Pumping Iron

I worked all night last night. 11 to 7. I sat with Dave the cook and Chad the server on the step of the restaurant at 6, and watched joggers jog by. "Good morning," they'd say. I didn't respond. I was too busy trying to figure out why people would jog at 6 in the morning.

Little happened. I ate granola and made nachos occasionally. My nachos actually look very good. I've been complimented on them several times since starting. I'm serious. Okay, I take them out of the oven, and a fellow cook glances them and says, "Those look good." That's a compliment. That counts.
While cooking, I desperately seek approval from people who know what they're doing. It's a thing. I'm not sure why I'm like that.
I've been lifting a lot, lately. Sacks of potatoes can't get from upstairs to downstairs without a new guy to bring them there. Then new guy can cut them into fries. I get really distracted when I notice that my veins are protruding because I'm lifting something heavy. Sometimes I look at myself in a mirror, all gaunt and pale, while clad in little, and I try to imagine what I would look like if I had any semblance of definition. But see, that's the thing: I don't think I'm supposed to have any. Like, God wouldn't allow it, even if I tried. I'm not supposed to have muscle mass. Sure, I look ridiculous now, but if I was defined I bet I'd look more ridiculous. Wouldn't it be funny if I started weight training, and immediately got fat? That would somehow make sense.

I've a new old roommate. Melissa. She used to live here before I lived here. She lives here again. Crystal comes into the room while I'm Facefucking: "What would you think of Melissa moving in?" "Will she pitch on rent?" "I guess so, yeah." "That's cool, I guess. When was she looking to move in?" "Later today, I think." Which she did. This is who I live with.
Melissa's hair is huge. She likes a clean bathroom. She's sharing one with me. Melissa doesn't know what she's in for. I come home, and she has spick-and-spanned the whole area. My bathroom was fittingly disgusting before I left for work, it was spotless when I got home. My hair all over the drain everywhere. You have no idea how hideous my hair is once it's off my body, but Melissa knows. I felt terrible. I still do. I will feel a lot worse after I kill her, which I probably will.
She has an airborne peanut allergy. Residue on doorknobs, knives, the whole thing. There is no possible way this person is going to survive living with me. I will forget about the whole thing, and one day I'll randomly make peanut butter cups (I'll be proud of myself because they're homemade) and I'll have them strewn about the house in a fun scavenger hunt.
"Hey, you're home! I've got a real treat for you! Fuck Reese, I'm better than him! I hid these all over your room, just to say "Welcome to the homestead!" I put one or two in your bed and I-Missus? ...Missus?!"
They won't invite me to the funeral, but I'll make a greeting card that hints at how unfortunate it is to have a bad memory.
And the bagpipes will sound in the distance.