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Ever had one of those days where you woke up more tired than when you crashed? Slept through the alarm, too. Now, what the hell could I have been dreaming that was so exhausting? The Flavor of the Day. Now, I'm fighting the impending blackness, nipping at my heels. After all the anguish over banishment to the bowels of the magazine factory, yesterday, I was outta there in two hours. Most exciting part of the day, I'm embarrassed to tell. A big flashback to many years ago, and a universe away: Fresh out of two years of college (and carrying a voluminous loan to pay back), I wound up in the mailroom... on the night shift. Kinda like a Bob Dylan song. Cold hard fact #1: despite scoring highest on the "entrance tests" (four hours of math, english... and stuff), I began immediately... hefting seventy pound mailsacks in overhead bins on the nightshift. Now THAT'S job placement. Cold hard fact #2: Night shift is all-encompassing. Though I can get along with just about anyone (though the callous wealthy have become a problem), it didn't take long to figure that work becomes the nucleus around which the world revolves. Must have something to do with having the day to yourself, being at work when everyone else is at home. Everyone bands together afterwards for a beer, and the conversation is about... work. And gossip. Cold hard fact #3: Women can talk WAY dirtier than guys. Cold hard fact #4: Facts 1 & 2 leave you screaming for the door. Obviously, this hasn't changed a bit. I DID learn to become proficient with a knife, though. Looks good on a r�sum�. Today's recurring motif: Black Mercedes-Benz. Everywhere. Must be what it takes for street cred, 'round here. I TOLD you about real estate agents. Candidate for most lame vanity plate: "Got Home?" Riffing off of lame advertising, America's favorite pasttime. "Got Crack?" "Got Orgasm?" "Got Suppurating Pustules?" God, I have a problem with vanity plates. There's one family, back home, that have simultaneously destroyed my taste for them AND family values. To Whit: "BB-BURP." And three other "BURP" variations. Jesus, God. Consider, also, the smartass type: "HATE2BU." Well, fuck you, too. Found on bling-bling Hondas, transporting aforementioned country girls named Sabrina (pronunciation guide for central VA: "s'BREEN-uh.") driving their license-less XX chromosome partners to the liquor store. Do I sound bitter? Then try on "IB2CUTE." Plumb withers me. After I can take no more websurfing, I'll be back on my way home. Whether it's the economy, printing company mojo, or whatever... it's the doldrums up in this piece. Gotta get my cruise on. Without doo-rag. Boyyyeee. Need to save some vacation time, though. I'm in serious need of Change Of Scenery. And circumstances. I will find out, within seconds of opening the front door, if the blackness awaits there, as well. |
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