I was thinking this week I’d aim for something a little more positive. I know I’ve been a bit of a “Mr. Grumpy” lately. It’s tiring, I get it. So this week we’re gonna look at the good things in life. You know, those little things that make life worth living. There’s so much beauty in the world all around us. Like a thousand flowers blowing in the morning breeze, or the laugh of a child, or a fuzzy kitten playing with a… okay, enough. Screw it. That’s about as far as I can go with that shit.
Yeah, no happy-time “embrace the now” b.s. here. No, because I got thrown another curveball this week. I was getting comfy, thinking it was as bad as it was gonna get. And then… more shit! Thanks for that one. It’s amazing how you think the lottery of suck that is your life has finally wrapped up — that maybe you’ve collected the last of your shitty, shitty prizes. But then… nope! “Here’s one more, buddy. Just bend over for me one more time. This is it, I swear.” Yeah, right.
I’ll spare you the details, but my wife had a little “misunderstanding” with the authorities that required outside intervention. Because I can’t walk or drive, I had to call a buddy to take care of the situation. That’s what every man dreams of, you know. Your wife needs you. It’s time to flex a little muscle. Oh, but wait… you’re stuck in bed. Only muscle you’re flexing is your thumb, dialing a friend’s number. “Please help me! I’m useless!” Yeah, that’s a nice kick in the face.
And I love the guy who helped us out, but now I think I’ve turned into a “project” for him. It’s fun being everyone’s disabled mascot — they all want to fix you. They all want to “cheer you up” like you’re some sad puppy. Awesome. Thanks guys. Never really liked my testicles anyway.
So yeah, it’s been a disappointing week all around. Bit of tension in the marriage. And now I’m thinking my wife’s sudden inability to distinguish between Cheetos and Fritos may be intentional. I get that I can be a bit of a drag these days, but it’s not like I’m asking her to whip up some crazy-ass gourmet dinner. And God help me if I were. Not really a master chef, that one. Good at picking up the phone and ordering out, of course. But really, I’m not entirely sure why we bought a house with a kitchen. Oh right, so she could fully stock it with the best in the Martha Stewart all-purple collection. Because it’s about the perfect matching pots and pans, not the actual, you know, food being prepared within them.
So I’m a man of simple tastes. And sometimes all I ask of her is Cheetos. And what do I get? Fritos. Jesus… It’s not even a proper Cheetos alternative. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a good Frito pie. I’m an American. But let’s be honest here, they barely even qualify as a chip.
That’s the worst thing about this recovery bullshit — not being able to do shit for yourself. Can’t pick up my own food. Have to rely on Miss “Macrobiotic Vegan Tofu Surprise!” to get my food for me. Inevitably it comes from some pretentious, over-priced, douchey “food shoppe.” (Oh yes, your faux medieval asshattery makes you sound so much more legit than simply calling your place a “restaurant.” Well-played, my liege, well-played indeed, good sir!)
Can’t drive anywhere and help my wife out when she forgets she has to live in a society with other people. And of course, can’t spend my special Hank time alone in the bathroom. Seriously, it used to be so simple. Grab the sports section, close the door, drop the kids off at the pool at my own pace. No, now it’s basically the worst thing I’ve ever gone through. So, thank you psycho Cartel assmonkeys. Thank you for depriving me of one of the few true pleasures in life.
So yeah, the positivity police are taking a little vacation right now. Maybe they’ll be back next week with my damn Cheetos.Read More