Road Rash

It’s Tuesday night, and therefore, i’m somewhere other than my own bed, listening to the snores of the best dog on the planet…

– As the mini-human on the airplane fussed, whined and delivered random brain-piercing squeals as a result of signals from the Evil Baby Planet, it occurred to me that baby-cries are biologically orchestrated to keep us from sleeping.  Fuck evolution.  Fuck Darwin.  Fuck babies.

– There is nothing better for a broken human than a long, brisk walk in the sand, with the waves crashing at your feet.  It’s probably better, however, to hike up the ol’ yoga pants first.  The charm of crashing surf is lost when one is dragging about ten pounds of sand-laden polyester through frothy salt water.  Fuck polyester.  Fuck sand.

– Phycisists have no practical comprehension of “Time/Space”.  As in “giving a presentation within the prescribed time limits” and “staying out of my personal space”.  Fuck Physicists.  And the Bozons they rode in on…

– Making friends with the 22 year old barkeep is a good idea, as you sneak away from the geekfest to have dinner at the beachside bar.  He has a degree from a local university in Business/Marketing.  He’s going to work here for the summer, then think about starting to consider which jobs he might want to apply for… Fuck the economy.  Fuck the limitless possibilities of a 22 year-old tending bar at a beachside resort.  Fuck the 7 years, 15 days* standing between me and retirement, and my next career, which will be tending bar at a beachside resort. 

– Just as i finished explaining to the adorable barkeep that his hotel would be infested with an international nerdfest this week, a gentleman strolled up from the beach.  Wearing a shirt that said “I [heart] Nanophotonics”.  Point – daisyfae.  He poured me a complimentary double… (sigh)

* Ok.  7 years, 14 days.  i probably won’t do much on my last day…