least a small portion of paperwork done. I entered information into not well-designed forms and signed things that ought to have been signed months ago. Shit like that. Then I hit a wall. My scan folder is full again.

Since reaching my limit, I’ve been part of several snapchat videos despite not actually being on snapchat. I’ve also searched the Internet for things I don’t really need, but still I’m considering purchasing anyway. Because ‘Murica that’s why. Finally, I decided to blog due to not yesterday. But I have an excellent excuse. I took a non-japanophile out for his first bowl of real ramen, which also happened to be the first time he used chopsticks to eat. Trust me, if you witnessed what I did, you’d be cherishing that moment for yourself as long as you could too. It’s something I would recommend for everyone. Seriously find a person in your life have them eat soup using chopsticks for the first time.

Right. Work is interfering with my blogging. I guess the mid month lull isn’t as strong as I thought.

 

Dying Slowly

I do believe my commute to and from work is killing me. Slowly. I don’t mean like I’m going to die in a fiery crash. Although, I very well could. I’d just prefer not to go down that way… yet. Things are starting to get good in my life. But that’s a different blog for a different time. This blog is about all the hateful ways my commute is choking me… proverbially speaking. Just to preempt everything: 1) I love where I work. The vibe at our branch is amazing and my co-workers there are joys and delights forever. In fact, I hope some of them read this and then proceed to feel warm and gushy inside and 2) I love where I live. The neighborhood is cool with plenty of places to go. My roommate is fucking incredible. That’s all I gotta say about that. However, these two delightful, meaningful places and people are not near each other at all.

If you’ve ever been to Seattle, you’ll know that the freeway/motorway through the city narrows. Which was fucking genius lemme tell you!! And my genius I mean completely and fucking stupid and has been the bane of my existence for much too long. Having said that, don’t even get me started about trying to get on said freeway from my neighborhood. Again, I have to wonder just what the fuck the city planners were thinking. When I was down in San Diego, I noticed there were a couple spots here and there where it was poor design, but it wasn’t like it is in Seattle. Traffic flowed in San Diego… at least when we were out. In Seattle, especially around downtown, does it rarely flow. Probably closer to never than rarely.

It’s common knowledge I’m not a “morning person”. So, having to drive through the aforementioned shit show in the morning, many things go through my mind. I thought I’d blog alllllll the things that go through my mind that I’m usually too tired and/or shocked to say. But that would be a long ass blog. No one wants to read that much profanity and hatred. However, what I did decide was that writing about general themes would be okay. As you have already read, you know how I feel about the city planners of Seattle. Various and colorful insults are regularly spewed their way. But there are other trash receptors of my commute.

The other major receptor of the filth spewing from my mind and occasionally my mouth are trucks. Not just any trucks, but trucks who drive in the far left lane… going up hill. Really mother fucker!? I’m pretty sure in truck driving school, they’re taught not to do that. I’m pretty sure they do it because they just want to watch my head explode. That’s right. I’m making it personal. Cause it’s all about me. Or at least it is in my head when I can barely see straight due to some asshole who thinks 55 is an acceptable speed in the far left lane. Spoiler alert: It’s not. Ever. Also don’t get mad at me trucks when I pass you on the right when you’re blocking the left lane. Because you can just suck my dick for not getting out of the way.

Okay, I clearly went in the direction I said I wasn’t going to go. Apologies. But it is Monday after all. The sun was in my eyes both ways. And it’s my fucking blog, so I can bitch about what I want. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want. Unless of course, you’re in my life and I’m like “dude you HAVE to read my blog.” And you do because you fear the consequences…. you know who you are. But the rest of you. That’s clearly no the case. You have freedom of choice. Exercise your rights, dear reader.

Going Home

The weekend was fucking amazing. I know I bitched A LOT in my last blog, and the pain in the assness of Friday was well worth it. Now I’m exhausted, but in an entirely different way than I was on Friday. And I just saw a giant Picachu sticking out of the backpack of a grown ass man. Well, at least he looked like a grown ass man. I’m also baffled by these shorted folks who are travelling to Seattle. People! Do you not know it is fucking freezing there??? It is not San Diego. But perhaps those shorted persons are not staying in Seattle; they’ll only be there a brief amount of time. Still though, your layover is going to suck major ass.

But that’s none of my business. My business is with Mordor. Wait, no. That’s not what I meant. I had great conversations with both my brother and sister-in-law. We had good talks about our lives. And even though it’s stuff that cannot be shared yet, we were all happy for each other and are looking forward to the upcoming months. For someone who has fiercely avoided talking about the happenings in my life with my family, it was a nice change of pace. And their reactions to me was much better than I expected. Which leads me to think about how often I blow things out of proportion in my head.

As someone who overthinks, the answer is far more than what I would like it to be. But mother fucking damnit, I can justify it!!! I can make it work for me. And all the people who have to tolerate the wrath of my overthinking are currently shaking their heads if they are reading this blog. You know who you are. Right. Anyway. The point is, I’m begining to realize the worry I had over the specific topic I discussed with them was entirely pointless. Actually it was more with regards to their reaction to what I had to tell them. Still though, I spent a good portion of the past couple of weeks occasionally (like 4 times… a day) freaking the fuck out.

So who knows, perhaps in the future I’ll be calmer about sharing aspects of my life with my family. But if I’m honest I’ve probably hid too much for too long for things to change now. However, I’d like to believe that maybe one day my family will have more of a fuller picture of who I am and what I’m doing and my beliefs. I mean that’s what people who are excited about the future do, right? They have hope things are going to get better. Just like that one song.

The Uglies of Travelling

So, it’s a long weekend in America. I had been to Japan and Europe and had booked another trip to Europe since the last time I visited my brother and sister-in-law in San Diego, I may have been guilted into going down there this weekend. This week I was given a verbal okay from my boss that she’d approve my time off for Europe, so I started booking travel when I’m there. Needless to say, (but obviously I’m going to say it anyway) I’ve super excited about travelling in general this week. That is until I entered the airport property and was nearly side-swiped by a taxi.

I pulled into the first space in terminal and go out of the car. I told my parents I’d walk from there, because I in fact had forgotten about the dark side of travelling. The side that brings out the very worst in humanity. Now you may be raising a skeptical eyebrow at my “very worst in humanity” remark, but if you’re doing that you’ve probably never been on an overbooked flight. Or on a delayed flight. Or stood in a security line with someone who hasn’t had their morning coffee and isn’t paying attention to order and cuts… Okay that last one I’m guilty of. Still though the bitch in front of me should haven’t have left enough room in front of her for three other people.

You get the idea. Or you’ve travelled before, so you know first hand. Normally, people are just generally awful when at the airport. Usually, grown ups aren’t throwing full on temper tantrums at people who have zero power about their company’s policy. At least, I hadn’t witnessed it before to that extent. Notice the tense of the verb there? So, I got to the gate pretty early, as the flight before mine was still boarding. It was obviously full and people were being asked to check their bags, since the overhead bins were full. I mean a fairly standard request, especially on a holiday weekend.

Apparently, not for the dude who was fully on throwing a temper tantrum over being asked to check his bag. I wasn’t sitting right by the gate. I was sitting about a football field’s length away from him. And I could clearly hear him shouting about his rights to have a carry on. And his rights to not have to tolerate such tomfoolery. (That last one I ad libbed a bit. Gotta keep this mother fucking R.) He then started complaining about the airlines. And whilst his complaints were totally valid, and in fact I may have used some of the same adjectives to describe travelling by flight myself, the workers at the gate, have no power to change company policy. It’s like shouting at the checker at your local supermarket about the prices.

Suddenly, I was thankful this cock pirate wasn’t on my flight. I was thankful my flight had been changed to later. He would be no travel companion of mine. It was then I noticed there was a lady with him. Now it could have been his sister or a friend or a partner. Regardless, it got me thinking what I’d do if I was travelling with someone I cared about who acted in such a manner. The answer is simple. I’d leave their aunt fucking ass right. I don’t have the patience to tolerate such behavior. Nor chewing loudly. But that really doesn’t have anything to do with anything. And I have to go to the bathroom before I board. Because with my luck, I’ll get stuck on the tarmac for hours without usage of the toilet.

Exercise Soulmate

The idea of soulmate is antiquated to say the least. Well… that’s how I’ve justified me not finding one thus far. I must admit, it’s probably half a step above me just labeling the entire myth as stupid. See what I did there? Called it a myth because it’s not something I believe in. It’s right up there with unicorns. To be fair, I haven’t done much learning on what a soulmate actually is. Hell! For all I know, I could be spelling it wrongly, and it could be an idea relating entirely to shoes. However, what I’ve heard on TV (the most reliable source for any sort of learning), revolved mostly around a creation story of people being two halves of a whole. Or something along those lines. Fine, fine, fine, I wasn’t actually paying attention and it was a long time ago.

Anyway, I thought the idea of soulmate (solemates) was preposterous until I met my exercise soulmate. Now, ¬†you may be asking yourself just what in the fuck am I talking about. And you’d be totally legit in questioning me. I mean, it’s not everyday one talks about, let alone meets their exercise soulmate. I first noticed her shortly after I started going to the kickboxing parlor. Mostly because she was doing stuff I wanted to do and we were roughly the same shape and size. I’m probably a couple inches taller, but for the most part the rest matches quite well, in my humble opinion.

As I watched her like a creeper over the months from the other side of the bags, I noticed she swore a lot. Much like myself. Then I overheard her talking about eating Cheetos, and I may have laughed. Aloud. Like a stalker. But whatever. Over time, we began to exchange words. Like actual words and not just grunts whilst giving each other knuckles at the end of a class. It started off simple with a smile and hey before class as we were both wrapping our hands. Then as conversation does, it moved to alcohol and potatoes. Don’t you fucking judge me, you know you’ve had conversations like that on more than one occasion. It turns out we had more in common than swearing. Apparently, she, like myself, does the kickboxing in order to continue to drink copious amount on the weeks and eat a glutton’s worth of potatoes (prepared anyway).

After that conversation, I was lost. I started looking forward to seeing her at the parlor. I couldn’t wait to make snide comments about the instructor and/or curse s/he out under my breath with my exercise soulmate as we attempted to do side lunges. She totally impressed me when she started to do personal training, because she actually wanted to start losing weight and not just maintaining. We laughed at my early weight gain, I mean when I told her about it. I was still stalking her from the other side of the bags when said weight gain actually occurred. And that is how I became comfortable with the idea of soulmates. At least exercise soulmates.

A Butter Knife.

Okay. Okay. Okay. I’ve total shit at writing my blog lately. But my latest excuse is totally legit. Well, maybe not totally. Semi. The latest excuse is semi-legit. Nah. That’s not really right either. Fiiiine. My latest excuse is totally fucking weird, and I probably should be ashamed. Except. I’m kind impressed with myself. It was a whole new level of clumsy. See. I cut the hell out of my middle finger with a butter knife. (Insert crickets chirping here.) No, no. You read correctly. There’s going to be a (another) scar on the middle finger of my left hand. And this time it will be because I cut it with a butter knife. In fact, it was so bad it hurt to type for a week.

There are many perils in the kitchen I’ve learned to be cautious of over the years. Being a clumsy person, they haven’t even been the most obvious one. The corners of cabinets and their hinges and the mats and the like. Of course, there are all the regular dangers. Broils in the oven and butcher knives and boiling water and cheese graters. Notice. Not once did I mention a butter knife. A butter knife isn’t a peril; it’s just a tool. A dull one at that. I mean, forks are more dangerous than a fucking butter knife. The butter knife is JUST a step above the spoon. It’s madness.

I was trying to cut a piece of really cold butter with said butter knife. Nothing out of the ordinary at this in point. Because of the solid state of the butter, I used a little more pressure than needed. However, the butter was in fact buttery, and thus the knife slipped, somehow landing on my middle finger. Seriously, the middle finger on my left hand is victim to most kitchen mishaps and is already fucked up from said mishaps. When it happened, due to it being a butter knife, I ignored the pain and continued on my way. It wasn’t until I was eating my food that I realized my middle finger was gushing blood, and there was a trail of blood leading from the kitchen to the table. As well as random smears here and there.

Needless to say, I was confounded. It was now literally a bloody butter knife. A week later, I’m finally in the place where I feel like I can write about it. The picture I posted to Facebook gave my coworkers plenty to make fun of me for the following day. Said picture also rallied the support of all my clumsy friends. On a completely unrelated note, I have a shit ton of clumsy friends. So, I guess the silver lining to this could be that me cutting myself with a butter knife made many feel better about themselves and bonded all my clumsy people together with stories of their own clumsiness. Perhaps one day, with enough passage of time, it will be a beautiful thing. Or it will always be a source of laughter for those who know me.

Camping…

Something completely new for me… Just pics from the weekend.