I have two co-workers who have been at war since the dawn of time since long before I started working there who engage me privately daily about how I should get more angry and tolerate the other one less. Why I bother explaining myself to either of them, at 42, with my abundance of personal experience, remains a mystery even to me, but DUH, everyone has crap with them, and I’m not spending 8 hours a day stewing in my own or anyone else’s juice (getting all up in it, as I say- you know how we [humans] do)

Anger is no problem. Not at all.

It’s finding the OFF button. 

That can be a motherfucker.

Don’t start what you can’t finish.

I swear if that fuck gives me one more running stream of critical commentary a la CNN I am going to haul off and punch him in his fucking face.

I don’t know why I feel a need/desire to explain myself; maybe I am so used to anticipating bullshit that I automatically run a system of checks and balances on myself to make sure I’m not full of shit.

But I feel a desire to EXPLAIN.

I do not look for a roommate to bond with, pay attention to me, live up each other’s asshole, check in with each other 200 times a day. I find 50% of life boring enough that I certainly don’t need to hear somebody else’s “I paid a bill today.” I don’t know if it’s because I’m in recovery and he’s not. He excels in numerous areas that I suck at.

However, there is a certain attitude, a mindset, a “Hello, fellow human being” that is missing here. And it’s distasteful. That’s it.

Whatever.

Everybody knows this. If you’re done using the water, GTFO. You can do whatever it is somewhere else.

I don’t do my hair or makeup in the bathroom. Maybe if I lived alone.

When you live with someone and you both are getting ready for work, you free up the bathroom.

Am I kookoo?

You notice I keep these thoughts to myself.

Just in case.

(But seriously)

He is the showeringest motherfucker I have ever encountered.

I’m clean. You could eat out of my armpit any moment of the day, although I don’t see why you would ever want to do that. I have plenty of plates.

If he was a female, someone (another female that had to pee) would have kicked his ass a long time ago.

OMG GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE I HAVE TO PEE THE WATER HAS BEEN OFF FOR TEN MINUTES!

P.S. I am 41 years old* and my days of asking someone if I can pee are behind me.

*Oh shit. I’m 42.

Hee hee.

See, now I have to fight my natural urge to get stupid.

Which I do. DAILY.

I could not resist putting some Chinese food I know he likes in the fridge for him with a note “Here, sunshine face” and a big ass fucking smiley face on it. 

Then, when he hadn’t touched it, I put a stickie on the fridge the next day, “<his name>, P.S. Sunshine Face is you. Eat it.”

Look, don’t get me wrong. I was a therapist for 15 years, and I do sales in 100 different ways in my job, in life, in general. Even if I just like someone, I am extremely capable of helping people take down their walls, being safe, kind, and non threatening so people can feel o.k. around me, and just be a very kind, thoughtful and understanding person in general. I know people go through things.

But shit, I get PAID to do it against people’s will (sales) and even therapy doesn’t work most of the time if the person is completely unwilling and/or bound and determined to be miserable. I get silly just defensively.

I haven’t woken up with “Good Morning, Vietnam” in his face yet.

I’m pretty strong.

For the most part, with people in recovery, it’s a GIVEN that we’re struggling with social skills and it is easier for me to say to someone, “Look, I’m not sure if this makes sense, it’s difficult for me to talk about, but” blah blah blah. 

Seriously, just looking at that puss face all day makes me laugh defensively.

Anyway, he just ate the Chinese food. And the chocolate I put there too.

And said thank you.

Yay me.

Mr. Joy-to-the-World eventually did speak Sunday night, after I texted him FROM THREE FEET AWAY.

Normally I will just leave you to molder away in your own bullshit for awhile though, although that is kind of a lie; I kind of get the urge to poke someone with a stick just out of curiosity to see if they’re alive.

Don’t be trying to marinate me in your miserable though, it’s all I can do to fight my own, daily and get the better of it.

On the off chance he is actually pissed off at me specifically for something that’s legitimate, though, (to be fair) I am not sure I really want to know.

Today, I will take a get-out-of-the-bathroom-in-under-60-minutes because OMG I HAVE TO PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I yell “Bless you” in the general direction the sneeze seems to have come from.

No response.

In the Mensch Olympics, I am definitely winning, though.

Still no talking.

I am not like the Mood Detective Agency around here. It’s all I can do to figure out my own.

Aren’t I the one actually paying to live here?