For the curious, and my hatred for “sorry.”

A lot of people, on a daily basis, ask me how I’m feeling. Some even treat me like I’m on my deathbed, which makes me feel all kinds of special. It gets a bit daunting reciting the same thing every day, especially since a good portion of people know I have multiple systems working against me at once, and they want details. I’m writing this up as a small guide to How I Feel™, and a bit of the why. I skipped the smaller stuff, because these are the main concerns out to suck my life force.

Let’s start with the big dog everyone is worried about: The thing in my head.

The first culprit:

First, some perspective. Here’s the area the thing is, called the petrous apex:

Image

And this is what it looks like when there’s a thingy in there (this is not my head): Image

Not pretty, eh? Doesn’t feel pretty either. It doesn’t have very far to go when it grows, so it pushes on the facial nerves. Or the carotid artery, your inner ear canal and various innards. Eventually it will wreck all your shit in there and start eroding the bone keeping it out of your brain. That’s not good either, I think you can guess why… we like having brains They’re good for us! Best left uneroded.

So due to this happy little bastard in the right side of my skull (bonus: while looking for this, they found my sinus cavity has cysts. Explains the sinus infections!)  I am usually trying my best not to fall to the right (balance and all that, dizziness) I always have a headache, I can’t hear terribly well, sometimes my ear bleeds. My face will go numb and become difficult to speak with, or just tingle til I want to remove the skin. The pain will go down the back of my neck into my shoulder, and radiate as far down as it likes. Couple this with my previous issues from too many concussions and I’m a speechless, slurring, hard of hearing, forgetful idiot sometimes. I’ve become a professional at hiding it, however, so most people just think I’m drunk. It’s fun to play with.

What we have learned:

I still am not sure what it is. They just keep referring to it as a granuloma, which is slang for we don’t fucking know. It isn’t fun, and makes my head all stupid. I cannot afford treatment so I just deal with it.

The second culprit:

Next up, most of you are aware I have Crohn’s. I will not provide any pictures with this one because asses and poop. So this one is actually a bastard, since it’s been with me for the last twenty-five years. It never gets better, and I certainly cannot afford the medications for it, so I just go about my day til I end up in the hospital for it eventually.

What this one does is simple in some respects. It is an autoimmune disease, and it attacks (mainly) part of your digestive tract. Any part it pleases really, so it could be a surprise! Mine has no specific place, so it’s always a gamble when I go in and wave my hand absently around my stomach at the doctor when he asks where it hurts.

“It hurts about from the everything here to all my everything. Please fix k.”

But! It doesn’t just hurt your tummy and make eating a chore. It can wreck your eyesight from inflammation, cause nasty arthritis, skin problems, various body pains and all around ick. Everywhere. Kinda like the idea of lupus but with more crapping. That’s only in the more hardcore cases on the moderate to severe scale, though, and most people get remissions.

I have it moderate to severe and I’ve not had a remission for more than a a couple months in ten years. So you can guess how I feel, usually.

What we have learned:

Shit sucks, yo. Nah seriously, those times I rapidly lose weight, saying “you should eat more” is a fine way to get a big fat shut the fuck up your ass. I have no qualms about putting things in your ass, either– I’ve had it done to me often enough, and the bastard made me pay him.

The third culprit:

And last but not least, the kidneys! How could we forget the kidneys? Most of you probably don’t know that in my family, we have a nifty guy hitching about in our DNA called PKD, or polycystic-kidney disease. It looks like (fair warning, ick) this:

Image

Also not pretty stuff. This one tends to shut down the kidneys and put you on the everlasting list of doom awaiting another from a donor, while little machines pump fluids in and out of you so you don’t die. Mine haven’t failed as of yet, but this still comes with bonuses.

I found out very much by accident after having some scans taken when I injured myself a few times in one year (I got hit by a moving van, later fell and wrecked my knee, etc. Good year!) the doctor pulled me aside and asked me very calmly, yet distressed, “did you know about this before, or am I the unlucky one to tell you?” I sort of looked at it a while. I was sinking inside. I knew it ran in the family, but I had no idea it was in me already. The scan said, too many cysts to count. I lied to that doctor, sort of. I said I knew. Didn’t want to bring him down a bit too, y’know.

So with this one you get lots of goodies. Cysts can show up where they damn well please. I have them all over my ovaries, one or two on the liver, and who knows where else by now. The kidneys just keep getting larger and larger, so the other organs get squished about. It does a bunch of other awful things but we’ll skip those for now. This compliments Crohn’s nicely, since things get inflamed and also grow about. If I look a bit chubby for a week, it’s because my organs are fighting for space, now go away and let me eat cookies while I cry.

What have we learned:

Coupled with my spinal injuries from the van incident, along with scoliosis, I’m a back pain masterpiece. Kidney disease hurts. And if there’s a new way for me to sit uncomfortably, I’ll find it. I’m that good. 

So the main thing to take from this is: I’m always in a wide variety of pain, all of the time. It doesn’t stop, no matter what. It changes in ferocity but never goes away. It has been this way for a long time, and it won’t stop, either. So when you ask me how I feel, if I say I’m fine, I’m fine. My fine may be a bit different from your definition of fine (my ear only bled ONCE today and I ate a whole sandwich! I AM GOD) but seriously, it’s cool.

Don’t tell me “I’m so sorry.” I don’t like sorry. You didn’t make me sick, why the hell are you saying sorry?! There’s nothing to be sorry for, I’m fine. Do I have bad days and want to shoot the offending areas? Of course. Add to it having no insurance to get help with any of this, and I’m just a pleasant fucker all the time.

But, I don’t care. I still make sure I do what the hell I want to, when I want to. Go out and climb a tree? Damn right. See my friends until 6 am for the fuck of it? Yes please. My body may fight it, but there’s no joy in hiding from life. There are times I don’t want to run about, so I play video games and eat pizza. Nothing wrong with that! Why? I’m not dead. I’m not dead, I should have been a number of times, but I’m not. So I’d say that’s doing pretty damn ok. I’m not sorry for that.

“Oh how awful for you, gosh you’re so brave.” Greatest line of crap slung about. I won’t get better. It’s just how shit is. I’m not “so brave” as people love to throw around at sick people, or people who deal with shit that lots of people deal with. I’m not special, bravery and heroics are for people who do something extraordinary in the face of danger or self destruction. Example: nobody decides to get ill and beat it, they just either do or don’t, depending on how awful it is. I have friends that survived cancer and scoff every time someone calls them brave. It’s not easy, it’s impressive, and it’s a fine show of their strength. But calling me brave because I put up with something I don’t have a choice in is silly. When you’re sick you just do what you have to in order to survive. It’s not brave, it’s normal survival instinct. 

There is nothing to feel bad about in being strong. There is also nothing to feel bad about for not being “brave.” I never ran into a burning building to save orphans, I haven’t stood in the face of my mortal enemy and taken a bullet for my comrades. That’s bravery. Survival instinct is a nice primal attribute to have. If you don’t blow your brains out when shit gets bad, good for you! You’re like most people.

We’re all just living, and trying to keep from dying. It’s natural.

You either keep moving with what bullshit you’ve been handed, or you lay down and rot while people pet you with meaningless words. It’s strength of your own will, the strength of your body, the people and doctors around you pushing for more. You’re just surviving. Other people help, as well as their love and affection, but in the end there’s still just you when it’s time for bed and the anxious thoughts creep in as the light goes out. When the fear slips in, how it gets handled is up to you.

Am I happy? Not really. Pain is, well, a pain, and it drags you down. Sometimes I get extremely mad, but that’s just me being a pussy. Everybody gets to be a pussy sometimes! However, I am not UNhappy. I’m alright, nice and middle of the road.

Alright is good enough for me.

So next time you ask, no, I am not feeling well. Just don’t feed me lines about how bad you feel for me. I don’t feel bad for me. I feel bad for those that let these things hold them down, or define themselves by it. So what if I’m sick? Everyone gets sick, feels bad, has a hard life. People die, people get injured. It may not make it seem fair or good, but it happens to us all.

I prefer to empathize with others instead of feel awful for them. A simple, “hey, I understand life sucks, I too am a living creature. Need a hand?” Words of care are more effective if they go beyond “sorry.” Tell someone who is sick you’re there if they need you, and mean it if you do. Bring them a damn cookie or something if you feel bad! Saying sorry is an easy way to think “my job here is done, I felt bad for the unfortunate today!” Give ’em a hug or some shit. Sickness can be isolating, and knowing everyone just pities you for somehow being unhealthy can make it worse.

Treating people like they’re nothing but an illness and deserve to be coddled helps no one. If they literally need to be taken care of because their body gave out, by all means. Don’t abandon someone because they have become infirm! But otherwise, encourage them to do the things they love if they are capable, help keep them from sinking into the easy out: the little depressive hole. If they do fall into it, just talk to them. Reinforcing to someone who feels terrible that everyone else just pities them is helping it continue. Give a depressed person reason to think everything really is that awful solidifies their reasoning. You may not be able to fix anyone, but you can at least not contribute to the problem. Remember that they are still people, and deserve to be treated as such.  I get tired of being seen as some sick person, and not me. 

I don’t feel sorry for myself. Why should anyone else? I reserve my feelings of pity for hurt animals, small children, and men with small penises. As far as I know my penis is huge.

However, I do like cookies, so that’s pretty ok.

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No Decency? No Problem!

I haven’t been writing as often as I would like, due to the last week being rather… different. But hey, it was full of things to write about, so here’s the most important and first thing to set it all off.

Years ago, I was working for a coffee place where I had been rapidly promoted after my trial period, and from then on it was smooth sailing. I was repeatedly called in for overtime to cover for missing workers, and the main duties of the manager fell to me daily. I pretty much ran the place, and nobody questioned it– I was good at it. We had been facing troubles with the upper management, and went through four in the time I worked there. By the last manager, I was worn out and getting sick from my later diagnosed Crohn’s. I ended up being so sick that I was hospitalized five times in three weeks, and had to take time off. I had never used vacation or personal days, so I didn’t see a problem. The new manager that randomly disliked me, however, did.

So, shortly after his arrival and while I was sick, he started sniping at my performance. I didn’t do anything right by his standards, even though I followed the books more than anyone. Slowly, he began eliminating workers to place people he knew in their positions. They didn’t follow the rules, but he didn’t care. They kissed his ass, and that was the important factor.

During my sick time, he began calling me daily to berate me for not being at work. The time had been approved by the district manager, so I decided not to add fuel to the fire and rat on the manager for harassing me. Our store had been through enough turmoil without me making it more difficult, and for love of my job, I kept my mouth shut.

Due to this, within a week of my return I was left with the choice of quitting or being fired due to “three strikes on the dress codes.” Apparently, if it’s hot and you roll up your sleeves to show a possibly offensive (a bird of paradise adorns both my wrists) you can be fired. But, if you’re the managers friend and have magic mushrooms and a tripping caterpillar on your leg for the world to see, it’s fine.

I quit that day and didn’t bother returning for my last of the week. I was fed up, still sick, and hurt. I had poured myself into that job, forgoing social life and personal. It was brought down by one man with a grudge, for no particular reason other than I happened to be there. I lost the last health insurance I have had, right before a double diagnoses of two very problematic illnesses.

These adorable kitties make this part less depressing.

Fast forward now to a week ago. I started to see the familiar signs all over again, but this time not with my job– a worker with a grudge, trying desperately to infuriate  my husband on a daily basis. He’d come home angry and exhausted over the constant verbal abuse from this guy, but for the sake of keeping the peace, never bothered to report him. He figured it would blow over, and I tried not to let it get to me. He worked his ass off daily only to be yelled for no particular reason.

 

Luckily, he was spared for two weeks and managed to work with another crew that enjoyed his company and work ethic. They constantly complimented his quick ability to learn, and how much he had already accomplished. They even shared a dislike for his other co-worker, as everyone had problems with the guy. He was all around not someone anybody wanted to bother with. Things seemed to be going well. As all good things tend to end, he was put back on shift with the wonderful man we’ll call Earl. So Earl keeps up with verbally assaulting him, badmouthing everyone (including the upper management) and being rather vague as to what he wanted my husband to do. Still, he did his job and worked as hard as he could.

Some might think I am biased. Truthfully, it could be my own mother doing a bad job and I’d still fire her. I don’t look at friends as friends when we’re working together. I have been in such a position, and despite my own like for the person, did what had to be done if they just refused to work. If I have to boss you around, I will. If you’re doing something wrong, I will correct you. Work is work, it’s not personal. With my husband, I’ve seen his work ethic and his abilities. I’ve personally watched an old boss beg him to stay because he was such a fine employee. So when he came home and let me know he was fired for not doing a good enough job, I called a big fat bullshit.

Apparently, Earl had been quietly going to the bosses and complaining about his laziness and inability to work, none of which anyone has ever seen before and probably never will. This was, in fact, a job he had hoped for. To go out of his way to screw it up would be a stupid move on his part, and stupidity isn’t something he’s good at.

Without speaking to my husband at any point or the other workers, he was let go, all thanks to one guy that likes to kiss some ass. Now, to make a point, he was the third guy this man has worked with that magically didn’t make the cut. Nobody bothered to notice this trend, apparently.

It’s practices like this that truly bother me. All it really takes is one person to come along and ruin someone else’s job record, financial situation and desire to do well. While we’re lucky this came during my work season, it still hits hard when we were just finally catching up.  There’s nothing good to come of losing your job in this economy– except now, there won’t be more constant berating and we can move on to better things without this holding him back.

My job, however, is still awesome.

As if by sheer luck, while I was thinking of writing this my husband turned to me as we exited the highway and pointed out the work truck and his ex co-worker driving back at about 6:30 pm, alone, and a long way from the warehouse. Obviously his productivity has gone up, being three hours behind already with another 40 minutes to go. Unlike this man, though, we’re not going to stay bitter over it all. It does solidify my distrust in people offering a stable job, and it absolutely reminds me that there’s always someone who can and will try to fuck you over.

For now, I’ll enjoy having him home with me more often until we can get things straightened out. When that time comes, if someone decides to be abusive at work, it’s getting reported. People like that don’t deserve to keep coasting along screwing up everyone else’s day just because they can.

I am a failure and I don’t finish stuff, yeah!

"But how many times can you really be tricked by ladyboy before it's gay?"

So, I have the short story completed… in writing, in a notebook. Work has held me off from actually making sense of my scribblings (I’m sure I can post it up as-is, but that would be… concerning. Most margins contain doodles of dicks with hats) and I’m still stuck on some article stuff for the magazine. So what I’m saying here is that fuck you, I will get back to that thing later. I didn’t mean that fuck you. I really like you.

In the meantime, here are some random photographs, punctuated with odd things I heard at work recently. There’s no end to weird crap to be overheard backstage, especially when dancers are involved. For example: There is an interpretive dance about the plight of sex-slave children. … Yeah. That.

So! Have some pictures.

"I'm kinda sad today. I feel like my dancing isn't... heavy. Y'know?"

"I need to really feel like you're owned by that pimp. Make me feel it."

"Someone left poop paper in the bathroom."

"Everyone is walking around like it's 'Free Anal Rape' day. See? That guy? He's walking funny too. What the hell?"

It also occurs to me to tell you about the homeless, urine-soaked man with the twitch that was at my bus stop today. Upon my arrival, he started cackling and (presumably) adding to his urine aroma. I didn’t really want to deal with that so early in the morning, but I doubt he wanted to deal with himself either. Sadly, this bus runs every forty minutes, and I had just missed the last one. He’s taking up the whole bench– which is fine, I didn’t want to sit next to the guy anyway. He flailed a lot, and it’s a rude day when you’re slapped by big hands that have been playing in pee.

So UrineMan starts to stare. I don’t think he’s so much staring at me as he is through my very bowels, because his gaze was centered somewhere around my small intestine. He started digging in his bag, which I was terrified contained the last public transportation victim of the day, but no. It contained, of all things, a pack of pornographic playing cards. Alright, I can deal with that. A guy needs to see some boob in the morning. I do every day for free, so why can’t he? Thankfully, the bus arrived shortly thereafter, because I didn’t really want to witness his intent with those… especially since he resumed staring at my digestive system. The combination of pornography and my poop area wasn’t something I wanted to entertain at 7:30am. Actually, I usually don’t at any given time if it also involves urine and men with muscle spasms.

It dawned on me while I was entering the bus to work… no matter where I am, at what time, or for whatever reason… there will always be someone nearby ready to excrete on me. And that just plain makes me feel special.

I like lists.

Look, an anhinga. I have no suitable pictures for this post...

So, I thought screw it, I’ll make another.

I had a mental one going in my head last night, noticing things that drive me nuts. I’m sure a few of these things might apply to others. Some may not make much sense to you, but we all have those little dislikes.

Chewing with not only your mouth open, but tongue action in there as well. It’s like you’re making out with a slice of pizza, hoping nobody will notice the pool of food forming at your feet. And it’s not the lack of manners or ability to function that bothers me. It’s the sound of it. I cannot fucking handle the sound of someone sloppily eating. It makes me lose my appetite for anything but blood and shame. Yes, really. I want to harm you.

Facebook posts accusing someone of being a dick, but never mentioning names. Sure, calling people out on their shitty ways in a public forum is unkind, depending on what they did. I’m sure that if they are a serial cat rapist, it’s best to let the world know not to let him babysit Mr. Fluffles. But if it’s a private matter, keep it private. Instead of freaking everyone out (“is it about me?!”) or just looking like a tool (“zomg ppl that talk shit beind ur back R DA WURST U KNO WHO U R”) just… talk to them. Give ’em a phone call? Or just be like everyone else and make your status “Today sucks.” then give no explanation.

“You look busy. Let me discuss this dust mote with you.” This just happened to me, and I am still perplexed. Granted, he wanted to discuss Android vs iPhone (don’t care) and Mac vs PC (don’t care) but prefacing your random conversation with exactly how it is you’re annoying a stranger probably isn’t the best way to go, it simply reinforces to me that you are well aware of how you’re bothering someone.

“Why don’t you smile more? You always look so EMO.” Just because you don’t have the concentration necessary to be familiar with the face of someone thinking doesn’t mean that person is “emo.” I just don’t need to smile maniacally while I mentally consider if I want a cigarette or not.

Asking someone how serious their relationship is when trying to woo them. It’s a wedding ring, so I’d say that’s somewhere in the serious scale between volcano and a very sudden need to poop. So, pretty serious.

Here's another useless picture.

People that spell chihuahua “chiwawa,” or shih tzu “shitsu.” That’s pretty obvious. If you own it, you ought to be able to spell it. If not, just get a cat. C-a-t.– “Why don’t you drive? That’s so weird.No, no it’s not weird. It’s a choice, for both my safety and other drivers. There’s public transportation, my legs, bicycles, and unsuspecting friends.– Trying to guilt or force introverted people to quit that shit. It’ll just scare them right back into that safe little hole they built before you started making them extremely self-conscious. Stop doing that.– Telling me to get off of my computer and interact with everyone. All of my friends are currently buried in iPads, laptops, smart phones or any other manner of electronic crack. We’ll talk on Facebook like real friends do, damn it.

When I get off my computer and do something else, ask why I’m not online. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME PEOPLE?

Massive dumps of duckfaced bathroom photos or self-portraits with your cell phone. I’ve hidden your feeds. I give up.

Writing lists. I always feel like a douche writing lists, even though it’s fun.  I’m so sorry.

The mind is a terrible thing.

Around me, every single night, I watch the minor collapses in people as they struggle to keep up with themselves and everyone else. Relationships have crumbled, minds have caved and individuals have snapped from existence. I hear what they have to say, and I try to be as liberal as I can with assistance and advice, should they desire it. I never, ever mind listening to the problems of another, even if it’s not someone I am particularly familiar with.

This is probably a bad problem solver.

What I don’t like is seeing the same patterns repeated in different people, supposed “fixes” that don’t do anything but cause more problems.

I can hint, pester or harangue anyone about their misinformed choices, but in the end, it’s never up to me. It’s solely up to the doer, and they don’t always make the sound decision.

Take the perpetual drinkers. If they have a bad day, it must be fixed with a drink. Then another. Maybe just a few more?

Some people are truly alcoholics and need help. That much is true. Some place themselves there, finding something else to cope for them. Why develop abilities to survive when you can smoke it away? The drug-centrism of this area doesn’t help, and you end up with droves of people falling into anything but facing a problem head-on and just dealing with it.

Then you are led away and eaten.

One person jumps on a drug or drink, suggests it, and it flows through like water. Even the kava bar I posted about before has that sort of ripple effect, with people coming back night after night to just feel that calm it provides. It’s a replacement for something else, as always.

One of the routes that distresses me most is the relationship hopping. I’ve been in the situation myself, but some make a hobby out of it. It’s one thing if you were already unhappy and happen to stumble upon an individual that gives you the feelings you crave (though I never advocate cheating as an alternative) and you go from one to the other. It happens, as much as it is hurtful to the other party. But to dive from one to the next proclaiming them to be the ultimate lover, the only one, THIS IS IT! … every few months. Not a safe plan for anyone involved.

I worry often about the people I know, wondering if they will make X mistake again, or go back to X bad person. I gravitate towards people that are having a hard time– which has put me in very hurtful relationships, so avoid that much if possible– and want to see them do well. I’m tired of seeing the nearly there, the almost, the so close. I know not everyone can get their lives together, but it is a nice thought to me.

The dependence on chemicals to keep sanity is habitual. I wish that wasn’t the case, but also realize that some people just need it. Anyone that has suffered massive panic attacks or mental illness can tell you as much, and the ideas of self-control go out the window. There are some less invasive ways to go about it, but not everyone has the time or control to handle them. I know I can’t just will away a panic attack, so why should I expect anyone else to?

Underneath it all is this deep interdependence on each other, a need for approval and acknowledgement. If upon walking into a favorite place to be nobody greets you, you’d have a paranoid fit inside.  It’s a natural tendency, but harmful in large doses if it consumes you.

EVERYONE MUST LIKE ME ALL OF THE TIME FOREVER!

Not everyone gets along. In large groups, that is very obvious. You can fake it, but that will only go so far as buttons continue to be pushed. There are always limitations to a person’s ability to remain neutral.

So as I hopped from one person to the next last night, their problems amplifying in my head as they spoke, I wanted to stop time. I wished to place them in the right situations, remove the unsavory things, wipe the bad memories away. But I knew, even with that ability, I wouldn’t. Learning is the only way. They either survive and grow, or they’ll flounder. That’s never up to me, and never will be. All I can do is try to be there.

To my friends in the hard times, I’m sorry. I don’t know if it will get better. I won’t lie and just say it will, because that’s untrue. Some things can’t be fixed. I can’t stop a relative from dying, or your mental illness. Nobody can. It’s unfair to give false hope in any situation. But the only thing anyone can guarantee is that it won’t always feel the same, and things change. The way you handle it changes, and how it will impact.

Now a bad word.

I’m simply glad to have some intelligent, witty and wonderfully broken bastards around. I just wish there were less almosts, and more finally. Maybe we’ll get there someday.

Maybe.

Ah, yesterday.

… was a very odd day. This entire MONTH has been full of bizarre, horrible and distressing occurrences. Between my lovely hospitalization and apparent near-death, Rob’s death, and so many other little bits and pieces of utter hell.

So yesterday, I decided to take my guitar out to get some new strings and a little bit of tuning, perhaps some picks and a book. I realized I was running out of time, so I could either do that or see the kids — obviously, I went to see the kids. … sadly, this meant that I happened to get on the same crowded bus as an apparent masturbatory fiend. He of course chose me to be his unwilling victim, which was … just wonderful. I got to sit on a bus for twenty minutes while WankMaster 2000 stared at my crotch. It was … special. So special.

So! I figured screw it, I’ll head downtown and get some good old chocolate and espresso. Always cheers me up a bit. All was mostly uneventful (aside from a guy insisting to me that I had to sell him some weed, which I did not have, nor do I *ever* have for that matter) and a homeless woman that tried to use my guitar as a seat. (“Hey! Don’t sit on that!” … “Oh, sorry, I thought it was a chair.”) When the time to go rolled around so I could go to a DIFFERENT coffee shop, as is the life of a non-drunk Fort Lauderdaleite, I had this wonderful exchange:

“Hey, lady! Hey!”
“Uh, hi.”
“Hey! You got a guitar in that case?”
“Yes?”
“Hey! Hey! You know why I like you?!”
“No. But you’re going to tell me.”
“Yup! I like you because you must be a serious BITCH to walk around town like that!”
“Hm. Alright. Bye, now.”
“No no no no no! Where you going? Don’t just walk off when—“
At this point, I put my headphones back on, because Front 242 does wonders to block out the rants of a man that smells of vodka, and continued to my bus. Apparently this was not good enough for him.
“HEY! Come back here! HEY!”
“I have a bus to catch, sir.”
“No you DON’T! WHAT BUS, HUH?” (Because, of course, I’m going to tell him where I’m going.)
“A bus. Goodbye.”
This has gone on for half a block, now, as he follows me down the road. Then this happy bit came. I was running late, I’ve had a BCD from hell (bad Crohn’s day, ahem) and I’m still recovering from the month’s general attitude of fuck you.
“You know what, bitch?! FUCK YOU. You’ll never GET ANYWHERE IN LIFE WITH AN ATTITUDE LIKE THAT!”
“Oh really?”
“YEAH!”
“So. Excuse me for being, oh, presumptuous, but you, a homeless man that reeks of vodka and just asked me for a cigarette, you that is sitting on a bench with your worldly belongings, you that is wearing mismatched shoes for lack of money … YOU are telling ME how to be a successful person?”
“NOW YOU JUST WAIT… THAT’S … THAT’S … NOW SEE THAT’S … HEY!”
“Uh huh. Have a nice day, sir.”
“Your fucking attitude SUCKS, BITCHWHORE!”

… And so, I continued my way to the bus. I almost wanted to feel bad, as someone that likes to be a Genuinely Nice Person™, but he was a true dick in the finest sense of the word. Maybe he was having a bad day too, but really — no need to do that sort of thing.
So. The bus terminal. This is not known for being a place of leisure and joy. You don’t have to be there long to extrapolate that fact. I got to dodge a pimp fight, some moody teenagers, a happy woman in a wheelchair that insisted she was Jesus’ lover (hey, at least she was nice, she earned a smile) and some other sundry individuals.

The bus ride there was decent enough … until I got OFF said bus. It was … hm. Let me just give this:
“Hiiiiiii, there, uh.”
“Hi?”
“Gotsa smoke?”
“Sure.”
“Gotsa light?”
“Sure.”
“Gotsa pussy?”
“Um…”
“It was worth a shot.”

So now I’m here getting coffee. And chainsmoking. And chainsmoking…