Am I a bad person?
It's friday night. I'm still a little congested from the cold I fought this week (In June? I know!), so I decided on no flying this weekend. I'm just going to have a chill weekend here in ATL. I can hear two of my roommates out in the living room. But I have absolutely zero desire whatsoever to get to know them better or "hang out" with them in any way, shape, or form. It's not that they've done anything wrong. They're pretty nice. They keep shit fairly clean. But Alvin's laugh makes me want to stab him in the dick. And I don't seem to be able to carry a conversation past three sentences back and forth with Daniel. It just sort of devolves into some statement with an inflection that makes it sound like a question, often ending in the word "or?" Which makes no sense to me and reminds me of a foreign exchange student my family hosted when I was in 7th grade who annoyed me in a similar fashion. Long story short, it's the minor differences in language (they both speak good English, Alvin is from India and Daniel from Germany) and a couple of mannerisms that just make it a chore for me to do anything more than politely say "hi, how are you?" when they come home in the evening (I'm usually home first, as I work roughly 7:30-4:00 on most days). I know. It's pretty petty, superficial shit. But it bothers me. Combine that with the fact that I only have to live in the same house with them for just short of 3 months, and you have one Bockmed that doesn't want to make friends. Plus In a typical day, I've got about 2 hours that I'm not eating, sleeping, working out, working, or getting ready for work, I'd like to just chill by myself.
So I ask again, am I a bad person for feeling this way about my housemates?
If it can be avoided, don't fly hungover. Last weekend, I headed back up to Minneapolis to hang with some of my homies, which basically meant a lot of drinking. Or if you're a certain friend and roommate, hanging out with your girlfriend in another city. After a night of shenanigans at the bars in Dinkytown and completely missing the events that led to one of my good pals breaking up with his girlfriend, I managed to stumble my drunk ass back to my old apartment and pass out at about 3:30. 2 hours later I woke up, still drunk, managed to pack everything I brought with me into my backpack (which just confirms that I have the best drunk autopilot of pretty much anybody I know), get on the light rail and make it on the 7:30 flight back to Atlanta. It sucked. Because it was turbulent. And I had a headache. And some nausea. Sentence fragment.
I think, tomorrow, I might go and watch some of the Red Bull soap box thing that's going on. I think watching people ride homemade contraptions down a hill might be amusing.
Toodles.
P.S. This week, I got to sit in the pilot's seat of a 747 that was in for some maintenance. Just another day in the office.
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