Sticky Beak
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The Skinny
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...life in small Northern towns, working for assholes, boys who refuse to become men, synthetic personalities, anorexic models and their link to emotional scarring, bad marijuana trips, crazies on BC Transit, beer, piece of shit cars, living out of a suitcase paycheck to paycheck, unrequited love, Seinfeld, minimum-wage jobs, broken New Year�s resolutions, and over-limit Visa accounts.
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Burnt (& B-Itchy) Insomniac What is the story, people? WHAT???? I ASK!!!! Bloody beepity-beeping-beep-beep-beep!!!!! There are only 3 1/2 short hours between me and that FECKING alarm, and I am not a happy Buckaroo. I'm lying here in a pool of my own sweat - generated as a result of the INSANE temperatures up here in the loft, combined with the fact that I'm sleeping on an inflatable bed... it's a top-of-the-line, mac-daddy of an inflatable bed, but it's still a sweat lodge no matter how fancy-pants it is... (bingle!) And now that I'm lying here typing, the neurons or whatever the hell they are that bounce around inside my tin-head are called have begun to buzz around and communicate to my body, which now realizes I'm awake, which means that the buddha is stirring and demands an offering. PISS OFF BUDDHA! Why do you think you're so fecking big in the first place?! But, in fairness to the buddha, I have to say that it may be his rumblings are due partially to the fact that when I awoke I realized that my right hip is aching and so was forced to down some ibuprofen (with my left-over, piss-warm can of diet pepsi...), so stirred him from his slumber. And I can hear Ayumi... chirp!chirp!chirp!... NO! I did not eat anything with the ibuprofen... YES! I took it on an empty stomach... maybe I DO want an(other) ulcer! Am I'm such a lame ass that this is the extent of my inner-rebel? Defying my sister-in-law's cautions to accompany food with ibuprofen? God I'm lame. Three hours and fifteen minutes. BINNNGGGLLLLEEEE!!! The schedule is out for next week, and that bastard Bucky has me working Sat/Sun/Mon in a row!!! Not only that, but they're all 8 hour shifts! What the (beeeeep!)???? Is he trying to kill me? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, BUCKY! This is a crappy little part-time job, remember????? Oh Bucky... you silly bastard. I'm tired just thinking about working another weekend, followed by a Monday. They must have some sort of psychic foreboding that I'm going to jam on them this week, so are pre-emptively sticking me with shite shifts. Buggers! He's a crafty one, this Bucky... I discovered late last night (i.e. a couple hours ago) that apparently I was feeling a little saucey down at the beach today and decided to show a little skin... because I am now sporting a 1" bright red stipe across the width (girth) of my lower back where tank and shorts did not meet. Fabulous. It sits precisely where the pants rest, so will be nicely chafed today at work... providing me with that 'little something extra' to keep a smile on my face for the coffee-drones. YAY! I love my life. SEE???! I told you that the beast was only resting and not dead! See how fleeting my good humour is??!!! Doesn't take much, huh? Just a little sunburn, hunger-pain, ache in the hip and sleep-deprivation and BAM! he rears his ugly head... Ok. It's now 3am straight-up and I'm gonna give this bitch sleep another go. Maybe if I sweet-talk her... "Yo BITCH! Whassup, Ho? Giddy-up and show me a little lovin', baby! Yeah, that's right! Wiggle that high-asscrack in bed for me!!! HA!" Oh my god. I'm delerious. I must be. I've personified sleep and am talking dirty-lesbian talk to it. Something my Mommy embroidered for me when I was just a wee bubba... and other things that go BUMP! in the night... May the good lord deliver us." Bon soire, mes enfants.... Bon soire. |