Received today: friend request from an old girlfriend. Second time I’ve been contacted via the facebooks by a Serious* Former Girlfriend.
I haven’t figured out how to deal with this yet.
The other SFG (“J”) who contacted me sent me a message saying, basically, “sorry I was a horrible evil fucking bitch whore who deserved to die in a fire.”** I sent her a polite message in response and denied the friend request, as, realistically, we were never really friends. We met and became a couple shortly afterwards. My feelings for her proceeded from lust to love to raw searing hatred. But now that those feelings have long passed… what? There is no basis for friendship; our lives intersected a long time ago, we had quite a lot of fun doing drugs and fucking, and then that was over. I don’t regret it, nor do I wish her ill, I just honestly don’t give a shit.
And now “C” has contacted me. No message, just a friend request out of nowhere. Not sure what to do with this. I don’t consider C to be actually evil like J, and C was actually in the friend category for a while before things escalated, so I will probably accept the request to see what she wants. Last time I saw her, she had recently gotten married but wanted to get something going with me on the side, because apparently I am good at the sex.
* i.e., not a dated for a while and/or fucked a few times then broke up and moved on with no hard feelings on either side girlfriend, but a totally for reals in love for a year or two of my life and then shit went wrong and crashed and completely fucked me up for a bit girlfriend.
** everything after “sorry” is implied and/or inferred.
My mom is in town.
Last week: I was on call so could not drink. On call at my current employment is horrible; as we are an extremely small company without a 24/7 NOC*, so alerts are sent as text messages to the on-call engineer’s phone. Unacknowledged alerts then proceed to the backup on-call engineer’s phone, then to everyone’s phone. It ends up being an extra 20 hours or so of work, spread out enough so that you can never get more than about 2 hours of sleep in one sitting. Laying. Whatever.
Meanwhile, Mrs. KPTL’s mother had some sort of health issues that required her to stay at our house over the weekend, so I’ve slept in an air mattress in my office the last few nights. Which actually kind of works out, what with being on call and all.
Tonight, however, I can drink and Mrs. KPTL is out of town on important business. Mr. KPTL Jr. and I went to a local establishment where I can enjoy some fine beers and walk home. During our meal I listened to the mother at the table next to us lecture her young daughter at length on the importance of not smoking port and/or having sex.
As a side note, this particular establishment used to have a hot waitress, who looked like a cross between Eliza Dushku and … that other actress. My mind is drawing a blank right now – people tend to think she’s hot, but I keep seeing her as the less-hot chick on That 70’s Show, the tall redhead being much hotter. But still not as hot as Eliza Dushku.
Back to waitresses, usually we get the waitress who has the haircut of a teenage boy in 1985 who is a fan of the “new wave” music, however per the restaurant’s occasional “meet our random employee” feature on their facebook page, she may currently be on her honeymoon after getting married to a guy(!). So, some other random waitress, neither hot nor a dike in a sham marriage.
Anyways, this story has no real ending or point, other than to say hooray, I can drink again.
* Network Operations Center, which is either a team of low-level engineers who do basic troubleshooting or a fucktarded bunch of helpdesk drones, depending on the company. My last company saw the former morph into the latter over the course of several years. Not that all of the current NOC denizens are real live fucktards, mind you – some of them date to the days of actual troubleshooting – it’s just that they have been stripped of all access privileges, and can no longer do anything other than push power/reset buttons and tell people to send a traceroute.
I had to work today so I’m starting my drinking kind of late.
I’ve got a bunch of large bottles of beer in the fridge, still wrapped in paper bags from the store, and will be pulling things out at random and consuming them throughout the evening. Meanwhile Mrs. KPTL and her parents will be watching kids movies until Master KPTL Jr. falls asleep, at which point my MiL will probably put on QVC or some shit like that.
Anyways, the important thing is I’ll be drinking. I’m just finishing up a 22 of Pike Brewing Auld Acquaintance Hoppy Holiday Ale.
Update: now drinking something called Antigoon. May need to take this to Defcon.
Update 2: now drinking some Hangar 24 Local Fields Warmer (from Redlands, California, “Inland Empire” shithole and hometown of founding members of Kevorkian Death Cycle and BOL). Strong Ale brewed with maple syrup, spruce, and cinnamon.
BTW, I would like to mention that Hanger 24 is suspiciously suddenly “big” – I never heard of them a year ago, now they appear to be everywhere in large quantities. They also had a giant truck at the recent winter beer festival I attended (the “OC Brew Ho Ho”), rivaling the giant tent by Stone. Odd.
Update 3: Chatoe Rogue First Growth 19 Original Colonies Mead (brewed with Jasmine). Brewed using 5 ingredients: Rogue Hopyard Honey, Wild Flower Honey, Jasmine Silver Tip Green Tea Leaves, Champagne Yeast & Free Range Coastal Water. According to the bottle. Tastes like honey minus the sweetness.
Update 4: the young Master KPTL is out, and we’re watching whatever the fuck crap people have put on. Meanwhile, I am finally getting around to reading Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain.
Vegetarians, and their Hezbollah-like splinter-faction, the vegans, are a persistent irritant to any chef worth a damn. To me, life without veal stock, pork fat, sausage, organ meat, demi-glace, or even stinky cheese is a life not worth living. Vegetarians are the enemy of everything good and decent in the human spirit, an affront to all I stand for, the pure enjoyment of food.
Update 5: Everyone but me has gone to bed. The Twilight Zone Marathon is on, but I just barely missed To Serve Man, Nightmare at 20,000 Feet, and Talking Tina. Fuck.
Update 6: Clock has ticked past mid-night in my time-zone, making it now 2013, so happy new year. I’m going to crack open a bottle of Upright Seven that I purchased past the security line at PDX last time I was in Portland and watch a few DVR’d episodes of the Looney Toons Show.
Update 7: Goddamn, Upright Seven is foamy as fuck.
When I was 19 I was living in the Avenues of Salt Lake City. I was always broke, hungry, and worried about transportation to work. I lived with female goths and we spent a lot of time listening to music, drinking coffee, and smoking.
I like ridiculously spicy food, I’d eat things that I knew were going to be awful later. No one was making me do it and certainly no one was ever impressed. Or not in the positive way a young man would like to be seen. I knew that even then, most were just grossed out. But it wasn’t for shock value, I behaved the same when I was alone or whether I was with people. I’d often eat things that were too hot for me.
This led to me believing that bathrooms should install a support handle in front of toilets to lean on. I call this the oh-god-it-burns-bar.
On a particularly cash poor day I had no functioning vehicle and suddenly no job to get to. I had been out of coffee creamer or anything to pretend to be creamer for some time. On one afternoon, which I was then referring to as morning, I tapped a few drops of decidedly orange habenero chile sauce into my coffee. The first sip was good, each tasted worse and worse.
That didn’t stop me from continuing to spike my coffee with various hot sauces as a flavoring condiment much like the caramel and chocolate syrups used in a latte.
On one particular evening I was at Bill and Nadas with a friend drinking coffee. Bill and Nada’s is now gone but the nightlife of several decades all remember it. It had been a stop for many US presidents, complete with photos of some of them visiting with the original founders. Bill kept the place the same from 1946 until it finally closed after his death.
The friend I was with, was like most of my friends at the time, older than myself and gothic. She often spent the night at my apartment, but was like a sister to me, we were very close. She is now a bleach blonde Idaho resident, married with three kids, and dressing like a mother ten years older than she is. She also doesn’t talk to any of her old friends and I suspect she found god.
Anyhow, we were at Bill And Nada’s Cafe, where we frequently went for food before or after clubbing. I was drinking coffee with rye toast and pretending that the main reason we were there this evening wasn’t because I was trying to get the nerve to ask the waitress out. I didn’t need to ask for hot sauce, it was right there on each and every table. My friend’s mouth opened when I took the bottle and removed the cap and was obviously about to put it in my coffee. The waitress just then came to our table to ask us something but forgot what she was doing when she saw me do that. Her face made it obvious she didn’t approve.
“Why would you do that?” She couldn’t even look me in the eyes.
“I was abused as a child?” I queried for her approval.
My friend tried a sip, her nose wrinkled, and she said it was like drinking acid.
I said “death”.
“It’s like drinking death.”
The conversation changed or my memory just chose to forget anything else from that evening. I soon gave up the coffee hot sauce blend, dubbing it “nihilist’s coffee”. I never asked her out and months after she was hefting someone’s large baby around inside her petite frame, which blatantly meant she was already pregnant when I’d tried to ask her out.
Circa 1996 I was living with three goth girls, not entirely awesome sauce. I was accused of stealing the cassette below, which I didn’t do, nor did I use cassettes at that time. The Sky’s Gone Out, Bauhaus tape, was stuck in my car stereo so I had no option to play anything else.
When I was moving out I found the cassette behind the TV. Though not angry, I took it anyhow. Much to my laughter I found the tape had melted at some point and would have been impossible to use.
That particular roommate is someone I still know, and she has a long history of accusing me of stealing bizarre things. Knowing her well, I’d say she herself is neither a liar nor a thief but she seems to think most people are.
I currently keep the cassette sleeve with the original CD.