Bloated, Untalented Photophobe

Whata weekend. Spent most of it at my friends' house drinking beer and eating omlettes and steak. A difficult proposition when your stomach has contracted from over a week-and-a-half of miniscule diet. We got it done, though, in fine Bristol fashion.

Today after work I went to the Taco Bueno down the street and made an observation. A new girl was learning the register with a manager and it didn't look like she was picking it up very fast. Either you pick up working a register or you don't. I've seen new kids take to it like mamma's tit. Others, like me, never get the hang of it. My observation is this: If you don't pick it up in a reasonable amount of time, you never will. If you're sharp enough to pick it up quickly, you're wasting your talent working a register.

Almost eight o'clock and Sol is damn near down. I used to dread being inside when the sun went down. It felt like the world was turning without me. Now I dread being in the headlights of a police car. Those blaring lights at your back. You feel like you're watching yourself on COPS. What dread. What dispair. If I were burried alive, I'd feel, at least, I had a chance.