Nipple Tits?

So, how's your summer?

Oh just fine! I'm having a splendid old time! Catching up with old friends, shooting the breeze! Bullshitting and reminiscence, naught but rollercoasters and bonfires! Joy is plummeting off the cliff of my heart, and the parachute of sorrow is nary to be seen! Exclamations abound! Jumping!

Or, you know, none of that. Working the gas station again. You wanna hear alla bout it, don't you, because if there's one thing you don't get enough of is peoples work stories, innit? You love to hear how Claudine from sales made a fool of herself in front of the staff and how that one guy who always wears those wacky Loony Tunes ties has politcal opinions which differ from your own and this difference must be hashed out not in argument or in battle but in complaints directed towards someone who will never meet this person. Don't you? Well, I don't even have that for you. As was aforementioned, I work in a god damned gas station. You know, those little buildings people use as their shit-and-purge hovel before they move on to some other wasted notion? Those boxes of insignifica which contain attendants who are simply begging to proverbially (and literally, in a few cases) spit, shat, pissed and ranted upon by the one-level-up scum of the Earth? Yeah, those things. Think you were pissed off when that temp guy stole your Champion Air promotional blue pen? Try cleaning up bloody shit off the rim of a gas station toilet. And, no, I'm not being British; I'm being medical. There was blood in this stool, and there was stool on this toilet. The billigerence of customers is appaling: The flat-out rudeness and ignorance of most people is enough to make one stumble to the ground and wake up Terry Shiavo. I've always been one to give the human race a chance, but it is hard not to maintain my bitter, spiteful attitude when my coworker requests that "all fags" be "lined up and shot". And he's not being British either.

But I was going to try to avoid talking about work. Who the fuck cares anyway? It's work. I want to think nary a thought past punch out time. However, this prospect of steady work has lead me to an all too obvious conclusion: I'm going to be working for the rest of my life. Starting officially what will be called "now", I will work until I die. That basically sums up life. I know the key is to find a job you enjoy, but honestly what are the odds of that? I don't enjoy anything. If I could somehow get paid to bitch about movies I haven't seen or rifle through my fridge and ultimately close the door and leave empty handed, then perhaps I could survive in the racing of rats and not have my brain implode. But brains tend to implode; I believe it's an actual scientific fact. Go look it up. I can wait. Because this is text and I'm not actually currently on the other side typing this, waiting for response. All this pretty words will still be here when you get back. Take your time, I don't want any 9th grade science project research. Actually go to a library or something. Cite your source too, dammit. And "Google" doesn't count.

But no. Those are not paying jobs. And even if I had a job along the lines of "Official Awesomeness Calibrator!" or "Guy With Kick Ass Job!", it'd still, at the very core of its being, be a job. And I hate jobs. I hate work. If suddenly I got paid to do something I love, there is a good chance I'd not do it anymore out of its connection to working. Thankfully that will never happen and I'll be stuck in menial labor the rest of my life. Phew! Dodged the bullet on that one!

I am having a good time this summer, truth be told. I saw GWAR, rapped with P.O.S., saw Sleater-Kinney, drank alcohol, and had all sorts of fun I'm not privy to share with you. So don't worry about old me. I'm doing great. I just wish I could see more of my friends instead of working. I also wish I weren't so god damned tired. I'm so fucking tired all the time these days. I feel like the guy who came to the party and took a dump in the keg. Or something like that. I used to be Mr. Stay-Up-All-Night Party Animal. Honestly, I have a badge and everything. I had to change it back to Jack for legal and tax reasons (it's for the better, really), but, yeah. And now I'm a sad sack who falls asleep and wakes up confused. I feel 80. I'm way too young to be so damn old.

Fuck work. I'm going to bed.