A friend was having a party, so I went to her house to be merry. She offered me her neighbors cat, and not being one to decline a good deal, I accepted. It handled the car ride well and seemed comfortable in my home. I made it to Safeway just before they closed and got cat food and litter and treats and so on. No litter box though, so my roommate woke up to me duct taping a pizza box into a make shift receptacle for feces and chemically treated pebbles. He didn't like the idea of hosting an illegally acquired cat, despite the fact that my friend who offered it to us asserted that it was neglected by its asshole owners. I offered to name it after his girlfriend to warm him up to our new companion, but he decided that wasn't funny because for some reason no aspect of their relationship is on limits for making a joke out of, which is an immunity he grants no one else in our circle. Whatever. Off topic. So, after a few days, I was convinced to return the cat, who never acquired a legitimate name, back to some yard miles away. I'll always have the memories, though.
I started working at some restaurant. Not the fancy kind. It's pretty much like Subway, only instead of putting dried out veggies on loaf shaped bread, I wrap them up in flat bread. Or "pitas," if you will. I make pitas. It's pretty complicated and you still might not understand exactly what a career like this is like, so I'll try to explain it further. I'm pretty much Hattori Hanzo from Kill Bill.
You know, Hattori Hanzo, the guy who makes the best swords EVER. I'm exactly like that other than instead of swords I make pitas. And instead of being the best ever, they're only okay. Well, okay on a good day. A lot of times I put on way too much onion or something and they're probably terrible. Plus I somehow got hired without having a food handlers card, so aside from a very shallow reservoir of common sense, I really don't know shit about cooking or how not to spoil food or anything. Neh.
really old months: