I Don't Want Fries With That

I suppose it's time to post Part II of  Would You Like Fries With That? .  I had left you hanging with the notion that Vince had added new tasks to my lineup of duties at the fast food restaurant.  Nothing extravagant, or out of the ordinary... just cleaning the bathrooms.  The only odd thing about it was that I had never been asked to do it before.  There was an older, male employee who usually handled this task, but I suppose Vince wasn't interested in forcing himself on that straggly haired, bi-focal wearing, hunched over hippy-dude, who smelled of meat patties, and bacon grease.

The first time I lugged the bucket of soapy suds into the 'mancave', Vince appeared soon after.  He offered me some helpful advice, "You should lock the door, to keep customers out while you're cleaning."  And then he demonstrated by turning the deadbolt.  He wasted no time in backing me up against a stall door, and yanking down the elastic pants of my uniform.  And that's all I have to say about that.

The second time, I wasted not a minute in doing exactly what I was instructed to do.  I locked the door!  Halfway through my task, the handle jiggled, and then came a knock.  I called out that the bathroom was out of service, but would be available again in a few minutes.  The knocker replied, "Open up", in Vince's stern managerial voice.  It seemed like forever that I stood frozen in the center of the room, until the knock came again.   

I didn't know what to do.  I had long since given up the notion that he was in love with me, and had realized that he was merely using me as a tool to help release his surging hormones.  But I still hadn't realized that there was anything I could do about it.  As far as I was concerned, I had to open the door.

He stepped in, and locked it again.  He backed me up against the cold tile wall, and tugged at my uniform pants.  And that's all I have to say about that.

He didn't get a third opportunity.  A separate incident involving another employee occurred not long after, that rocked my entire world, and finally made me beat feet outta there... fast and furiously.

Compassionate Hate

A time that I have long awaited is coming upon me, and it doesn't feel exactly the way I had greatly anticipated.  The man that I have called stepfather for the greater part of my life, has lived with one foot in the grave for nearly two years.  He is now dipping his second foot into the soil, like a bathing beauty testing the water before a dive, and I am not elated.  I am not feeling the urge to break into a  joyful dance around a crackling fire, like the wild native of an undiscovered Amazonian tribe, as I once said that I would. 

But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at myself.  After all, I have spent the last fifteen years developing the most beautiful relationship with my higher spirit, and all that I am today contradicts the hate that I've always carried for him.  I cannot say that I love him, for the man that he has shown himself to be for all these years.  But, I do feel a great compassion, as one child of God to another, for my fellow human being, who now stands at the edge of his life.  Even for one like me, who looks very forward to my own crossing, and has no fear of the transition into the next existence... the process of the physical death (from the perspective of human, not spirit) can be a very frightening experience.  And I feel for him.  And I pray for him.

It tears at my heart that my mother isn't able to participate in, what could be, the most healing moments of all of our lives.  Having to care for him, as his health rapidly declines, is difficult at best, and she struggles with it.  But she could be using the process as a means of taking back the power that he had wrestled away from her all years ago, with a closed fist and hurtful words.

Unfortunately, she is now incapable of anything positive.  Her life has been filled with bitter regret, depression, and an inconsolable anger for at least a decade, maybe more.  To my sister and I, she has become him.  She will hunt you down, when the mood strikes, and ambush your unsuspecting spirit with her vengeful rage.  Belittle, demeaning, insulting.  For my sister, it is debilitating.  She takes the words to heart, and suffers deeply.  For me, it is a test of my compassion.  I don't hear her words for what they appear to be on the surface, I hear where they came from, and the pain that they represent, and I forgive her.  Even in the moment that she tears me down, I ask for Angels to build her up.

We all want to leave our mark on the world, something that proves that we walked here, we ran here, we fell here.  When my wicked stepfather leaves, he leaves behind a replica of himself, in female form, to carry on his mission of filling the world with hate.  And my revenge on him will be love.
    

Deep Dark Place

Does anybody out there understand?  Isn't there anyone who can relate?  My logical mind assures me of the truth... that I have kindred spirits all over the world.  But my emotional mind tells me that I am truly alone in my quiet dark place.

Is there anyone out there?  Reach out and let me know that you exist, and that you know that I exist.  Together, we can tell the world what it really feels like.

It feels like this:

• I don't want to be alone, but I want everyone to leave me alone.
• I don't want anyone to say anything, but I need someone to say something.
• I love you all with everything that's in me, but I hate you all so much right now.
• I want you to tell me that you love me, but we know that I won't believe you when you say it, because I just don't feel it.  It's not your fault.  I can't seem to feel anything right now.
• I would never purposefully do anything to hurt myself, but I dream that some fateful accident would occur, to take this all away.
• There's so much that I have to do (daily chores), and I'm terrified of you discovering that I haven't done any of it.  You'll think I'm lazy, selfish, irresponsible.
• There's so much that I want to do (writing, crafting, gaming, communicating), but I can't bring myself to really want to do any of it.
• I'm certain that there's a devastating accident just waiting to happen, that will tear all of you (or any one of you) out of my life, and I can't get the visions of it out of my mind.  I can't imagine how I'm going to carry on without you, but I can't stop imagining it!
• You've not given me a reason not to trust you, but I'm absolutely certain that you're lying to me, and laughing behind my back, at how gullible I am.
• How can I be rolling around in so many feelings... and yet feel so numb?
• I'm convinced that some incurable illness is silently killing me right now.
• I'm hot, so I put on a cool, sleeveless shirt.  Then I'm cold, so I put on a sweater.  Then I'm hot, so I put on the air conditioning.  Then I'm cold again.
• I'm so hungry, and I have so little energy, but I can't even stomach the idea of food.

I could probably go on and on, but what would be the point?  I think, perhaps, the point has been made.  Please tell me I'm not alone.

The Times, They Are A-Changing

So, anyone who has been reading lately, has probably figured out that I've been in a manic phase, as evidenced by my sudden daily postings ... after months of inactivity.  I've even created associated Google and Twitter accounts.  Several of the recent posts have revolved around sexuality, and been written in a somewhat explicit manner.  I hope I haven't offended anyone.  I'm just trying to be as open and honest as I can possibly be.  Ha Ha, open and honest!  Isn't that a funny thing for a secret woman to say while writing a secret journal?

Anyway, the times they are a changing.  I started feeling a little different about two days ago.  My husband and I have been skipping the hot sex, and have just been snacking, and watching television, until we fall asleep.  Yesterday I found that I couldn't concentrate on a blog post. It didn't matter much because I didn't really feel much like writing anyway.  


I was also quite irritable, as I had some errands to run, and my anxiety about leaving the house is kicking up.  This particular anxiety acts up from time to time.  Many years ago, the second in a short line of psychiatrists thought she had hit the nail on the head by diagnosing me with Agoraphobia, after a mere two visits.  Well, considering my behavior at that time, I guess it was a reasonable assumption, but that's a story for another time.   


I happen to think it's quite a rational anxiety, considering that I'm embarking on an adventure in transitioning.  Part of it has to do with my inability to concentrate.  As opposed to my regular, slightly dizzy personality, during this time I become sort of childlike ... as in feeling meek and lost in this great big scary world.  It takes all of willpower, not to operate the vehicle, but to remember where I'm going and how to get there.  I had a moment, while staring at items on a shelf at the grocery store, when I began to panic at the random thought that I might not even be fully dressed.  Don't worry, I was.  With thoughts like that, isn't it reasonable that I would just want to stay home?


By the time I got back home, I was snapping at the kids, and then having to come up with reasons why.  "You didn't clean the microwave".  I could have just explained the situation to them, but even they know all about my issues, I think they forget, because I'm pretty good at keeping it all together.  At least on the outside.       


I wish I could just stay in my safe place, and spend the next few weeks nestled down in my comfort zone.

I've Got A Disease

It leaves a stain on every one of my good days.
But I am stronger than you know, and I have to let it go.
Feels like it's making a mess.
I'm hell on wheels in a black dress.
Well, I think that I'm sick.
I've got a disease, deep inside me,
Makes me feel uneasy.
I can't live without it,
Tell me what am I supposed to do about it?
Keep your distance from me, don't pay no attention to me... I got a disease.
It's called Bipolar Disorder.

A Man-Man-Manic Episode

So, what do you do for fun when you're a young, naive, emotional train wreck, in full swing of an early manic episode?

What I did, way back then, with my (ex)husband, was smoke a little crack with the neighbors, until everyone was good and happy.  Then someone would invite another friend over, who would bring a friend, and then someone else would pop in to say 'hello', and the next thing you know it's a party.  Sometimes there would be a little pot, and sometimes there would be a lineup of liquor.  On two occasions, the early hours of the morning found me picking out which of my (ex)husband's friends I wanted to lay beneath.  I would choose the most attractive one who had paid some attention to me, and showed an interest.  Someone who made me feel sexy.  My (ex)husband would pull him aside and quietly make the proposal.   

Now, when one thinks of a hot threesome orgy, one might think that the men would penetrate her body from both angles, simultaneously.  And one would think that a woman who was willing to have a hot threesome orgy would be willing to do that.  But I was actually quite shy, with little confidence in my own physical beauty.  I never went topless, not even alone with my (ex)husband.  Not even with other men before my (ex)husband.  The contents were open for business, but you just had to keep them in the container.


Here's how it all went down... I would lie on the bed, and both men would touch me, until I was I was physically ready.  My (ex)husband would mount me first, (you know, to display ownership and domination).  His stay was brief, and then he retreated to the back of the room, to watch as another man penetrates, and thrusts into his wife.  It was the moment of victory to me.  To be holding a man so close against my chest.  To kiss his neck and chest.  To feel his hands on my body while his pelvis rocks against mine.  They, each, were very handsome men.  The kind that I would never have a shot with in high school.  But one year later, and two thousand miles away, they wanted me.  Two other men, on separate occasions, wanted me.  (There were actually three, but the last one didn't happen like this).  Both men, in those moments, with the weight of their bodies laying heavy on mine, and their hardened dicks being gently squeezed by my soft pink flesh ... they even needed me.  Even my (ex)husband needed me.  He needed to be a voyeur, watching the live sex show.  Sometimes he would he would stick me one more time, before ejaculating on top of the sperm that already covered my stomach.  It was the closest that I could get to love, and I took it.




     

Maybe I'm Crazy... Probably

When everything that you thought you were supposed to know about the world ... changes ... there is no safe place to go, but within your own mind.  "There was something so pleasant about that place. Even your emotions had an echo, and so much space".  "Well, out there, yeah, I was out of touch.  But it wasn't because I didn't know enough, I just knew too much".  If the innocence in your spirit has been damaged in some way, then you, indeed, know too much.  You've seen the darker side to reality.  But that kind of crazy can also bring a wealth of knowledge.  You're perception of life is changed, and you can see many things a lot clearer in the end.  When you've stared Crazy in the face, it becomes that much easier to recognize Crazy in others.

A Sick Circle

They say that someone who was abused has a higher risk of becoming an abuser, and I agree with that statistic.  I also know that with the right tools in place, the cycle can be broken.  But what can you do with a victim who goes on to enjoy being victimized? 

You will find through past and future postings, that I have been sexually assaulted a few times in my haunting past.  You may also find some research on the web, that shows that many rape victims later find themselves aroused by rape scenarios.  Guilty as charged. 

Once upon a time I was shamed by this fetish.  How sick is it for a girl to want to be overpowered and forced into deviant acts, as a submissive sexual slave?  (My goodness... just typing that line caused me have to adjust myself in my chair).  I mean, it is a crime.  Unless the partner is perfectly willing, and not only gives permission, but thoroughly enjoys the act.  In my mind, it's that primal man, with all of his strength and virility, who has pressure to release.  If a woman should stimulate him visually, he may have the natural desire to take her, by force if necessary.  I love being on the receiving end of a man's strongest urges, when his passion borders on the edge of anger.  When  he seems almost possessed by a demon of lust, and he's driven to force himself on the woman he desires.  (Oh, Boy).  Sometimes it's simply a woman being held as a commodity for men to use as a toy, as they satisfy their sexual needs. 


This fantasy branches out into all sorts of fabulous scenarios.  There's the woman being captured by vikings, pirates, or (--insert your favorite savage here--).  The one who was sold into slavery, in another era, and services handsome, wealthy kings.  The one with the biker gang, and the girl bound and chained on a mattress in the corner.  And one of my favorites, the girl who gets so drunk at the frat party that she doesn't even realize that she's being laid out for the wrestling team to line up on.  I sometimes even take that to the next level, and pretend to be the girl who was drugged by her boyfriend, so that he and his roommate can ravage her in ways that she'll be unable to protest against. 


Okay, so it is rape.  And rape is a horrible crime.  I know because I was raped.  But like I said in the beginning, it is the rape scenario that arouses me.  The sex act, not the violence.  In the privacy of my home.  The participants are two people in a loving and committed relationship, who have discussed the acts that they perform, in all their glory, and have agreed on the limitations.  With love, I give myself fully to his will, and trust that he will keep from hurting me.  Neither of us have ever been disappointed.

Is it still sick?

Ups and Downs

   
About six months ago, my husband began taking a mild mood enhancing drug... prescription, of course. As it did for me, the medication helped him a great deal. His anger just melted away, making him a much more personable man, easy to talk to, funny, and just an all around great guy. The way he used to be, before our kids became teenagers, and the economy nearly wrecked his career. He even dropped a few pounds, and began taking me out socially, like he did when we were in our twenties. On top of that, he had finally given in and gotten that vasectomy we'd been talking about for years, and I had been seen my doctor about an anti-anxiety medication to help me relax.

With all of these things coming together, it was no surprise that we would find ourselves coming together, a lot more often. Not that our sex life was lacking. Chemistry, compatibility, and electric excitement had never been an issue, but the frequency of encounters had diminished. It was a shame, too, because when we have an intense sexual history. That's what comes from a deeply committed partnership between two people who truly respect each other. We've felt comfortable enough to share our secret desires, including fetishes and dark fantasies, and we brought them into our bed. This is what you get from having a deep level of trust in a relationship. Hallelujah.


So, after a couple of years of sexual frustration, brought on by stressors coming at us from random directions, we're back to hitt'in it on a regular basis. I'd even say more than most couples our age, who have been married for more than fifteen years. It's funny, because 99% of the people we know see us as such a sweet couple, as they catch us mindlessly moving in synchronization, and finishing each other's sentences.  We're Ozzie and Harriet or Rosanne and Dan.  Wouldn't they be shocked to discover our freaky side. 


We've discovered, however, that my husband's medication is causing a very unwanted side effect.  It doesn't even matter how overcome with passion he may be, or how strong his erection, his gun won't fire.  It wants to, and God knows I want it to.  It's certainly cocked and ready, but the bullet always retreats just as the trigger is pulled.  We've tried every sexual thing imaginable trying to stimulate him further, even though we've already done everything before.  We did them all again.  He's tried meditation and relaxation techniques, to no avail.  He even decided to reduce his dosage, but that led to the partial return of the grump, so that idea was tabled.  The doctor says that this may last a few months, or it could last as long as he's on the meds.  It's a wait and see situation.


Sometimes, it's nice that he doesn't fire it off for long periods of time, if at all.  That gives me a very long time to play with his assets, and to enjoy his manual labor.  Believe me, "he's got magic hands".  It doesn't help me, though, when I'm lost in a sexual frenzy, and I want nothing more than that moment of feeling his warm fluids landing on, and dripping off of, various parts of my body.  That aspect of our problem leaves me very unsatisfied.  Not only that, but several hours of having his semen held captive by his body, and teasing him with it two or three times in a night, is enough to wear a man down, and the gun goes back in it's holster.  Now, by the time that this happens, I'm usually well pleasured, and so dehydrated that it's a battle to even gasp, and pull oxygen into my desert dry mouth and throat.  We both are equally ready to quit, with nothing really to complain about, but the thought of leaving him without a release, for months at a time, makes me feel bad.   

The only solution, besides waiting it out, may be adding another medication to the mix.  I know that Viagra will create a strong and lasting erection, but can it aid in unloading a load?

Mania Made Me Do It

I have found that "mania" has a life of it's own, in a world of it's own.  Like being an alternate personality in an alternate universe.  No two are ever the same, although they sometimes share similar characteristics. 

I can't tell you when I had my first manic episode.  But I can tell you about the strange thoughts that have come over me, throughout life, and the ways that I acted on them.  Like the time that I thought I was under government surveillance for about two months.   I had begun to take notice of white vehicles with tinted windows.  They were everywhere I went, all around me.  White vans, SUVs, sedans... any make, any model... and they all had dark tinted windows.  They were watching me, following me.  I knew, at any moment, a dozen men were going to pop out from somewhere that I least expected, and take me away.  I didn't know why they would want me, but I must've done something criminal, because there they were.  White vehicles, in the parking lot of my apartment complex, in the neighborhood as I walked my children to school, at the grocery store, and the doctor's office, and beside me at the red light.  I was afraid to go outside, to answer my phone, to look out the window.  Luckily, this irrational fear came with an enormous embarrassment.  I didn't want anyone I knew to know that I was a wanted woman, so I kept it all very secret.  Hiding my paranoia, and continuing on with life as usual, pretending that I wasn't completely freaked out every minute of the day, until the day came that I forgot all about white vans with tinted windows, and FBI agents.  Then another day came when I remembered what it was that I had forgotten.  And I laughed at myself, for being so crazy. 

I can tell you about the time when I referred to myself in third person, feeling very much like I had been possessed by a higher being... an angel of God.  I was just a kid, though, in middle school, and I had always been kind of a weird kid.  I don't know, maybe I was just desperate for attention.  I don't even recall the day it stopped, but for several weeks I spoke very softly, and talked a lot about my boss, "JC". 

Manic periods, for me, can also bring on a period of hyper-sexuality, which I (and my husband) thoroughly enjoy.  But ... and I know it's hard to believe... but there are pitfalls to this, that require skill and dedication to avoid.  Before I met my husband, and began learning to control my behaviors, I had fallen into the pits of promiscuity, cheating, and indiscriminate fantasy play.  It took a long time to overcome the guilt and shame I harbored because of them.


Another symptom of my manic periods is actually quite productive, and enjoyable.  The energy burst, and the explosion of creativity usually leads to an assortment of projects.  I'll tear a room apart, repaint, clean, reorganize, and redecorate.  I'll pull out my crafting supplies and design a new necklace, mosaic, needle craft, or candle.  I'll write one or two chapters of an epic novel, or go back and work on the ones I've already started.  I'll start a new blog, or make several posts on the ones I already publish.  It all goes well, until the multitude of ideas overcrowds the space in my head, and I struggle to keep up with all of my on going projects.

Warning: crash ahead, expect delays. 

In Good Company

When I was twenty one, I was diagnosed by a mental health professional (my second in a list of four) with having moderate agoraphobia. This was later classified as a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

When I was twenty nine, I was diagnosed by the third professional as having Borderline Personality Disorder, later modified to Bipolar. My symptoms were classified as severe Chemical Depression, severe Social and General Anxiety Disorder, and mild Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Being properly diagnosed elated me, but living with these disorders can be disheartening. So I thought I'd share with you a list of celebrated others, who have also been properly diagnosed and talked openly about their afflictions, OR who are thought (by scholars, historians, and health professionals) to have had manic depression, schizophrenia, or some other form of mental/emotional disability.

If you can relate to nay of these issues, you must know... not only are we not alone, but we are in good company.

Axl Rose, musician
Maurice Bernard, actor
Margot Kidder, actress
Carrie Fisher, actress, author
Charles Dickens, author
F. Scott Fitzgerald, author
DMX, musician
Rosemary Clooney, actress and vocalist
Russell Brand, comedian and actor
Adam Ant, musician
Ludwig Boltzmann, physicist and mathematician
Sir Isaac Newton, physicist
Ozzy Osbourne, musician
Jane Pauley, journalist
Vincent Van Gogh, artist
Pete Wentz, musician
Mark Twain, author
Peter Gabriel, musician
Earnest Hemingway, author
Kurt Cobain, musician

There are so many more. Please visit "Wikipedia: People Affected By Bipolar Disorder" for a more detailed list.

Would You Like Fries With That?

I graduated from high school in June of 1986, at age seventeen, and soon after got a job at a fast food joint. The typical first step in a teenager's road to independence. They started me at $3.35 an hour, which was the minimum wage that year, but upon learning that I was a graduate, not just a student working for mall money, I was given a thirty five cent raise. Woo-Hoo! Seriously, woohoo! I was, after all, expected to supplement my mother's child support payments that would soon end upon my eighteenth birthday that coming fall. I was also saving up for a car, and a place of my own. My first few months were spent caring for the dining room. I wiped tables, stocked ketchup packages and plastic utensils. I vacuumed after toddler's messes, and sopped up the occasional cola spill. I also chopped vegetables, refilled dressings, and continuously iced down the salad bar. I loved it! To this day, the collective scent of fresh garden fare just brings me to life. Although I had always had a very shy personality, I made a few friends. Some of my coworkers had been fellow students with me at the high school, but we had never connected in that arena because we traveled in very different social packs. One such person was a boy that I had seriously crushed on in the tenth grade, who had repeatedly overlooked me. Another such person was the ex-boyfriend of a very good friend. He was several years older, in his twenties, and was actually one of my shift managers. Eventually, I was moved to the drive thru register. It was a much more challenging position, but I grew to be seriously efficient with taking orders, assisting to build those orders, accepting payment and getting customers on their way rather quickly. In fact, during a store inspection by some higher ups, I was timed, and commended on my ability. During the slower hours, I breaded chicken fillets, restocked the condiment containers, the cups, lids, straws, and napkins, too. One thing I couldn't quite conquer was keeping a steady cycle of potatoes roasting in the oven, and we often ran out, and had to turn down customers that placed a potato order. I was often reprimanded for that. I didn't mind the reprimands, because the perks of the job were so highly beneficial to me. At any time, I could reach behind me, into the chicken nugget bin, and grab a tasty snack. At the end of each summer day, I enjoyed a super-sized chocolate shake on the sweltering walk home. Just dreamy! It wasn't long before I began to notice my shift manager, I'll call him "Vince", taking long moments to glare at me from his desk in the back office. The office had a large plate glass window that faced the drive through register, where I stood for much of the day. Sometimes, when I caught him staring, he would avert his eyes, and sometimes he would not. For quite some time I couldn't tell if I was being evaluated for my work performance, or for something of a more personal nature. It became more clear on one afternoon when the sky became cloudy and Vince offered me a ride home after my shift. I accepted. I was a little excited to think that maybe, just maybe, Vince felt some attraction to me. But also a little confused, because he was indeed my good friend's ex, and she did have some lingering feelings for him. He was slightly handsome, tall and lean, with very short reddish-blond hair. He was friendly, and often helpful. He was talkative, although he took his position very seriously, and remained a little stand offish during work hours. I decided that if we became friends, and even flirted, it would be okay, but I would not date him. After the shift, we walked to his car. He unlocked my door and opened it, closing it once I was inside and settled. When he got in, he asked me where I lived, and I gave him the simple directions, being that I lived in the back of the neighborhood that was pretty much across the street. And so he drove across the busy main state road, upon which our restaurant sat, through the traffic light, and onto the side street that t-boned my community. Coming up to my turn, I pointed and said "This is the turn", but he drove on by. "That's okay", I said, "there's another street up ahead that you can use". But again, he drove right on by. "Where are you going?" I asked. No reply. I leaned my back against the seat, and realized that he had been silent the whole time. I had gabbed a little about the lunch rush, and about how his ex was vacationing in Hawaii this summer, but he had never said a word. He hadn't even looked at me. Even now as I glared at him the way he had done to me for the past week. The silence was broken when he said "I'll turn around up here", and then he quickly turned the wheel and pulled onto a dirt road on a large wooded lot, that was in the process of being cleared for a future housing development. I had braced myself in the hard turn, half against the seat, and half against the door, and again when the car came to an abrupt stop. Should I go on? Do I really need to give the details about what happened next, or do you think you can tap into your imagination and make an educated guess about the events preceding Vince handing me a napkin, starting the car, and backing the car out, and off of that solitary dirt road? I probably couldn't give you all the details anyway, because the whole thing happened so fast I didn't even really know what was happening, until after it became something that had happened. So, what happened next? He took me home, and I went about my evening. Of course, my head was filled with masses of confusion...Was this his way of expressing that he liked me? Does this mean we're together now? And let's not forget the guilt... How was I going to explain this to my good friend? What did this mean for the boy I was currently semi-dating? (That's a whole other story). Hmm, things to ponder. The next day, I went to work, like every other day before it. I was strangely excited to see if Vince would be there, and yet I was extremely nervous as well. I mean, we did have sex. It may not have been completely consensual (a word it would take me a very long time to comprehend), but it was sex, nonetheless. I was on the edge of my seat to see how the dynamic had changed. Much to my bewilderment, it hadn't. Vince continued to carry on with his managerial duties exactly the way he always had. Well, not exactly, exactly. He paid much less attention to me, speaking in my direction only when it came to delegating tasks during and after the lunch rush. I did notice that a few extra chores were added to my job description, and I will explain those in future postings, as they did become relative to this experience.