Yesterday one of my co-workers invited me out for breakfast when we got off duty this morning. Brent gushed about the food at the Friendly Toast in downtown Portsmouth, but also warned that the place got packed after 10:00. He thus suggested that we get there as soon as possible. Upon the conclusion of duty, I returned to the Nexus of Hate, changed clothes, and drove back downtown. I easily found the Friendly Toast, and then I waited...and waited...and waited. Forty-five minutes and two phone calls later, I was greeted by Brent, Brad, and KT (he's a guy, but this nickname is pronounced like the female first name). I was literally two minutes away from walking away. The first thing I said to them as they walked up? "Fucking Southerners." I was not pleased about being kept waiting for three-fourths of an hour on a thirty degree morning. Though we were quickly seated, the service wasn't all that good, and we combined to leave something like a two dollar tip on a fifty-dollar check. While the other three ordered breakfast, I opted for a burger and fries, figured that it'd be just about lunchtime when the food arrived (and sure enough, it was delivered to us at 10:50).
After this brunch, I got a haircut. Following the haircut, I anticipated a short drive back home...that is, until the Minivan o' War went schizo on me again. It took me twenty-nine minutes - and two refills of the parking meter - to fire up the engine, and I consider myself fortunate that I didn't get noticed by one of Portsmouth's finest.
There's an equilibrium of bitterness right now - while I'm nearly over the Thanksgiving fuckjob, the anger at Beechstone over the ceiling is ramping up.