The Sexual Anarchy of Working in an Industrial Kitchen 2

Dear diary 6

I washed dishes so good they offered me a promotion to cooking. well, cooking and also still cleaning. Still, a step up in the world.

Two of the waitresses like me. I’m older and very tall. That helps. I’m generally well liked there. One of the waiters (male) calls me ”young man” and I’m 99% sure we’re the exact same age. I just look weird, because I have pretty eyes, like a girl. One of the cooks is a couple of years younger than me, and when he discovered this fact, it changed our social dynamic a lot.

It’s only a verbal agreement for now but I accepted the offer. More stable, better salary. Still pretty flexible, still a good way to amass quick cash. When the owner gave me a quick informal interview, she asked me why I was ”just doing temp work” and not using my general universal competence to enrich myself by iterating on a job-into-a-career and becoming successful and wealthy. “why aren’t you normal”. I said something about liking the flexibility of being able to make my own schedule, to optimize my time for creative pursuits, pervert sex blog, writing music, etc. This was a lie. I didn't think it was when I said it, but I discovered so. The Truth is, while I am generally competent and can do most of everything, I don’t want to be responsible. Involved, “attached”. No entry level job pays me enough to care about what I’m doing. and The Industrial Revolution was a disaster etc. I can do it, I can even do it well, and I will – but I don’t actually care about the business, or whatever end goal it has. The truth is, I’m scared of commitment.

Everything’s been going up and down lately. Mood, energy, hopes for the future. Today was a pretty good day: I got a job offer and like 8 people all told me how much they like me, and one of the cooks wants to lift weights with me and become real world friends. One of the cute waitresses went out of her way today to make me a coffee. Smiles to me, you know, the whole thing. blushing, the works. I was so excited about it at the time that I wanted to write an ironic flight of the concord style song about it, something like “I don't even care about the leg tattoo, I don’t even care about her 92 IQ;”, but when I got home to a guitar I was pretty beat. The moment had passed.

Other days I think about killing myself all day. Not in the like, planning sense, I just think it for “shock value”. it’s like drinking, relapsing – it’s not really a real concern for me. I’ll never do it. I only think the words because the words are hurtful. it’s a kind of cutting, self-harm, punishing myself. I am severely mentally disturbed. I have profound spiritual problems. I’m mean and cruel and evil and I treat women who like me poorly.

My uncle is a severe alcoholic. He was dying recently. Now he’s getting better. Drying out almost killed him. Might still. It has crippled him. Maybe there’s some blood clotting , aneurysm stuff. it’s pretty bad.

He didn't drink hard until in recent years. Functional alcoholic for most of them. I don’t honestly know when he started. I think things started getting out of hand for him when my grandfather died.

My uncle just sort of coasted through life. Never settled down, never started a family. Always was a “weirdo”, who made a lot of money through clever investments – long story short he was “bitcoin rich” but before the internet, flipping houses. Housecoin. Made a couple of smart moves early, didn’t work for 40 years, #neetlife.

One of the formative stories in my head about him, is one I don’t remember but had been told by others a million times: While our family was visiting him and I was very young, 5 or 6, innocent of sexuality, I had supposedly asked him why he didn’t have a wife, and, specifically “don’t you know what you use those for?”. This was told as a funny anecdote for many years, mouth of babes kind of thing. Looking back now I think it cruel and I wish I could take it back.

I’m very afraid of meeting him now. I help in what ways I can and whenever my dad asks me for anything, I jump at the chance to. But I am afraid of meeting my uncle face to face. Because I’m him. I’m lazy, I can’t control my drinking, and I wasted my life. When I plan my future, I see myself living his life, best case scenario. We’re all just the same genetic potential manifested in different form, everyone, me, my brother, my dad, his brothers, their dad. We’re all basically the same guy.

I relate to him, but what’s worse, he relates to me. I understand him better than his brothers. I can act as intermediate and translator. I make him feel less alone. I can see it in his god damned eyes. He feels safer and more seen by me, than his brothers.

I’m afraid to help him directly. To directly interact with him, to directly speak with him, in this state. Because if he can be redeemed, if I can save him, if he can be saved – that means that *I* can be redeemed. Because we are basically the same guy, and me and him share the same kind of shape the genetic material can manifest into, of the failson addict whatever. By saving him I am proving that I can be saved.

And that is very, very, very scary stuff. That is a terrifying prospect.

It’s not just the narcissism talking, making it all about me – I do everything I can, I even jump at the chance to, when asked. I do this before any kind of thought or reflection. In truth it is very easy to make a man help anyone. All men are just going through life waiting for the chance to truly help someone. I only notice a moment later that I’m terrified. Trying to see him again tomorrow maybe. I get off work early.

When I left work today one of the other cute waitresses rode by my on her bike, a smiled a big smile, waving to me.