Are you gonna be my girl?

 The Boomers are hosting a brunch tomorrow, my contribution being celery, green olives, and a gallon of tomato juice. There’s also mimosas, a waffle bar, eggs, bacon, hash browns, fresh fruit—I make out a tin of kippers and demand they be added to my scrambled eggs. I love throwing the Boomers off with shit like that.

Where I live is out in the literal middle of nowhere, about three and a half miles from where I-10 feeds I-8, a true geographic oddity.

As I mentioned here and here, I landed in a 55+ community where the rent is cheap—my place would go for 2400+ in Phoenix. And it’s more like a townhouse than an apartment with two floors, two bedrooms, no one upstairs or down. There are ten units total—some three bedrooms—and largely rely on Walmart and Target delivery for things other than fresh meat and produce. There is truly one stoplight in town and it’s not incorporated, just a bunch of houses and businesses thrown up in the ass-end of the middle of the desert.

When I go out to smoke, there’s Steve, increasingly drunk every time I need a nicotine fix. He’s the maintenance man here, pulled a long butt plug from a pretty-much stopped up toilet in #1, won’t post his pic of the item on reddit because he’s also a pussy.

When I actively avoid him (if I see him waking away from the smoking area in our courtyard), I have a 50/50 chance of not having him invade my desire to be away from my job and have some head space of my own. When I was on site and needed a smoke, I avoided the smoking area and took little walks around the building, not interested in the gossip and drama my fellow-smoking coworkers used to fill their fifteen minutes of zero pain.

I try to practice compassion, not punch down, understand that he’s had a difficult life.

Nde, God is here for this...