Roommate disaster, Part 2

To my astonishment, Josh got his car running.  All the parts that were strewn about have been collected and returned to their place of natural origin and he has taken off. His destiny for this evening is Monterey, where a reggae festival is taking place. (Oh, yes, how is that not a surprise.)  Can I say this without incurring bad karma:  oh, please, beautiful ghost of Bob Marley, let his car break down somewhere south of San Jose, even at the entrance to the stoner reggae festival, and not be fixable and thus he has to remain in that county forever.  That is my wish.

But, because he is supposedly an intrinsically nice young man, once his car was running, he brought me ice cream back from Whole Foods.  He does not understand that I am not that easily bought. Ice cream does not fix things. Ice cream does not make up for cooking drugs in my kitchen.  Even foie gras would not make up for that and we all know how much I love that fatty liver.

He might be nice but cooking drugs in my house is unforgivable. So, like a dead rat that one might find in the backyard, he must go. Harsh, yes, but you, nice readers, did not see the kitchen and backyard mess I encountered yesterday.  (Seems like a week ago.) Wretched. Awful and dark.

Before I continue I want to thank everyone for calling, emailing and texting their support. So far I have offers for a place to stay indefinitely, a place to stay for a night, a Big Guy who could come over and intimidate Josh, food, booze, a nice knitted sweater, a nice knitted sweater for Cooper, a bolt cutter  (who knows, could come in handy), night vision goggles which I really want, a sort-of hit man for hire and lots of love and support and $2000 from my friend Tom at the coast.  (HA!)   Most of those offers were real, by the way.  Some were not. (Tom, you are so busted on that one.)

But now that Josh is gone for the night (and hopefully for many nights) things look calmer.  I cooked a little dinner, comfort food.  It's amazing how good a roasted chicken breast with a lovely cream sauce and some sautéed kale, onions and mushrooms tastes once you are not sitting on the edge of the couch, waiting for the homeless interlopers to come and steal your .....  valuables from you.  Which begs the question:  what do I have that a drug addict would want?  There's the jar of change in my bedroom but that's about it.  Who wants a ten year old laptop?  Who would give anything, even a potato, for a ten year old laptop?  And the computer I am using (a loaner) is a huge desktop thing that, again, is not really cutting edge and would take two or three trips to carry to the car.  Silverware?  I don't think so because it's not even Cost Plus quality, it's barely stainless steel and no one would give a buck, or a potato, for a bunch of crappy and unattractive dull knives and forks.  (Spoons, maybe, who knows about the spoons.)  Yes, if they took my Le Creuset huge cast iron very heavy Dutch oven casserole I would be very mad but it weighs a ton, what drug addict would want to lug that around? What drug addict could lug that around, given that most of them look like emaciated skulls perched on top of a bony body?  I have one good painting, the oil of Webber, but  no decent drug addict would carry that to a pawn shop.  No decent drug addict would even look at art.  So, honestly, even if they smashed a window and carried off my old second-hand couch, my first generation flat-screen TV that weighs a ton, that small jar of loose change I have on the dresser, they would get so little. Maybe twelve dollars.  And I would have lost so little.  Take it all away!

But just don't touch my wine.  Take the bourbon, take the tequila, take the port, but if you touch my good wine I will find you and rip out your livers, you fucking loser skeleton whore druggies.

Thank goodness that will not happen.

OK, thanks again, all of you, for your concern, your offers,  your love.  This is not the end of this, of course.  You will hear more, of that I am sure.

xo