The alley was dark, non-descript, and putrid. By the look of it, it had been home to more than one nights rest to some form of life; maybe a few. Bordered by not one, but two extensively ornate fences, both of which had been erected at a time when fences kept things out, and not in. Now it kept what was in from getting out. If it got out, it might be a situation. A situation that would make news. News was not welcome to this tong this congregation of immigrants bent on self policing, self rule.
The tong's Gai-lo ran the place with a fist. A fist of iron? No, the fist was clad in servitude; servitude to debt. Surely there was a place where cigarette smoke was banished to the breeze, this was not that place.
When you enter, you enter under many eyes watch; eyes that did not believe the sights you see; eyes that cursed your being. You were not welcome. Your money, ah, yes, was. Your money will leave you. Your money will remain. That is assured. But you must enter, first. "Fuk Yuk Lin requested this" was the entry code.
No answer.
A jibberish of Mandarin-Cantonese-and-poor-as-fuck imitation of Pidgin English rattled off behind the very old, very secure door. Recognized though, was the definite du ni la mo du ni ga se fut expression of disgust that another gambler had arrived.
"No; I dont have worms in my ass" escapes your lips; more a fuck you than a snide comeback.
Door opens.
"You go this way" No shit Sherlock, er, Charlie. "Oh, you come back, Mr. Big Winner, eh?"
Well, duh. You cant have a derlict gambling addiction without a gambling venue, can you now? Far from it, you can have one, you can have a damn evil one. Ask the old filipino men just jonesing as bad as a heroin addict for the first football parlay sheets to come out emblazoned with the fictional "for amusement only" across the top of the weekly parlay sheets. You know that well, since after showing some prowess in actually beating enough point spreads that the old manong men were paying you for picks. Lucarative side job; wagers to be made, others to be lost. Eh. What the fuck.
No alter to vice would be complete without proper sacrifice. The tong made damn sure you had the scars to prove it; not only sick with OD on MSG, they made the walk of yours complete with a dragging leg; proof positive to any you met that you were a tool. At least you arent a cat. Then you'd be food. Shit, you fuck up again at the tables, you may be food.
Through 3 more damn doors, through that damn stink-ass kitchen, back up (again) some bizarre staircase, and into the "Casino" No wonder the Police never get here. Fucking GPS cant find this shit. What the hell would they do if some "player" coded? Damn. Maybe better not to know what is in the Kung-Pao Chicken. The 'cashier' will grant drug; drug green, please. Easily consumed playing chips, brought to by the requsite go-fer, a spiked hair, 20 something triad wannabe. He'll be dead in a year; splatterd across the freeway racing the first rice burning dumbass he came across. Fast money, fast death. At least he stayed in one piece.
"Ah yeah, you back to take more of our (distinction definte on OUR) money, eh Big Winner?"
You are sooooo fucked.
The dealer slaps out the cards; the other players barely acknowledge your arrival. Why? Gimme. Gimme syndrome. Gimme cards. Gimme money. Gimme, gimme, gimme. Metaphore for life in the world today. I Want; you want, we all want.
To the left a chain smoking, 300 pound woman of perfect hair, a damaged clothes. What the hell? Right; another female, 60-ish, frail and smoking a harsh blend of filipino extract of tobacco. What a fucking riot it would be to hear the complaints of the vigilante non-smokers of the world would be here.
More Chinese take-out, coming up!
As the single up-turn of weak grin creases your lips, you think of the irony of that scene - some self-righteous douche-bag complaining to "security" - Security that would eject the douche right out the window without a blink.
Cards - peek-a-boo, you pull two Kings (no splitting allowed, house fucking rules)to the dealers 9.
Left, stands. "You up, motherfucker" That shit wont get 'em tips, but they dont care, you will lose. "Stand, Fucker", right back. Right, hits. Stands.
Of course, the dealer pulls a 6.
And another.
Sweeps the chips away.
And the night begins.
*all BS - I made this stuff up driving to work today.
30.8.09
26.8.09
Sedan Delivery
1st School Time NapI guess there will come a time when things and occurencies (SP?) will fall the way they should but for now I'll glady take a surf and a kid pick - up from school, cutting grass with Kekoa with hand shears, over anything that remotely resembles this thing called life.
Be good.
Aloha.
20.8.09
Just say....Wait, wait....go away.
The waiter that irritates me the most has been in rare form of late. "El Turd-O", or close enough for horseshoes has become his moniker from me. Somehow, after 27 years of this stuff you would assume my hide would be a bit thicker to twits.
But alas, it has not.
Business at the pink has been busy enough; but not like it was in the past. The management has gotten rid of most of the oldtimers, and replaced them with some real gems of humanity. Dont get me wrong; most are OK, but some are....just so bloody self-centered. You know how most of the youth is today? It is sad to see them so uncaring for themselves as participants in this world. It truly is all about 'me'.
And the "Turd" is mega-man in me-ness.
But alas, it has not.
Business at the pink has been busy enough; but not like it was in the past. The management has gotten rid of most of the oldtimers, and replaced them with some real gems of humanity. Dont get me wrong; most are OK, but some are....just so bloody self-centered. You know how most of the youth is today? It is sad to see them so uncaring for themselves as participants in this world. It truly is all about 'me'.
And the "Turd" is mega-man in me-ness.
14.8.09
I've got cookies as big as my head
KJ (international grommet of mystery) at LAX w/ huge-a-mongus cookie comped by Aunty Maimai.
Full Moon Cookie
Dont you just wish? Wouldn't a cookie right now just hit the spot? Shits and giggles; if you had one, I betcha you'd grind it right off. Milk, added bonus. I probably would.
So the first weeks of school gone past, the kids are going and I am losing my aforementioned mind as always. It is amazing to me to watch not only KJ, but Kiana, and Mai switch gears (for Mai and Kiana) to school mode. For KJ, it now is the start of a long educational journey, so his switch has not been off yet. That may be the greatest undestatement of the times. Senior year for Mai. 18 next month. Grade 4 for Kiana, and pre-school for KJ. Kekoa gets to cruise at home, wondering where the hell his accomplises went. Terrible 2's not holding him back on his enthusiasim for destruction.
The queen o' the abode is now at ******** Air, and thank god. Anymore time in the brig with the youth offenders woulda been not so aloha. Marry her, fly free. Oh wait, I did, but no time to yet.
Found out that my cholesterol level has basically a little more than tripled (FUCK!) in the past year. So changed my eating habits, which were not so bad, but something fucked me up to the point of another gout attack in June. Problem was, the thin never went away for over a month, so I finally went to the Doc, and she says 'whoa tiger; you be farquared, dude' ... sorta. So did some X-Rays and found out that the good old right ankle has degenrative arthritis. Wonderful. Thats allright tho' cause maybe I'll get my head out of my ass and get back to running afew miles vs. not. I guess you can not depend on surf to keep the boogie man away.
That lack of flex in the ankle hasnt made for a too inspired person in myself.
But as things go, it aint bad, just .... a hassle.
Off to the bullshit that is the hell hole of bullshit egotisim, falsefaced, crappaola...The Pink.
Aloha.
Full Moon CookieDont you just wish? Wouldn't a cookie right now just hit the spot? Shits and giggles; if you had one, I betcha you'd grind it right off. Milk, added bonus. I probably would.
So the first weeks of school gone past, the kids are going and I am losing my aforementioned mind as always. It is amazing to me to watch not only KJ, but Kiana, and Mai switch gears (for Mai and Kiana) to school mode. For KJ, it now is the start of a long educational journey, so his switch has not been off yet. That may be the greatest undestatement of the times. Senior year for Mai. 18 next month. Grade 4 for Kiana, and pre-school for KJ. Kekoa gets to cruise at home, wondering where the hell his accomplises went. Terrible 2's not holding him back on his enthusiasim for destruction.
The queen o' the abode is now at ******** Air, and thank god. Anymore time in the brig with the youth offenders woulda been not so aloha. Marry her, fly free. Oh wait, I did, but no time to yet.
Found out that my cholesterol level has basically a little more than tripled (FUCK!) in the past year. So changed my eating habits, which were not so bad, but something fucked me up to the point of another gout attack in June. Problem was, the thin never went away for over a month, so I finally went to the Doc, and she says 'whoa tiger; you be farquared, dude' ... sorta. So did some X-Rays and found out that the good old right ankle has degenrative arthritis. Wonderful. Thats allright tho' cause maybe I'll get my head out of my ass and get back to running afew miles vs. not. I guess you can not depend on surf to keep the boogie man away.
That lack of flex in the ankle hasnt made for a too inspired person in myself.
But as things go, it aint bad, just .... a hassle.
Off to the bullshit that is the hell hole of bullshit egotisim, falsefaced, crappaola...The Pink.
Aloha.
10.8.09
8.8.09
6.8.09
Stay Away!
2.8.09
Best Damn Soda Ever
It is Mango season and this is the best damn soda ever. Now if I can figure out how to lower certain scores on said blood tests, I'd be all good.
Waialua Soda Works
Waialua Soda Works
30.7.09
19.7.09
The Cali Crew
It is pretty damn quiet around the house.
Kaleo in Kalifornia
Everybody arrived behaved on the plane (!!!!!) watched movies, I assumed didnt kick any seats, and Kalifornia so far has not fallen into the Pacific.
Good luck Arnold!
Kaleo in KaliforniaEverybody arrived behaved on the plane (!!!!!) watched movies, I assumed didnt kick any seats, and Kalifornia so far has not fallen into the Pacific.
Good luck Arnold!
18.7.09
Surf Auction
Surf Auction yesterday - Mai, Kaleo, Kekoa, Michelle, Sandy and Kiana all go to Disneyland today.
We still live in Dizzyland; as Lady C says.
Aloha.
We still live in Dizzyland; as Lady C says.
Aloha.
14.7.09
M/M LK & Crew & Chinatown Walk-a-bout
Met up with he infamous Mr. & Mrs. LK in Honolulu for beers and cheers and festivus. Went over to YardHouse and quaffed a beer or two while getting kicked under the table by my better half.
You guys are realllllllllly fine folks. Hope you had fun, I know we did!
Pre-beer fest -
Good Kine Peoples
Yesterday, went and holoholo'd to Chinatown with the boys and Maile.
Lots of fun conversation w/ Kaleo and Kekoa, Maile kept running over my foot with the stroller to let me know she was bored.
Spent today taking apart the Dryer; putting it back together, and relishing the act that it now works.
Aloha!
You guys are realllllllllly fine folks. Hope you had fun, I know we did!
Pre-beer fest -
Good Kine PeoplesYesterday, went and holoholo'd to Chinatown with the boys and Maile.
Lots of fun conversation w/ Kaleo and Kekoa, Maile kept running over my foot with the stroller to let me know she was bored.
Spent today taking apart the Dryer; putting it back together, and relishing the act that it now works.
Aloha!
7.7.09
Not a Right
And a Goof.5.7.09
What you build, you will become
It started out as a long night the day before; with the usual new-clee-ar action on the home front. You know, those days/nights where you really ask yourself if the whole ball of wax that you have saved for years, that huge rubber-band collection of frayed nerves and left-over soap chips, compiled together in an ever growing dust bunny of confusion. I believe it is called life. I was up all-night. Probably had a beer; or 6. Or 8. Whatever it was it didn’t matter, since I would be attending the mass called work. If it is recalled correctly I sat in the dark of the early morning, bemoaning the depressing thoughts of the day’s actions/reactions to detonations occurring earlier in the sunlight.
Leaving before dawn, grasping the Styrofoam cup of Joe that would awaken what little remaining cells of function remained.
I remember, as always, checking the surf in the night moon light on the way to the station.
My alcohol level was not flammable, but without a cleansing shower, I probably was reeking through my glands. So I crept into the station, headed upstairs to the dorms, and gladly got naked and showered in some ice cold watery goodness. It was 545AM, after a 15 minute rejuvenation of some sort.
It is funny, reliving the tracks of water left on the tile floors in my head. It is equally amazing to my feeble/aged mind that I can hear the wind coming through the 3rd story windows that day. The white washed, Clorox scented walls of the dorm bath; the equally disarming sound of early morning Mynah birds chirping their irritating asses off. Maybe I would have slipped and fell if I had been more or less sober. But I remained standing.
God more coffee, please. Everyone (except the station ghosts) still hibernating. Had to creep into the dorm, grab my uniform, and stealthily creep my ass out. Mission accomplished. I like to brew coffee at the station. Nothing better than getting 12 to 20 cups of legal high going in a huge coffee maker. You are, after all, making for a party of 10 or more, just like station cooking, you better have some pride, and not just shove the shit in there, but measure, clean, rinse, and portion the grounds/water with some class.
Petrol for the troops, you know.
Brew, pot, brew. Noting the extreme amount of stress cells that were running amuck in my brain, I figured that the best thing to relieve generalized stupidity is…. The newspaper. Somebody out there in the world has got to be more fucked than I. Great. Seems like the world has decided that all the other clowns/fools/deviants are to be granted immediate reprieve of sorts. Thanks.
My crew isn’t even near awakening to even COME to work, and here I am sitting at the station, feeling sorry for myself and drinking life sustaining coffee to get thru the next 5 minutes of doubt and frustration.
Not even thinking about alarms.
Oh yeah, alarms. You know the loud sounds that come over the squawk box, that shatter the silence that comes over the usually raucous sounds of station life, after dark. Death, fire, birth, disasters don’t care for clocks, do they? No they do not. They don’t give a fuck about you, your schedule, and your problems, you at all. Why? They pay your salary.
The watch that is working/sleeping now, is not my crew, but the off going watch. Watches/crews can be a differing as the gains of sand. The crews on now, while talented, and dedicated, were a tad more ‘anal’ than most.
“Tines DOWN when the forks are put in the dish rack; why is the truck parked .5 inches away from where it should be?; the dish soap was diluted too little, etcetera”
Not bad; just different than my own.
Diffused fluorescent light, due to incoming rising sun light, refracting into unwelcome lasers into my caffeinated head.
Fucking Mynah birds.
“Engine 5; imminent child birth, 1940 Paula Drive; Co-response, imminent child birth, Engine 5, at 1940 Paula Drive, cross streets Koko Drive, and Paula Place, at zero- five-fifty-nine”
Great. Somebody has to decide to be expelled from the womb NOW. Thanks. What the hell.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Out to the apparatus floor. Out to the locker. Crew on duty sliding down the poles from the dorms, from the sleep, from the respite of death, sickness, and heat.
“Hey, Mark! What the fuck, man? Whatchewdoing here so fucking early man?”
“ Fuck you right back you fat fuck, get outta here, I’ll go, I am here already, call it a early out, my man”
“Oh sure, then you want 3 pay backs for 1 ya shit”
“Go wash the shit out your eyes, doofus”
“Shoots, man, thanks”
“ No worries, bro, have a good one”
“Stay safe, Mark-O, stay safe”
“You know that my brother”
And with that, we are on the road and out the door.
Gearing down, up the ridge, up the hill. Gathering my thoughts on what faced ahead. Child birth. Soon. Maybe. Many times, if not more often than not, it ends up being a close call, just a over reaction to labor pains, a anxious father/mother/lover/in law, whatevers, getting all in a twitter, and jumping the birthing gun.
Probably another.
I guess my mind changed gears when the little boy standing in the door way said as I entered his home said “ My Mom is being bornded” . . .
OK.
Gear switch.
Slam shift into brain lock, drive that gearing into compound, grab your balls, hitch the cerebellum, and cram that selfish as sorry to be me, attitude and try to drown out the screaming female voice coming from the living room. Or there about.
But first; by pass the dumbfounded look of (assumed) father standing in the entry way to the living room, where his wife (assumed) lay back down, legs spread, night gown hitched, basketball stomached, on the floor.
Just ignore the fluid of some sort, on the floor, don’t slip, cause that’d be great, falling ass over heels into a birthing Mother, now wouldn’t it?
Kneeling, sliding, tossing the trauma bag. Grabbing without looking into the bag; right to the birthing kit, grabbing at the same time, the smock, the squee-gee, the forceps, clamps and sack for the plecenta. Blanket. Oxygen.
“Cap,(short for Captain) I got crowning”
Just let nature take its course, which is it. Just guide, clean, and get Dad to cut the umbilical. Easy. Really; just silence the sounds all around you, just concentrate on what your job is.
Human life.
What will this child be like?
Please bring joy to this world, man, please. Just for your own good, kid, it will make your existence so much more enjoyable for what really little time you will have here.
“Shoulders out, Cap”
“Baby is clear, Cap”
Greeeeeeeeeeeeahhhhhhh. Softly. Greeeeeeeeeeah. Louder.
“Boy, Cap, zero-six-fifteen”
Dad is frozen, small kid brother with the neighbor, Mynah birds just as irritating as earlier.
Placenta out.
Somebody took the child that just came to my catchers mit, some unseen hands, some body. I am busy. Placenta and all else that can be or is needed. Who knows? Just do what you are trained to do.
Help people. Help yourself.
Not tired.
Stabilize Mom. Comfort Dad. Assure new brother.
Clean up the scene.
Get your gear.
Back the Ambulance up, get our truck out.
Down the hill to the station, re-load the trauma kit, get cleaned up.
24 hours to go.
I am not tired, I am adrenilized more than I can handle.
My crew here now.
“Hey, Mark! We Aunties, or Uncles?!?”
Fuckers.
Who knows what or where that life will lead, who knows what takes us on paths we choose.
But paths and journeys they are, and always, somewhere….
Mynah birds will irritate.
Aloha.
Leaving before dawn, grasping the Styrofoam cup of Joe that would awaken what little remaining cells of function remained.
I remember, as always, checking the surf in the night moon light on the way to the station.
My alcohol level was not flammable, but without a cleansing shower, I probably was reeking through my glands. So I crept into the station, headed upstairs to the dorms, and gladly got naked and showered in some ice cold watery goodness. It was 545AM, after a 15 minute rejuvenation of some sort.
It is funny, reliving the tracks of water left on the tile floors in my head. It is equally amazing to my feeble/aged mind that I can hear the wind coming through the 3rd story windows that day. The white washed, Clorox scented walls of the dorm bath; the equally disarming sound of early morning Mynah birds chirping their irritating asses off. Maybe I would have slipped and fell if I had been more or less sober. But I remained standing.
God more coffee, please. Everyone (except the station ghosts) still hibernating. Had to creep into the dorm, grab my uniform, and stealthily creep my ass out. Mission accomplished. I like to brew coffee at the station. Nothing better than getting 12 to 20 cups of legal high going in a huge coffee maker. You are, after all, making for a party of 10 or more, just like station cooking, you better have some pride, and not just shove the shit in there, but measure, clean, rinse, and portion the grounds/water with some class.
Petrol for the troops, you know.
Brew, pot, brew. Noting the extreme amount of stress cells that were running amuck in my brain, I figured that the best thing to relieve generalized stupidity is…. The newspaper. Somebody out there in the world has got to be more fucked than I. Great. Seems like the world has decided that all the other clowns/fools/deviants are to be granted immediate reprieve of sorts. Thanks.
My crew isn’t even near awakening to even COME to work, and here I am sitting at the station, feeling sorry for myself and drinking life sustaining coffee to get thru the next 5 minutes of doubt and frustration.
Not even thinking about alarms.
Oh yeah, alarms. You know the loud sounds that come over the squawk box, that shatter the silence that comes over the usually raucous sounds of station life, after dark. Death, fire, birth, disasters don’t care for clocks, do they? No they do not. They don’t give a fuck about you, your schedule, and your problems, you at all. Why? They pay your salary.
The watch that is working/sleeping now, is not my crew, but the off going watch. Watches/crews can be a differing as the gains of sand. The crews on now, while talented, and dedicated, were a tad more ‘anal’ than most.
“Tines DOWN when the forks are put in the dish rack; why is the truck parked .5 inches away from where it should be?; the dish soap was diluted too little, etcetera”
Not bad; just different than my own.
Diffused fluorescent light, due to incoming rising sun light, refracting into unwelcome lasers into my caffeinated head.
Fucking Mynah birds.
“Engine 5; imminent child birth, 1940 Paula Drive; Co-response, imminent child birth, Engine 5, at 1940 Paula Drive, cross streets Koko Drive, and Paula Place, at zero- five-fifty-nine”
Great. Somebody has to decide to be expelled from the womb NOW. Thanks. What the hell.
Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. Out to the apparatus floor. Out to the locker. Crew on duty sliding down the poles from the dorms, from the sleep, from the respite of death, sickness, and heat.
“Hey, Mark! What the fuck, man? Whatchewdoing here so fucking early man?”
“ Fuck you right back you fat fuck, get outta here, I’ll go, I am here already, call it a early out, my man”
“Oh sure, then you want 3 pay backs for 1 ya shit”
“Go wash the shit out your eyes, doofus”
“Shoots, man, thanks”
“ No worries, bro, have a good one”
“Stay safe, Mark-O, stay safe”
“You know that my brother”
And with that, we are on the road and out the door.
Gearing down, up the ridge, up the hill. Gathering my thoughts on what faced ahead. Child birth. Soon. Maybe. Many times, if not more often than not, it ends up being a close call, just a over reaction to labor pains, a anxious father/mother/lover/in law, whatevers, getting all in a twitter, and jumping the birthing gun.
Probably another.
I guess my mind changed gears when the little boy standing in the door way said as I entered his home said “ My Mom is being bornded” . . .
OK.
Gear switch.
Slam shift into brain lock, drive that gearing into compound, grab your balls, hitch the cerebellum, and cram that selfish as sorry to be me, attitude and try to drown out the screaming female voice coming from the living room. Or there about.
But first; by pass the dumbfounded look of (assumed) father standing in the entry way to the living room, where his wife (assumed) lay back down, legs spread, night gown hitched, basketball stomached, on the floor.
Just ignore the fluid of some sort, on the floor, don’t slip, cause that’d be great, falling ass over heels into a birthing Mother, now wouldn’t it?
Kneeling, sliding, tossing the trauma bag. Grabbing without looking into the bag; right to the birthing kit, grabbing at the same time, the smock, the squee-gee, the forceps, clamps and sack for the plecenta. Blanket. Oxygen.
“Cap,(short for Captain) I got crowning”
Just let nature take its course, which is it. Just guide, clean, and get Dad to cut the umbilical. Easy. Really; just silence the sounds all around you, just concentrate on what your job is.
Human life.
What will this child be like?
Please bring joy to this world, man, please. Just for your own good, kid, it will make your existence so much more enjoyable for what really little time you will have here.
“Shoulders out, Cap”
“Baby is clear, Cap”
Greeeeeeeeeeeeahhhhhhh. Softly. Greeeeeeeeeeah. Louder.
“Boy, Cap, zero-six-fifteen”
Dad is frozen, small kid brother with the neighbor, Mynah birds just as irritating as earlier.
Placenta out.
Somebody took the child that just came to my catchers mit, some unseen hands, some body. I am busy. Placenta and all else that can be or is needed. Who knows? Just do what you are trained to do.
Help people. Help yourself.
Not tired.
Stabilize Mom. Comfort Dad. Assure new brother.
Clean up the scene.
Get your gear.
Back the Ambulance up, get our truck out.
Down the hill to the station, re-load the trauma kit, get cleaned up.
24 hours to go.
I am not tired, I am adrenilized more than I can handle.
My crew here now.
“Hey, Mark! We Aunties, or Uncles?!?”
Fuckers.
Who knows what or where that life will lead, who knows what takes us on paths we choose.
But paths and journeys they are, and always, somewhere….
Mynah birds will irritate.
Aloha.
3.7.09
Go Blow Things Up Day
Happy 4th peoples.
Will be on duty at the firehouse for the annual blowing up of things day. That is what it has become. Pretty much sucks, as the fun is gone, and the work only remains.
Small kid time, used to be a whole shit load of fun. Making and setting off fireworks. Shi-shi babies, cracker balls, camel firecrackers.
Limited pyro tendencies, but def kid time destruc-to fetish.
Anyway, stay safe, be happy, and have a whole lotta fun.
Aloha.
- Oh and BTW, Annie nailed it on the head.
Will be on duty at the firehouse for the annual blowing up of things day. That is what it has become. Pretty much sucks, as the fun is gone, and the work only remains.
Small kid time, used to be a whole shit load of fun. Making and setting off fireworks. Shi-shi babies, cracker balls, camel firecrackers.
Limited pyro tendencies, but def kid time destruc-to fetish.
Anyway, stay safe, be happy, and have a whole lotta fun.
Aloha.
- Oh and BTW, Annie nailed it on the head.
1.7.09
Drake U 197929.6.09
1 of many reasons I am Insane
Have had a attack of gout/arthritis in the ankle bone for a week. Most humans apparently have it for a day or 3 tops. Of course, I have to blow that to shitskis - right when killer swells are lighting up the beaches.
Actually called in sick at FIRE, which I never do since on Friday, doofus boy couldnt walk. cant/dont sleep either. Have to work at the Hotel since we have NO ONE that can work since 1 person is on vacation.
Lovely.
Foot @ Work
At least it will go away; not soon enuf, tho'.
Actually called in sick at FIRE, which I never do since on Friday, doofus boy couldnt walk. cant/dont sleep either. Have to work at the Hotel since we have NO ONE that can work since 1 person is on vacation.
Lovely.
Foot @ WorkAt least it will go away; not soon enuf, tho'.
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