Nearing the tail end of an 18 hour work day you are lucky that I am even cognizent enough to update this bastard. 6am til midnight. Same again tomorrow. I work or I starve. And to top things off Murphy's Law has been trying to prove itself to me all day long. Like I would ever have doubted Murphy Brown in the first place. Psh.
I deliver breads to restauranteurs now. None of them are as sophisticated as the adjective used to describe their lot in life. I work in a place that smells like cinnamon rolls, but somehow it makes me just a little sad. I only saw one person smile there today, and he is obviously the crazy guy.
I'm skipping all the witicisms I could spout about this job: a stand and deliver reference, ya gotta sell bread to make some dough, the list goes on and on. When you have 18 hours to think about it you too can create a line of humor reminiscent of a young Lenny Bruce.
I'm going to take pictures of my delivering adventures and post the best one for each day that I work there. This may only result in about 5 pictures due to the effects of air-born yeast on my asthma. Wow. That was an urkel-tastic bit of info.
I didn't see any meteors last night. Where the hell were they, Jesus? Why can't you come through just once?
And why didn't anyone tell me that Scrubs is an awesome show? Did you guys not know that? If you didn't know: Scrubs is awesome.
When you are seeing shadow people out of the corners of your vision and slurring your speech like a drunken boxer the last thing that you need is for your close friend to call you up and ask you to crash on your couch because he has to go pcik-up the tiny dirt bike that he won on e-bay from a man who lives in Ellijay before that man goes to church. And then my boss told me that there are such things as miniature cows. 80-90lbs. Needless to say my mind has been filled with the following panorama: The red-headed squirrely friend in question gleefully pilots his mini-motobike across a teletubbies-esque landscape complete with creepy babyfaced sun, while miniature cows dot the pastures in the distance and all the while Donovan songs are playing. It seems like a happy enough scene, but why am I left with the feeling that it all floats on a sea of evil tears inhabited by glistening steel narwhals of death?
T-minus 2 hours until sleep. T-minus 6 hours until work. Sleep when you're dead, youth of America. Your motherland has her legs spread and she's ready for whatever you can hit her with. Party on, brah.
p.s. Olde English is the new Street. Fo shither my nither, and thou knowest this.