My recent attempts to assert my own preferences have been going pretty well. I'd prefer not to eat pork, thanks; I'd prefer not to sign your silly contract for the work I'm doing for you for free; I'd prefer not to leave the house. Thanks, but no thanks. It turns out that if you're not emotionally invested in telling people no, you can get a pretty fun anthropological kick out of watching how they take it.
I feel bad about saying no because I've spent a lot of time trying so hard to be accommodating of the inexplicable preferences of others, and I still feel like it's rude to inconvenience people when your preference is equal to theirs, but I have picked olives out of enough dishes after having them sneered at, and dammit, I get to say I don't care for brussels sprouts. Because I don't, I never have, and I have eaten enough of them to be sure. I'd prefer not to have more, thanks. Imma leave that right here on the side of my plate in a tidy pile, okay, thanks.
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I'm still wondering why so many of the foods frequently served at parties give one bad breath. Any ideas? Hey, I'm about to talk to you really close for a while, how's my stinky cheese breath? Do you like these cocktail onions exhaled upon you? Mmm, spicy sausage with garlic on a little toothpick breath.
Fortunately, it looks like it might get concluded before the end of the year, which is good because I am tired of having Laurie Anderson's Example#22 running through my head all the time. PAY ME WHAT YOU OWE ME.
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In my many trips to many, ever so many bars, I have formed some opinions that now seem so obvious to me that I am always a bit floored when the bar owners don't share those opinions. Stuff like... it's a good idea to have a variety of wines in stock. Two of each color, say. It's a good idea for nobody on staff to spend any length of time standing at a table chatting. It's a good idea to check the bathrooms regularly for supplies and messes. Clearly just my opinions, here.