strange to think of it. this guy, Bruce (description follows) pulled a large kitchen knife on my ex one time, then proceeded to cut himself on accident, get very upset, and call the police. i snuck out the back door til he passed out. oh Mammoth. oh life. oh alcohol.
“but anyway, i feel pretty great today. on top of making amazing fresh bagel sandwiches (for the 2nd day in a rowwww *dj hands*) and now eating a churro, i will spend the rest of the day reading, drawing with new colored pencils (but don’t let them hear you call them that), and feeling silly. i love feeling silly. how bout you? pffft! don’t care!
so anyway, i’m gonna tell ya’ll bout the guy that lives with me, my inn-mate. oh, i live where i work, and so does he. we are ‘the MANagers’ and we could fuck your life up if we so desired. or just for fun, putos. but his name is Bruce [juice] and he’s like, sixty and a broken record. i like the guy, but if i hear him say “my legs are MACHINES” one more time, well, i’ll laugh again. he’s a hard*core skiier man, and an old time surfer from the San Fernando Valley, went to Peirce College and to Northridge before is was even called Northridge.
So Bruce smokes weed, takes E/mushrooms with his son, but mostly drinks a lot of Canadian Mist whiskey.
When bruce gets drunk he’s usually doing one of four things between one-four in the morning:
1. making an omelet
2. falling in his gray boxer-briefs
3. playing guitar and singing horribly like bob dylan
4. talking to himself.
Pretty dependably. You can depend on him. He got up the other morning at 7am because the stupid bitch [Lisa] that does the breakfast hour (we serve a hot breakfast) didn’t show and i wasn’t about to get out of bed on my day off, and damn fucking shit, he did breakfast! fucking hammered. and he kept saying to the chef, Pablo, “Lisa, no me gusta” with the whitest twang, bro.
anyway, i love bruce sometimes. like when he goes to rite-aid and brings me a pint of mint-chip when all i askt for was a kiddie cone. or how when i tell him that he falls in his underwear sometimes he gets really concerned even though i’m half giggling and promises that i’ll never see it again. or when he smokes us out on the patio. and especially when he sings bob dylan with his own lyrics and sing-talks to himself and i listen without him knowing. “goonna maaake some ehhhhhhggs!” “if only i had fresh haaaam, to go with these eggs. ham? ham.” “oh! i’ll try a little butter. oh, there’s some strawberries, that’s cool.”