Reading Magnifico's journal

. . . makes Nny a dull boy.
It's tough, working 40 hours in four days. For $100.
This past week, and again next week and the week after that, I'm employed as a senior counselor at a day camp out in the boonies. In the heat, and the humidity of a hellish Memphis summer, I take a group of kids around, so they can simultaneously enjoy themselves and annoy me. This week, I got kicked in the nuts.
Three times.

What's worse is that this work thing has my sleep patterns all messed up. Messed up in that I'm awake during the day and asleep at night. Strange occurences. Strange sacrifices for small sums of money.

Sorted through all my CDs, separating between rock, techno, and that weird in-between grouping that includes 311, Miles Davis, The Toasters, and Sublime. Might look up some Reggae, now that I've Rastasized myself (á la Kona in Fluke: I'm a white Rasta goof). Can't wait for the new 311. The new song is all about causing a lot of chaos, not unlike my job. Two days ago I almost rolled a golfcart into the lake.

With three passengers.

Thbbbbt

Two words. Bob Marley

Look at me! I'm a prostitute robot from the future!