How Long Can You Keep it Down?

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Soup kitchen day.

BOY, do I love soup kitchen day. It's just so degrading that I've come to love how low people can make you feel when you just want to eat for the rest of the week. Not that I've come to care. I don't much anymore. I say much because there is an iota in me that does. It's the stopgap. It's the space between my just going in and taking the abuse, and my just going in and using a claw hammer to pry open skulls indiscriminately.



Remember what I told you about hammers, right? Yeah. So I go to the nice little church on 86th street. Damn was that a walk. Just walking twelve blocks feels like a fucking Olympic event. It's murder to me and my fat ass. I'm beginning to realize what's going on now. It's call Potassium deficiency. I get cramps all over my body when I overtax a muscle. Like in my fingers and toes, or my calf, hand or back. Those mean, hurtful cramps that cause you to claw up and twist into a pretzel. I get them all over and often. The reason is that one of the meds that I am on causes the kidneys to leach Potassium. I'm supposed to eat a lot of beans and bananas, but I hate the fuck out of bananas.



I'd rather suck on an Egyptian Pharaoh's  dead assed toe. But I have it to do, so I'd better buy shit like vanilla icecream and make banana splits. Either that or beans, and beans make me fart. And I fart loudly. I don't care. I fart loudly. And I walk as if I'm a cripple now because of this damned deficiency. I barely make it to the fucking soup kitchen and get on line, going into the little office where they're supposed to give me my slip of paper detailing the food that I can take home and the amounts, and have me sign the roster.



Well, I get to sign the damned roster and then she gives me another piece of paper. It's an appointment slip to see Jose, the Social Worker in the building. Awww, C'mon. How many times do I have to tell these people that I have a social worker and don't need fucking Jose's help. Maybe someone else can use his services. "No, sorry sir, you'll have to wait in the waiting room for Jose before you can go into the pantry." What a fucking waste of time. I can't get behind that! I want to get in and get out before everyone else gets all of the good grub. This actually happens.



No, I have to sit in a waiting room for Jose. I relax, and go into the place in my head where there are lego building blocks, where I can create all kinds of shapes. I like to make shapes of people that I don't like. Make their heads block heads. Make their necks narrow and their shoulders wide. And when I'm done I BREAK THEIR FUCKING BLOCKHEADED NECKS.



The door to the office opens and Jose sticks his head out, calling my name. I follow him to his desk AGAIN, and he asks me about this and that and I tell him I HAVE A SOCIAL WORKER. Okay, AGAIN and he gives me my slip of paper to go shopping. What did that take? Twenty minutes of waiting? What? Jose just doesn't have enough people to social work for? I can't get behind that!



I go through the shopping center, taking food that I'm supposed to. It's almost like shopping, but you are restricted to much. Especially if you are a single person without a family, you get very little to get you through the rest of the week, or whenever. This is fine by me. What bothers me is the fact that the women behind the counters-the check out chicks, that go through your food to make certain that you took the right amounts, are quick to tell you NO, and if you don't know what you are doing, they'll let you fuck yourself. Their friends who come to 'shop' there, they help. But you? NO. If you're me, you've got to get ready to be mistreated. People skip you on line, people abuse you with their carts, people rush to take the last of a food item before you can get to it. And these are mostly women who stand lower than my shoulders and are older than me. Makes me feel like shit, I know, but what the Hell?



Today, I make certain that It take bread. I never take bread, and do you think the check out chicks tell me that I didn't fill up my units (you get only so many units of food), and that I'm missing bread, or fruits, or vegetables? Fuck no. They'll tell you if you have too much though, and tell you that you can't get this or that EXTRA, which is behind them on a shelf. These bitches are saving the best EXTRAs for their friends. Further, they will tell their friends if they skipped some food item in a minute....but not you motherfucker.



So what. Like I said. I don't give a fuck. This is life for me, and I take it on the chin for now. That's what I do. I wrestle with the forces that fight against me, and I can now smile about it. I am happy, my Wellbutrin is doing its job so well that I still take the walk home in stride. It doesn't even feel like an Olympic event the second time, heading back. That is the good news. That and I got groceries to last three days. That's all I need. Three days.



And then I will not have to deal with them numbskulls for the rest of the month. I love it.

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