It Gets in Your Shoes

All the world is a litter box and we're merely temps in it.

I've spent the last two weeks working on the beach.  One week setting up and taking down ninety-one volleyball courts and the next week putting up and taking down seventy-two catering tents.  All that grunting, groaning, cramping and sand reminded me of my childhood dream of joining the French Foreign Legion.  It would have sucked, except for the hat, because once you have a boot full of sand there's no way to empty it in the middle of the desert, but I was a kid and didn't think it through.  A slight groin pull reminded me I went to college and I needed more cerebral work.  So. . .

I applied for a job proofreading porn sites.  I'm not sure what that means but you work from home.  I hope it's only counting fingers and toes because me looking at naked women all day would be like beaming Food Network into an Ethiopian refugee camp.  That analogy needs shortening it's like the spawn of War and Peace and Remembrance of Things Past, but I'll leave that to you.  I'll leave reading those two beauties to you too.

I'm just off.  I used to have timing and such, but I must have left it on the beach.

My motel neighbor hung a Warning! Guard Dog on her door instead of  Do Not Disturb.  Honest to G-d.

Have I mentioned I thought I was afraid of heights?  Turns out I'm really afraid of gravity.

Next week I'm only writing and shooting sunsets.  Expect to see sunsets.