What a day! What a motherfuckin' day!
Heh. Training Day.
Though, subject totally related, work was fantastic today! Why, you may ask, gentle reader, would this be the case?
BECAUSE A CROW NUKED ITSELF IN OUR POWERLINES! w00t!
We lost so much power that we couldn't run one oven on even half power, no computers, no dishwasher, possibly no water heater, phones, limited lights, and one PC linked to the outside world that does our bookkeeping.
As I left with this massive pile of undone dishes, cavatini pans, pizza pans from cut table, lids and buckets everywhere, silverware and spatulas out the ass, I thought to myself, "wow, it really sucks to be night shift tonight." The fix for the lines is probaly gonna take like maybe an hour two at the most, and then everything is back to normal at the Slut....dishes included.
And I am nowhere to be found, for another, what 15 hours (as of writing, like right motherfuckin now), I am perfectly content with work, thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.
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So, I'm not sick anymore, yay. Well, more like I can't really feel it anymore, but I probably still got a few things rattling around loose. Life is so much more fun when you don't sleep 16 hours in a day. You actually get shit DONE! Shocking, I know!
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My writing bone is itching again.
I love how we attribute intangible qualities to fictitious skeletal attachments. Makes me all warm and fuzzy in my cockles. Again, I ask you, what the the fuck are cockles, and why do I have them?
So I can't decide what I want to write, space pirate odyssey, or a new little thing I'm toying with, something secret, very hush hush, but maybe I tell it's superhero noir, with less masks.
I think I dream to wide and much for my poor addled brain to keep half of it floating away and the the half the doesn't, I have no fucking clue what to do with. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? Maybe I need to start talking to people. Working with people, when I have something to show for myself. As much as I know I will never write professionally, I still hold on to a little romantic thought of being an author, rather than the sciences as my much esteemed parents hoped.
Honestly, science is all fine and good, but if I'm gonna be devoting much of my time and energy to a thing for, what...the rest of my life?,,,I gotta say, I'd rather create on paper. Science is just too streile, repetition, over and over. A life lived in slow heat death. And unless I become the next DuPont Genius Inventor, I'm probably doomed to being faceless. But writing? This is a field in which if you publish, even in the smallest way, you have your mark. This work will outlive you in the annals of history, for good or ill. In my darkest, most happy delusions in my head, I write A Novel. And fuck yes, I rock. It will be awesome, fuck you and die, I'm awesome. It will be a work that will be taught someday, and I will be great. And I will live forever.
I'd like to think I could do it.
Maybe.
Fuck off, I'll do it.
Fucking watch me.
Though, subject totally related, work was fantastic today! Why, you may ask, gentle reader, would this be the case?
BECAUSE A CROW NUKED ITSELF IN OUR POWERLINES! w00t!
We lost so much power that we couldn't run one oven on even half power, no computers, no dishwasher, possibly no water heater, phones, limited lights, and one PC linked to the outside world that does our bookkeeping.
As I left with this massive pile of undone dishes, cavatini pans, pizza pans from cut table, lids and buckets everywhere, silverware and spatulas out the ass, I thought to myself, "wow, it really sucks to be night shift tonight." The fix for the lines is probaly gonna take like maybe an hour two at the most, and then everything is back to normal at the Slut....dishes included.
And I am nowhere to be found, for another, what 15 hours (as of writing, like right motherfuckin now), I am perfectly content with work, thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen.
--------------------
So, I'm not sick anymore, yay. Well, more like I can't really feel it anymore, but I probably still got a few things rattling around loose. Life is so much more fun when you don't sleep 16 hours in a day. You actually get shit DONE! Shocking, I know!
------------
My writing bone is itching again.
I love how we attribute intangible qualities to fictitious skeletal attachments. Makes me all warm and fuzzy in my cockles. Again, I ask you, what the the fuck are cockles, and why do I have them?
So I can't decide what I want to write, space pirate odyssey, or a new little thing I'm toying with, something secret, very hush hush, but maybe I tell it's superhero noir, with less masks.
I think I dream to wide and much for my poor addled brain to keep half of it floating away and the the half the doesn't, I have no fucking clue what to do with. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? Maybe I need to start talking to people. Working with people, when I have something to show for myself. As much as I know I will never write professionally, I still hold on to a little romantic thought of being an author, rather than the sciences as my much esteemed parents hoped.
Honestly, science is all fine and good, but if I'm gonna be devoting much of my time and energy to a thing for, what...the rest of my life?,,,I gotta say, I'd rather create on paper. Science is just too streile, repetition, over and over. A life lived in slow heat death. And unless I become the next DuPont Genius Inventor, I'm probably doomed to being faceless. But writing? This is a field in which if you publish, even in the smallest way, you have your mark. This work will outlive you in the annals of history, for good or ill. In my darkest, most happy delusions in my head, I write A Novel. And fuck yes, I rock. It will be awesome, fuck you and die, I'm awesome. It will be a work that will be taught someday, and I will be great. And I will live forever.
I'd like to think I could do it.
Maybe.
Fuck off, I'll do it.
Fucking watch me.