I am a simple man and generally happy. But, there are things during the week that are not to be fucked with and cause me great anger if tampered with.
Seeing my kids’ smiles while coming through the front door after work, a Ward Clever moment for sure, but nothing relives tiredness faster then an eight month old’s hockey smirk while holding onto the safety gate at the front steps.
My perfectly made Captain and Coke on Thursday nights while reclining in the porch with future donators preparing to funnel virtual dollars into my quasi-legal online poker accounts.
Saturday morning breakfast, consisting of at least two to four meats, eggs, potatoes, and cheese to be fried up together over a little bit of olive oil while watching Thomas the Tank Engine and Sagwa with the kids.
Porn time later at night with a selection of peppermint lotions and fisting lesbians (hat tip to Mr. Bracelet on that find) while three tabling the $100 PLO8 tables. Don’t worry I sit out while cleaning up.
But there’s something yesterday that tilted my little space on Earth, as I do not consider myself an anti-social person despite the appearance as such with my hearing disability. While at work I take my lunch hour a little sooner then most to sit alone and enjoy a chocolate chip cookie, the Star Trib, and whatever leftovers my wife shuttles along (today is a decent score from my sister-in-law’s birthday dinner at Famous Dave’s, including a not-so-horrible beef brisket, corn bread muffin, and skin-on mashed taters). I sit alone because its my alone time during the day, much like if I get the privilege of throwing countless play chips at people who raise with Q554 and stack off on a straight draw (got notes, will get his mobneys next time), later at night after Wyatt has been read his alphabet book of the evening and Vegas gets her late night snack of Gerber’s sweet potato puffs.
Alone time is a precious commodity to me, not unlike gold, t-bills, or a Playboy Playmate’s rack. The time I spend alone when you’re surrounded by others for nearly the whole day gives me the space needed to refuel myself, which sounds selfish but losing your self-awareness would hurt the relationships in my life if I became a colorless 9 to 5er with the same set schedule and routine each day.
As I sat down yesterday to my plate of reheated chicken pot pie from Costco (highly recommended even renuked) there was a little bird who flew in five minutes after I sat down at the opposite end of adjacent four seat tables. I nodded politely and went back to reading about the Wild kicking Edmonton’s ass via the Rolston/Gaborik/Demitra tri-headed scoring monster. Then like crows on an electrical wire more little (and large) birdies starting filling up the seats until the table was full.
My feathers were officially ruffled. I know it’s an inane problem, solvable by moving to another seat, but couldn’t they have moved to one of the other 100+ tables in the lunchroom that were not occupied at the time and not popped my personal space bubble?
Perhaps. But, they were following their routine as well, as they sit at the same table every day in the same seats. Who was more at fault for changing someone else’s routine? The ladies who failed to see the curmudgeon luncheon consumer, or the guy who just wanted to learn a little bit about Mathew Lecroy’s potential return to the Twins in peace.
Today I may try something different and sit in the middle of the table to see if they flock around me or fly away to other spaces easily reached. But, then I wouldn’t get my alone time.
Thanks for dropping by, now if you wanted to know how Miami Don became Vegas Don, please hit up a very well-written self-exploring piece at his site. Bravo sir, and hopefully will see you in about a month.
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