Yeah, it’s four in the morning and I’m up. I have to leave for work in two hours. I haven’t been to sleep. At all.
It’s gonna be a great day.
I have no reason or excuse for it. Things are going pretty damn well.
I’m not feeling depressed. Things with Denise are amazing and I’m gonna get to see her again in a couple weeks. Work is going well although I wish they would get their shit together and get me in the position I’m supposed to be in soon, but it’s the Federal Government and they don’t do anything in a hurry so I’m not really stressed about it.
I haven’t had a relapse or even an inkling of one and really, everything is just . . . PEACHY!
So WTF, Insomnia?! Why do you have to be a dick?
Because you know you’re just going to keep me wide awake right now and I’ll be fine most of the way through the work day, but when I have to drive home this afternoon I’ll be teetering on the edge of consciousness with my head stuck out the window to stay awake which won’t do me a goddamn bit of good because it’s fucking FLORIDA for cryin’ out loud and it’ll be 75 degrees.
It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just my fucked up head.
I’m legally crazy, you know?
I have a note from my doctor, so I can prove it.
Right now it’s 4:20 AM. So this one is for my son . . .
No, neither of us smokes weed, but it’s a thing my son like to text me at 4:20 PM . . . Erry. Damn. Day.
So take that, Devil Spawn!!
To pass the time until I have to go to work (instead of attending to my newest addiction, American Horror Story on Netflix – Thank you, Denise!!), I’ll bestow upon you some of the brief funnies from the holidays. Just some shit to giggle over.
After all, I did promise you that I had a couple of quick stories from dear old dad for you.
So I’ll start with the appetizer story, because it’s my own fault. I said a long time ago I was never again going to eat out in public with my father again.
He took us out to eat the day after Christmas. To the restaurant my son works at.
Because he had a coupon for a free appetizer.
And also they generally give him my son’s employee discount.
So all the way around it was a financially responsible meal.
And we all agreed that the crab dip was a good choice for the appetizer. It really was delicious, even with lemon on it, which is the important part of this little tidbit. The crab dip was placed in the middle of the table for all four of us to share. My mom, my son and myself each grabbed a piece of the bread to dip into the delicious crab concoction.
My dad grabbed the entire plate, slid it toward himself and proceeded to squeezed an entire fucking lemon over the entire fucking plate of crab dip. Then proceeded to be entirely fucking clueless when all three of us looked at him like he just set the waitress on fire.
“What?”, he said.
“Maybe not EVERYONE at the table wanted lemon on the crab dip, but THANKS for asking!”, I said.
Nothing. Not “sorry”. Not “Oh.” Not nothing. Just that look that I’ve come to know so well that means “No one else’s opinion matters anyway, and I’m paying for it so why do I give a shit what anyone else thinks.”
Except he didn’t pay for it.
He had a goddamn coupon.
I saw my father for a grand total of MAYBE 2 hours the whole time I was home for Christmas.
I’m cutting it back to an hour next year.
Then there was the tool box.
The goddamn tool box that I had in his shed that had apparently recently become the bane of his existence. The tool box that came up in conversation no less than 6 times inside of that 2 hours of quality father/son time we had, because for some reason it was vitally important that I take that tool box with me when I leave.
“He’s not in his own place, Fred, he probably doesn’t have room for it right now.”, my mother said. No less than 6 times.
It was like she never even spoke.
The tool box was going to leave with me come hell or high water.
It wasn’t in his way. It wasn’t an inconvenience. Hell, when I went into the shed to get it, I didn’t even see it at first. It was stashed up underneath a workbench in a dark little corner, not near anything. Not blocking anything and most certainly not in the path of any kind of a traffic pattern. In fact, until he reached under that work bench and pulled it out, it was like it didn’t even exist.
But I know my father and I can tell you EXACTLY what happened and why that tool box became an obsession. No, I don’t know this for a fact, but I can tell you with 110% accuracy that this is what happened:
He had to move it one time. He was cleaning or organizing or looking for something or doing SOMETHING, and in the process of doing it, he had to move it. Six inches, six feet, it doesn’t matter. He had to move it and it was in HIS personal space and it wasn’t his and therefore it must go. Immediately and with great haste.
It was, in fact, the last thing he said to me before I left.
“You got that tool box?”
Yeah, that was AFTER he said “Bye.”
So there it is. In it’s new home. Where it’s been for the last two weeks. Resting comfortably on the back seat of my car.
Screw the hour. Next year I’m just gonna stay at Denise’s and go see them if they go to my brothers since Denise only lives about 10 minutes from him.
I like that plan.
On a side note from my last post, FedEx finally showed up with my new iPhone. It’s beautiful, it’s huge and yes, it’s already jailbroken. That’s just how I roll. And it’s huge. I know, I said that already but Denise already busted out with the “That’s what she said” jokes so I had to emphasize.
And just for fun, here is a pic of #myidiotcoworker getting his ass entirely kicked by a paper shredder.
“I just don’t understand this high tech stuff.” Yes, that is really what he said as he tried to stuff papers that he had already shredded by hand into the paper shredder.
After we explained to him where the power button was.
Am I horrible for hoping that he’d shove his finger in JUST far enough?
Alright, it’s getting close to time for me to get ready for work, so I’ll just wrap this up as an “I have insomnia and here is the crazy shit my dad did at Christmas” post.
The self-hosting site is pretty much ready to go live with just a couple of tweeks to do here and there. I just need my first
victim sucker client to help me test out the system to get it started off . . . so if any of you is looking to self-host, give me a shout down there in the comments and I’ll send you a private message with my phone number and I’ll get you set up and on your way. When I have that rolling in all of its fully automated glory, the posts from me will start rolling on the regular again.
As soon as I’m done with American Horror Story.
Text message of the week . . . because Tom is one of my best bud’s in the whole world but that dumbass chose to live like 5 miles from the Canadian border. A trip to the grocery store and he doesn’t even get to be a citizen anymore.
Also, all the grammar lessons I’ve given him over the past 8 years or more and he still can’t pick the right “you’re”.