I am actually prepping dinner for tomorrow now. It is a crock pot meal that I read about a dozen different recipes to inspire myself.
It required me to take Italian sausage out of the casings. And why do empty casings feel remotely like condoms? I know originally they were typically made using the intestines (which is the traditional method of making sausage), but I personally don’t know if that’s the case with most prepackaged sausage these days.
Anyway, as you can see on my dirty fucking stove top, I browned sausage. This was mid process because I used the wooden spoon to take my frustrations out on the poor mysterious remains of hopefully animal.
Haha, thank you html mode!! I was hardcore struggling getting past the image to talk more. Anyway, the end result should be a sausage and tortellini soup in a sort of cream/broth hybrid and loaded with all sorts of veggies. Oh, and garlic because I am an anti-vampire and need garlic to live.
And thank God I fucking edited that last line because it tried to change vampire to abortion. I really need to figure out how to remove auto-correct on my phone because holy shit. At least it doesn’t correct my swears because fuck that shit. Freedom of speech ‘Murica!
I hope my rather dry, sarcastic humor translates well. My life is a string of one facetious comment after another, and sometimes, I get my ass in trouble because people don’t always get that I don’t actually believe some of the shit I say and merely say it to illuminate reality in a comic way.
Being an internally tortured soul does come with an awesome sense of humor.
And about 99.9 percent sure my drunk mother is talking to herself or the dogs.
Correction, she is talking to a cat and maybe our next door neighbor. Still drunk off her ass. At least I got that part right.
In other news, I received validation in the form of a comment. When I was talking to a co-worker about having our company’s insurance as a part-time, I said I don’t like to talk about it.
The co-worker immediately motioned in the direction of my ex-friend and I nodded. Co-worker then said, “He can be such a jerk and I want to tell him to grow up.”
It was like I finally had someone who went, “Yes that wasn’t you imagining things. We see it, too.”
Suddenly, it was clear. He’s a boy in a man’s body. I kept suggesting to him that there was always a choice, that he didn’t have to be any certain way. But I also know that I wouldn’t have bothered so much if I didn’t think a desire to change existed.
Maybe that’s why I don’t let go as much as I should. As days pass, though, I know he wants to stay in his rut, to whine and complain and moan instead of trying to be that man that I think he wants to be underneath it all. And, as hard as it is to sit back and let him tear himself apart, I know I have to let him do it.
Fuck. That was sort of really insightful. I might be growing up.