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10:01 pm | 13 February 2004 | here comes the shitstorm (2)

This morning found me stumbling, bleary, be-glasses-and-track-panted, and junkie-looking-ly into the 99 Cents And Up* store around the corner, purchasing a plunger from the repelled-by-my-existence (and rightfully so) girl at the counter, and stumbling home to plunge the shit** out of my toilet. What is it with crappy rental potties, and why do they hate me so?

This all went down yesterday. I got up at 3:30 am to move my car (don't ask) and when I stopped by the Shell station on the counter to see if i could utilize their ostensibly flush-functioning toilet, one of the three inscrutable Asian men who own it glared at me like I was bringing him a suitcase full of Bird Flu. "Not for non customer!" he said, sternly. Now, I buy cigarettes from this dude like three times a week, and gas at least once weekly despite it always being like two-nineteen a gallon, freakishly, and it pissed me the hell off that i was a non-customer simply because i wasn't buying THAT TIME. So, long story short: 1. I hate plunging toilets but I am DAMN FINE at it; 2. I am boycotting the Shell on Alamitos and Broadway and you should too; 3. I don't have a three but included it here for symmetry.

Work is going fine, although the 10:30am-to-8:30 pm shift, though it seemed initially to be a godsend for the drink-fond, is actually a major bummer. I got all promoted and crap and am responsible for a lot of cash money***, so going in hungover is a poor plan, and by the time i get home at nine at night i am so close to weeping from sheer exhaustion and on-one-occasion-not-exaggerating-no-shit-BLEEDING feet that i'm in no mood to get my partay on.

This job allows me to inhabit a weird character, one that has kind of a drawl you have to hear to believe. " that Marc? It's cuuute." Somewhere deep inside, a part of me is retching, but in a cutely bulimic way, I think. Waistbands are coming back up, bitches, so tuck your butt-floss back in. I may have to hang pants all day, but i don't wanna see that shit, even if it does have a butterfly on it. Especially if it has a lametarded butterfly on it. Gawd.

Okay, I'm out. I am in the Coffeehouse Of Web Extortion again and someone a table away just went "I wish that girl [folk singer in next room, oh predictability] would stop her singing." And on that note, I'm off like every streetlamp I walk under. Happy Valentine's Day, you dicks. clm.

* I hate this technique. Might as well call it "Store Where Things Are Of Variable Price" for chrissakes.

** Literally. Thumbs down.

*** Those of you intimately familiar with my math skills and personal level of responsibility may begin laughing here.

Also! Go get Jeremy Broomfield's Fear Not Guide to Life today. It might actually help, if you like bossy geniuses telling you stuff. Which, uh, if you're reading this, you probably do. Smooches!

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