Rest home residents (2 of 2): Older guy who makes jokes.

The other week, I stopped through the room of this one (older) guy who makes jokes a lot, to help him set time on a clock.

While we were there, he mentioned that he had lived in California for a long time, which I hadn't known at all, and then when I asked him why, part of his story involved him having family out there.

"But I thought you were from here," I was like. "How did that happen?".

He then said that his uncle was a furrier and he had moved out to Los Angeles after World War II because business was booming, and so he settled in Hollywood selling furs to the stars.

Rest home residents (1 of 2): Woman who wants to die.

The one rest home resident who really wants to die has a new variation of our farewell, lately.

When I say, "See you tomorrow," she says, "See you tomorrow," and then after a beat is like, "But I hope not."

Rest home coworkers (4 of 4): My one Mexican coworker.

The other week, my one (Mexican) coworker brought in a plastic shopping bag from Target and pulled out of it a big bag of corn puffs, which she opened up and dumped in a bowl.

She then pulled out a bottle of Tapatio hot sauce that she had brought in with her from home, and she opened it up and shook some hot sauce over the top of the corn puffs and then stood the bottle up by the bowl in case anyone wanted to add some more, after they had snacked the ones off the top of the bowl.

She then said that it's a snack in Mexico, and she wanted to share it.

She then left that food sitting out on the middle of the table in the office where everyone brings in food and leaves it sometime, as a nice thing we do for each other.

Rest home coworkers (3 of 4): A Ghanaian.

The other week when I was passing by the kitchen, I walked a bit too close to one of my (Twi-speaking) Ghanaian coworkers.

"Excuse me, [his first name]!", I was like.

"No problem, bro," he was like.

. . .

I think he is experimenting with the word "bro" as a slang word between men, because he must have heard it somewhere and assumes that's mainstream English slang for most guys.

Rest home coworkers (2 of 4): Another Tibetan.

The other day my one (male) (Tibetan) coworker was talking with another of our coworkers, and the subject of his young son came up.

As it turns out, his son's first name is the same as his own, but his second name is different.

(Everyday Tibetans have two given names, and no real family names like we have.)

"Why did you do that?", one of our coworkers was like.

"I did not give him the name," my one (male) (Tibetan) coworkers is like, 'The Dalai Lama gave it."

He then said that his mom knows someone who's one of the Dalai Lama's bodyguards, so when his wife was pregnant, he called his mom in India and asked her to ask the bodyguard to ask the Dalai Lama for a name, and the Dalai Lama gave him one.

Rest home coworkers (1 of 4): One Tibetan.

The other day when shifts were switching over, I bumped into one of my (female) (Tibetan) coworkers who I hadn't seen in a while.

"We miss you!", she was like, meaning my being gone for my campaign, and how we're not working the same shift any more.

Idea of mine, lately:

I throw out all the papers I've been saving in boxes since college.

Ever since I was in college and maybe even before that, I've kept a big manila envelope where I can put stray papers and souvenirs like programs and whatnot, and then when the envelope gets filled up, I tape it up and put the date range on it of when I've been collecting stuff that ended up in that envelope, and then I go and I go start a new one.

I have at least one big box of that out in storage, as well as my active envelope in my one box where I keep my stationery and my postal stuff like stamps and regular envelopes and whatnot, though maybe I have a taped-up big manila envelope or two in there, too.

For some reason, I just don't feel like I need that stuff anymore, and even more than that, I think it would be incredibly purifying, to rid myself of more stuff from my life, and just strip everything down. I almost feel like keeping it around would stress me out, whereas getting rid of it would be liberating.

I think I'm going to sit on this.

Maybe I'll just throw it out, or maybe I'll open up the envelopes, look at the stuff, and then throw it all out, though maybe I'll strain it and keep some of the stuff around, maybe, and put it in new and fewer envelopes.

I really have no idea what's in there, except opera programs I remember from recent years.