joy

The other day Belinda was at a bookstore on her lunch hour, scanning the racks trying to get her fix of the latest bridal magazines, when she ran across the GQ with Lindsay Lohan on the cover.

When she came home that evening, she couldn't wait to tell me that my "girlfriend" was on the cover of GQ. "I was going to buy it for you", she said to me.

And at that moment a tear came to my eye because I realized that I was the luckiest man alive.

comp time

I am so unmotivated to do work today.

I'm supposed to be working on two projects right now and instead, I am writing this and listening to The Kleptones.

The funny thing is that I'm pretty much shooting myself in the foot by lazing about today. One of my projects is very high profile and was supposed to be finished months ago. But for various reasons (not entirely in my control) it has languished.

The other project is new. I was supposed to start it on Monday and over the course of two weeks, design some bullshit device. Instead I will have one week, because I've been working on my other project.

But wait, the first project will get in the way again in the middle of that week because I'm supposed to visit the client in BFE New Jersey to give a demonstration.

Understand? Good, because I don't either.

The best part is that when The Boss came over to give me a pep talk about how much work I have to do over the next few weeks, he dangled the "comp time" carrot in front of me. The idea being that I would get compensated with extra vacation for not having a life or seeing my fiancée over the next few weeks. Gee thanks.

Comp time is the biggest bullshit perk ever.

What I really want is extra fucking money. Now that would seriously motivate me.

But instead I'm going to have a few extra days of vacation. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Belinda isn't going to be granted extra vacation out of sheer generosity from her employer, so I will have to spend my extra vacation days in solitude.

Oh, and vacations can be expensive. Where am I supposed to round up a couple of extra thousand dollars to send myself (alone!) to Key West or some shit?

Sure, I could stay home and just relax on the couch for a couple of days and watch Dr. Phil and HGTV, but I'm really not that kind of person.

But I can't say, "No thanks, I'll be leaving at 6 every night and the project will get done when it gets done." Nope, can't say that. So I have to pretend that I am grateful for their bullshit comp time and spend the next week or two in hell.

donnie darko

Belinda was out to dinner with a friend last night, so I stayed home and relaxed and watched Donnie Darko.

As with Paris Hilton, I am very behind the times. I know. I'm fucking trying to catch up, OK?

This may be the weirdest movie I've seen since Eraserhead. The story seems to borrow heavily from Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five in parts. I won't bore you with all the details of my long-winded opinion since I am probably the last person on the planet to have seen the movie and I doubt I will add anything new.

What I will comment on is that the ending of the movie disturbed me. I mean, the way things ended up in the film it just seemed to be screaming, "The world is better off without you Donnie!" That's not typically the message we want to send to people who are depressed or mentally ill. But there it was, right in front of my eyes and I was a little weirded out by it.

I mean imagine if you were suicidal and you called a hotline asking for help and they actually said to you, "Have you ever considered that maybe the world would be better off without you?"

Weird, right?

Then again, maybe I'm just reading into the weirdness of the movie too much.

party

What I forgot to mention in my posts about my mother's visit was the reason she came to visit in the first place. Belinda and I had an engagement party. Well, Belinda's mom threw us an engagement party.

Personally, I didn't want to have an engagement party. I feel that it's completely unnecessary, an excuse to get more gifts, especially if the bride is going to have a bridal shower. But Belinda wanted one, and our wedding is going to be over a year from now. So I can be flexible and I agreed to it, because it's what she wanted. I just had one requirement for the party:

We will not be opening the gifts at the party.

You see, this is a thing for Belinda's family, a family tradition. At every gift-giving event they have, after the cake is cut, the guest of honor (GOH) sits down in a comfy chair, surrounded by gifts. The other guests sit in a circle around the room. The GOH then proceeds to open all the gifts. The card is first, the GOH telling the giver how sweet they are and what excellent taste in chihuahua Hallmark cards they have. Then the card is passed around the room for each and every person to read and comment on. While the card is getting passed, the gift is opened and the guest of honor has to ooh and ahh all saccharine sweet and tell the giver what incredible taste they have in fuchsia costume jewelry.

I know that lots of families do this, but mine never has. I find the practice to be a bit tacky. Last year, when Belinda had a birthday party for me, I flatly refused to open the gifts in front of everyone. Her mother, Ms. Biddlebox, kept saying at that party, "Are you going to open the gifts now? Everyone is waiting!" Belinda was a trooper and she pushed back, and I prevailed, no gift opening.

Not so much at our engagement party. Belinda had a chat with her mother before the party and we all agreed there would be no gift opening and everyone seemed satisfied. What we didn't expect was to get pressure from the guests. Belinda's Aunt Lucy, who I love dearly, kept asking Belinda when the gifts were going to be opened. When Belinda said we weren't going to open the gifts she exclaimed, "Oh, you have to!" as if to save us from committing the most grievous of Emily Postian errors. Then there was her cousin, Connie, who kept saying, "You have to open gifts. You have to! Everyone wants to see!"

So Belinda caved. And I don't blame her.

But I tell you, I tried. I really tried to act pleased-as-punch because as I unwrap the stupidest looking wind chimes I have ever seen. But I am positive that I failed and that I may have been saying, "Oh, we don't have wind chimes, awesome. We definitely needed that." through my clenched teeth, the look on my face was really saying it all.

survival

The mother is gone. Not a moment too soon either.

As predicted, I spent the whole visit catering to my mother's inability to move. This ranged from walking VERY slowly everywhere. Think 90-year-old with a walker. Yes, that slow. To driving her to the front entrance of every place we took her, then I would have to drive around like a crazy person looking for a parking spot while Belinda suffers through yet another one of her often repeated stories while waiting for me to return. While she is droning away and poor Belinda is trying to pretend to be interested, she would smoke a cigarette or two and blow smoke in the poor girl's face. She has to do this since we won't let her smoke in the car or the apartment and my driving around looking for parking is her only chance to get her fix.

I think all the second-hand smoke must have shortened Belinda's life by a year or two just on this visit alone. If that doesn't get her my mothers hideous (and generously applied) perfume will.

I love my mom very much. She really is very sweet and kind and wonderful, but when she comes to visit me, I just don't know what to do with her. It's all made even worse because she doesn't tell me what she wants to do. She just says, "I'm in your hands." Or, "Whatever you want to show me is just fine." COME ON MOM, THROW ME A FUCKING BONE HERE!

Thanks for the kind comments JustAgirl and testypea on my last post. I appreciate your sympathy and I appreciate the excellent suggestion on how to deal with her. Next time I may just try it.

the mother

My mother is coming to visit tonight. Having my mother visit me is always the biggest pain in the ass.

Belinda and I love my mother dearly, but when she's in town everything becomes 100 times more difficult.

My mother has lived in the suburbs almost her whole life. My grandparents moved her away from Brooklyn in 1957 when she was 11. All she has ever really known is the suburban life of subdivisions where every house looks the same, you drive everywhere and walk nowhere, and shopping malls and chain restaurants.

I lived this life too. But now I live in the middle of a major west coast city.

What's amazing is the effect is has had on my mother. Keep in mind she drives everywhere. Need a gallon of milk? Drive to 7-11. Need a pack of cigs? Drive. Need to get the mail? Drive to the mailbox. Have cabin fever? Take a drive. Having a fight with your husband and need to get away? Drive. Beautiful weather outside? Why don't we enjoy the day by sitting in a tin box and driving somewhere...

She doesn't even have a leash for the fucking dog. Why would you need one if you never actually took the dog (or yourself) for a walk?

My sister and her family live about 2 blocks from my mother's house. On a slow week, she will go to my sister's house three days to visit the kids. My mother has never once walked the two blocks between the two houses to go and visit her grandchildren. Not once in three years.

I am convinced that all of this not walking anywhere has culminated in my mother's ill health (diabetes and sciatica) and her inability to walk anywhere. She's only fifty-fucking-nine. But she can't walk more than half a city block without taking a breather. God forbid that block goes uphill even a slight grade. This is exactly what our street does as you walk from our house to our subway stop, a nice gentle rise.

Here on the west coast, our cities are hilly. It's not like Manhattan where they leveled the entire island when they excavated in preparation for the grid. Or like Washington, DC where the whole city was build on a very nice flat swamp. No, here in our city, there were no excavations, geography ruled, and our grid goes up and over the hills.

And, like any other city, parking is a nightmare.

And don't even get me started on the fact that we live in a 3rd story walkup. Last time she came to visit, we had to plan each day so that my mother only had to descend the stairs once in the morning, and climb them only once in the evening.

And so we have the convergence of a mother who can't walk much of anywhere plus a hilly city plus impossible parking. What does all this equal? Bingo. A miserable time for me and Belinda.

crank

I am beyond cranky today. Beyond grouchy. Long past grumpy.

The dark clouds have decended and I want nothing more than for everyone around me to be gone. To be alone. FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE! Don't fucking talk to me. Don't fucking smile at me. Most of all, don't fucking be polite to me.

To be honest you polite mother fucker, I would probably laugh if you got hit by a bus.

Yes, I am in THAT bad a mood. So don't fuck with me today.

dirty laundry

I do all of our laundry. Every single load of it.

For whatever reason, I ended up with that chore. I always thought the man was supposed to be in charge of auto repair and outdoor grilling.

I am not being sexist. I mean it.

I shouldn't be in charge of laundry, not because it's woman's work, but because women make it into a huge fucking chore.

Belinda has these rules about her clothes. Certain items can't be dried. Certain items can. Some are cold water. If something has a stain, you have to spray it with special stain remover, let it soak in for no less than 2 minutes, then place it in the washer. Oh, but you can't put anything in the washer until there is at least 2 inches of water in the bottom and all of the soap has completely dispersed. You can't wash towels and clothes together. Oh, and god help you if you dried some article of clothing that the stain hasn't completely washed out...

Don't even get me started on the special complex procedures for hanging wet clothes on the drying rack.

And on, and on, and on.

If you wrote down all of Belinda's rules of laundry there'd be more pages than a Congressional budget report.

Here is the procedure for washing my clothes. Stuff washing machine full. Put in soap. Put in 5 quarters. Push go. Drink beer.

It's a little more complicated than that. As I got older, I got more domesticated. I know to separate all the whites from the colors. I wash jeans in a separate load too. But that's pretty much the full extent of my rules.

If something gets mixed up and I end up with a pair of tighty whities in with the jeans, oh well, no big deal. If a red towel ends up in the white and turns everything pink, oh well, no big deal. If that coffee stain didn't come out of my favorite button-down? Wash it 20 more times, it'll come out eventually.

It's a fucking pain the ass to do laundry in our apartment. The washing machine is four flights down in the basement. And there is only one machine, so only one load at a time. We share the machine with 8 other apartments in our building, so often, you'll head downstairs, just to find that someone else beat you to it.

I started to get sick of the laundry routine after a while and I think Belinda sensed it. Now she's helps with the folding and putting away laundry which is that part i hate the most.

Last night, around 11:30, I bring up a load and ask her to help with the folding and hanging. "Not now, I just got cozy on the couch with the dog."
"Come on, it's just one load."
"No, I just got cozy. Leave it and I'll help you when you've finished the next load."
"Belinda, that won't be ready for an hour and you'll be asleep long before that."
"No I won't. I'm not tired. Just leave it."

I walk into the bedroom, and start hanging my shirts anyway. I finished the task about 2 minutes later and walk back into the living room.

Guess who's asleep on the couch all cuddled up with the dog. Must be nice.

princess

Belinda forced me to go see Princess Diaries 2 this weekend. I am certain that I was the oldest non-parent in the place.

I knew when I agreed to take Belinda to see it that I was in for 115 minutes of horrendous drivel, but sometimes, to please your partner, you just have to jump on the grenade.

I was shocked to find out that the movie was directed by Garry Marshall who has brought us fine entertainment (insert dripping sarcasm here) such as Overboard, Young Doctors in Love and Pretty Woman. What I didn't expect to see in this movie was blatant and shameless use of the product placement.

Oh don't worry, I haven't been living under a rock for the last 20 years. I know movies, even quality movies, have tons of very well placed product shots. It's just how movies are made in the 21st century. It helps defray some of the incredibly high production costs, etc. It's business and movie studios are in business to make money, not to make high art.

What I didn't expect was just how much blatant placement there was going to be in this movie. Here is a fine example. Notice the Vespa logo plastered against the wall? The other logo that is just underneath and to the right of the Vespa logo is a Piaggio logo, the parent company of Vespa.

In all of the city scenes, almost every wall of the set was covered with logos. The logos were placed slapdash on the walls too. Not over storefronts, but just in random locations on some wall somewhere as we the picture linked above.

Many of them were brands European brands like Piaggio and Orange that don't have a large presence in the US. Some of the brands are high end, like Mont Blanc, and the products they sell are probably out of reach of an average teenage girl's weekly allowance. Why put your logo in a movie like this? Because teenage girls everywhere will equate your brand and logo with the princess, royalty, wealth, prestige, etc. Maybe not now, but someday, these girls will be able to afford your stuff, and they won't remember why, but they know you sell the fancy shit they want.

The movie also had the usual product shots that have become so ubiquitous that we don't even see them anymore. Like the Princesses Apple ibook, Coca-cola, Nikon, even the University of California at Berkeley.

What's next? Why don't big corporations start buying the naming rights to movies like they do with sports venues? This way, next year we'll have great movies coming out like:

OnStar Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith

McDonalds' Toy Story 3

Maybelline Pretty Woman 2

Smith and Wesson's Matrix 4

This way, we can get the product placement over with right on the movie poster and perhaps leave the content alone. Fuck, who am I kidding, they'll want both.

It's all about getting consumers hooked young. The cigarette companies weren't the only ones targeting kids, all corporations do it. Why? Because we let them. Because it's a free country. Because we were subjected to it when we were kids too and we are so used to being marketed to that we don't even notice anymore. Is the American public numb? Stupid? Clueless?

Besides being predictable, boring, poorly written and poorly executed what other sins has this movie committed? Well in what is almost the last scene of the film, there is a wedding and the clergyman pronounces the married couple Man and Wife.

The movie is also guilty of bringing women's liberation back 50 years.

voyeur

Dear Naked Girl in the Window Across the Street,

I just wanted to write you a letter to let you know I see you. We all see you. Our buildings are less than 100 feet apart after all.

It's not like I go out of my way to see you naked. I swear to god I am not a pervert, really. It just seems that every time I look out my window to take in the excellent view of the city that is probably the only thing that makes my tiny 3rd floor apartment livable, there you are in your window taking off your clothes.

I remember a year ago, before you moved in, there was a sign on your building. Your apartment was vacant and the asking rent was almost two times my rent. So I know that you make a decent living to be able to afford a place like that. I also know that you must have a decent job based on the clothes I see you stripping off and tossing on the floor ever chance you get. I know that at the very least, you can afford to go to Kmart to buy yourself some curtains or maybe some of those nice mini-blinds. Perhaps you've been meaning to do this and it's slipped your mind for the last 8 months, or perhaps you're a hopeless procrastinator.

Either way, you should know we can all see you. I've wondered over the months why I keep seeing you naked over and over again. I thought to myself, maybe she's an exhibitionist. Maybe. Or maybe you are a free spirit and just don't care who may or may not be seeing your naughty bits. Maybe you think we're all myopic over here on our side of the street and all we see is a flesh colored blur in your windows. Perhaps you have a very labor-intensive job and you are too tired when you come home from work to put the blinds down.

Whatever the reason, whatever your motivation, there you are, undressing, naked, bending at the waist to search in the lowest drawer in your chest of drawers without any drawers.

And before you think to yourself Naked Girl in the Window Across the Street (for the sake of brevity, may I just call you NGitWAtS?) that I should just keep my mouth shut and enjoy the show, but truth be told, I am not enjoying it very much at all.

Sure every guy loves the idea of catching a disrobing woman, nay, dreams of being able to watch a woman taking it all off in her window. But as you and everyone else knows there is good naked and there is bad naked. You are definitely guilty of bad naked. Oh, you seem to have a fine shapely figure and all, and you seem not to be old or saggy or overweight, at least from 200 paces through filthy-100-year-old glass.

But seeing you there, undressing in the window, or dropping your towel after a shower is just so, um, utilitarian. And quite honestly, I've seen you naked so many times now, that there is no thrill in it anymore, no excitement, nothing to the imagination. After all, imagination is what really separates us from the animals, isn't it?

In conclusion NGitWAtS, thanks for the show, but now it's time for your curtain call.

Grumpy

mental state

Belinda and I saw Garden State over the weekend. Great movie. Belinda, who isn't much of a movie buff, loved it. I guess it really spoke to her since she is in her mid-twenties. I didn't quite feel the same connection with the movie as she did, even though I enjoyed it very much.

In the days since we saw the movie though, Belinda has become totally obsessed with Garden State and Zach Braff.

When we got back to work on Tuesday, she Googled "Garden State" and has been reading Zach Braff's blog ever since.

Then she found a connection between people in their mid-twenties who are experiencing what is known as the Quarterlife Crisis and the overarching theme of the movie. Notice that big ad on their homepage? I've never heard of this quarterlife crisis thing, but apparently if you're between 24 and 27 it's a huge problem for you.

Then yesterday, she went out to dinner with her alumni group and one of the other alumni there had just met Zach's brother, Joshua, a week ago at a bar. Joshua apparently released a new book the same week that Garden State was released. Weird synchronicity, huh?

Every day this week she has been coming home from work with a new tidbit and new trivia about the movie from more "research" she's done on Google. I think she must have read every blog post, review and commentary that exists about the movie and Zach.

For instance, did I know that Zach wrote the role of Sam for Natalie Portman, but he never in a million years thought she'd accept the part.

Or, that the movie was financed privately for $2.5 million, but picked up at Sundance for $5 million.

Or, did I know that Zach quit his job as a waiter at a Vietnamese restaurant in LA the day he got the call to be in Scrubs. But he didn't realize shooting wasn't to start for four more months, so he wrote the screenplay for Garden State over those four months because he had no job and nothing else to do.

Then on Wednesday she tells me we're definitely going to see the movie again this weekend.

Um, no?

bikini babes

Sorry about the belated posting... crazy week.

It was fucking hot as hell here in our city all Labor Day weekend. Belinda and I spent some time down the coast and at a couple of beaches. We also spent some time at home, hanging out in the city. When it's hot, the women here in this city wear next to nothing. I don't blame them, I can imagine that wearing a bra with the sun beating down at you is uncomfortable. I've been known to forego what are normally essential clothing items for me for the sake of keeping certain body parts as cool as can be.

All weekend Belinda teased me:

"Whoa! Grumpy, look at the knockers on that one in the white bikini."
"Oh Grumpy! There's your girlfriend on the boogie board. Look
at her boobies."
"Check out the fine ass on that one!"
"Get a load of HER!"

I fully admit that I notice these types of things. I mean if they're going to show it off, I'm going to look at it. But when I'm with Belinda I try to be low-key about it. I don't do the exorcist head snapping thing or the tongue hanging out thing. I need to show my woman some respect. And honestly, Belinda has got it going on herself, but that is another post.

But we men are programmed to notice bare skin, bouncing boobs, jiggling this and that. And, if we do notice and look at such things it doesn't mean we're going to dump our current girlfriend/fiancée/wife and run off with the next pair of THOs we see in the street. Sure everyone likes a good pair of THOs but it's like art, nice to look at, but it would probably clash with the wallpaper.

So on Sunday morning, Belinda had just woke up and asked me what we were going to do with our day, and to give some of the teasing back I said, "Oh, I thought I'd just stay in and watch all the girls sunning themselves in the park across the street." She looks at me blankly, says nothing, not a word, and walks away.

Maybe I shouldn't tease her until she's had her morning coffee or something...

fuck it

I had the bright idea to have a contest or something to give away my (now 6) gmail invites.

It seems these fucking things are like roaches in a crack house. Every time you turn on a light there they are, skittering across the floor. At this point I have to ask myself, is there anyone out there who doesn't have gmail?

If you're the one poor schmuck in the world who doesn't have gmail and wants it and you actually read my blog, simply email me and *poof* your wish will come true.

morning funnies

What a fucking morning I've had.

It starts when first this morning when I walk in the bathroom to see Belinda naked and frantically looking through the closet where we keep all the toiletries. She says to me, "Where did you hide my face wash?"
"Um, I didn't touch your face wash."
"I know I had an extra one, I need it, why do you always touch my stuff?"
"Belinda, do you really think that I am out to get you by moving and hiding all of your toiletries so you can't ever find them??" This little exchange puts me a little on edge.

A little miffed, I went out to take the dog for a poop in the park and to move our car since today was street cleaning day.

When I returned, Belinda had just gotten out of the shower. She just bought herself one of those fancy lady razors for shaving her legs and god knows what else, and used it for the first time today. This is actually momentous because it marks the first time in 3 years that she is not using (read: dulling the shit out of) my Mach 3 for such things.

So when I peered into the bathroom, I saw the new razor sitting on the edge of the tub. It comes with a special suction cup hanger and I think to myself, Oh, I hang that for her. And as I'm standing on the edge of the tub I hear, "It's not going to work there! Shit Grumpy!! You just got grass and dirt all over the tub. Argh!" I step down from the edge, "Now you're getting it all over the mat!!"
"OK, OK, sorry. I was just trying to hang the damn thing for you."

Then its time to head out for work. We walk down to the corner where we pick up the train. The train is always super crowded in the mornings and when the train comes, I motion towards the second car and say to Belinda, "The second car is always less crowded than the first." We quickly hurry down to the second car and guess what, even more crowded than the first. Shit. Belinda, as she turns to run back to the first car before the door closes says to me, "You're completely fucking wrong!!!" Fine whatever.

We're on the train now, heading inbound. It's crowded, but considering how crowded it is we have a decent amount of room. I am standing next to one of the worst subway commuters known to man, the Pole Hugger™. The pole is there for a reason, to hang on to as the train speeds up, slows down, stops, turns and generally tosses its passengers around. It goes all the way from the floor to the ceiling of the train. It is there so that a number of people can share it and hang on. Not today. No, today we have the Pole Hugger™ leaching onto the pole and preventing anyone else from using it.

Fuck that.

I grab onto it anyway. I would not do it if it were a woman, or if the person was kinda dirty. But today's Pole Hugger™ (there's one on every train) was a guy, was pretty clean, and he didn't look like he was insane or packing heat. So fuck him, I have every right to that damned pole too. I reach in, and grab the pole, making it obvious that my hand is there and his chest is extremely unwelcome next to it. Naturally he backs off a bit. But after a minute or so, he starts hugging the pole again and his chest is rubbing against my hand, as if I weren’t even there.

I pull my hand off the pole. A bit in disgust, and a bit in shock (AS IF!) and I let out a little huff. Belinda looks at me, probably not realizing that I just lost my crusade against the Pole Hugger™ and is like "What?”
"Nothing."
"Tell me what it is."
The guy is standing 6 inches from us. I am not going to get into it. I hiss at her, "I said it’s nothing, just leave it alone."
"Oh, you’re in a fucking great mood this morning, just like you are every other morning." And with that, she turns her back to me for three more stops.

I'm the one that's in a bad mood? What the fuck?

What a morning.

hell

I am in the foulest mood today so I'm going to keep it short.

The project from hell is still going on. I've been working on this since February. This is the longest I have ever worked on a single project since I became a consultant back in the Jurassic (1998).

The Boss says to me yesterday, "Grumpy, we're going to have to keep your schedule open so you can keep working on the project from hell." AAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!! One month ago, I thought I wrapped it up. I packed everything up, organized the computer files, made an archive of all the important paper work, and now this. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

I see other sweet projects coming through the office. I see them come and I watch them go. Usually some brain dead freelancer gets to work on those.

I have this rule. I will not quit a job over a single bad project. But now I'm starting to think I am going to have to break my rule.

dopamine

I love Tabasco. I love how it tastes. I love how it burns. I love that it only has three ingredients.

I put Tabasco on everything. In soup, on rice, on eggs, in pasta, on salad, on french fries, burgers, hot dogs, Chinese, Mexican, Italian. Hell, if I could find the right flavor combination, I'd put it on ice cream. I don't just use a drop here and a drop there, either. I use tons of it. I use it the same way that people who love ketchup (never touch the stuff) use ketchup. I pour a little on my plate and dunk. I douse my food with it. The more of this stuff I can get in my mouth, the better it tastes.

On Saturday, Belinda and I went to brunch with her cousin Connie, Connie's husband Brett and Connie and Brett's baby Ursula. I got an omelet. Tabasco was on the table. Eggs and Tabasco are like peanut butter and chocolate, an inevitability. Needless to say, they made a comment about how much Tabasco I used.

On Friday, I went to lunch with my coworkers. I got a grilled chicken sandwich. Tabasco makes a crappy chicken sandwich worthwhile. Some wiseass coworker makes a comment on how I should take it intravenously. Fuck you!

It seems every time I go out to eat I get asked at least one of these questions, usually more:

Can you even taste your food anymore? Yes, I can taste just fine.
Doesn't it burn? No, it doesn't burn, it fucking tickles.
Are you sweating? Yes, I am sweating.
Can you pass the bottle of Tabasco? No, unless by "passing the bottle", you mean squirt some in your eyes.
I don't have Tabasco, I have some of this Louisiana hot sauce, will that do? No, it will not do. I asked you for FUCKING Tabasco. If I wanted Louisiana hot sauce, I'd have asked for Louisiana hot sauce, you stupid fucker.
The bottle is almost empty, did you use ALL that? YES, I fucking used all of that. It's not my fucking fault they put Tabasco is such stupidly small bottles!
Can I have a bite? Fuck you, no.

How is it that in the 21st century and I am still running across people who are amazed by people who eat spicy food?

I am not a freak.

Hasn't anyone ever heard of Mexico, South America, Africa, or the Indian Subcontinent? Are you all living under some fucking rock somewhere?