Bumbershoots and chicken boots

Today marked my 7th of an 8 day week.
When the alarm strikes 4:30, I tell it to go get fucked.
And when it strikes 5 I admit defeat.
Dragging around swollen club feet that are tired from standing.
The pantyhose required by skirt days make them look even more like they belong to an 80 year old.

Checking people in, checking people out.
Answering telephones.
Here are your room keys, sorry but you can't have three, the wifi information is with them.
That sounds like a very nice vacation you're having.
Oh, sorry your girlfriend is in jail. Here's a map I printed to the border on google maps.
You oughtta bring her flowers. 
You're welcome.
It's just around the corner.

Let's give this guy on the phone a better reservation.
He's very polite, and it sucks that mean people always get what they want.

See you later guys, I'm headed out.
Head whirring quickly like a dryer with nothing in it.
That's how the end of the day usually comes to me.

Tickets from a nice man to a 3-day music/ comedy festival.
He was finished using them and headed home.
Bumbershoot, that's the name.
I don't give a fuck about Bumbershoot.
I can't personally wait till I'm not checking out masses of red eyed children whose credit cards keep declining.
But then I enter the festival gates, find myself tangled in a cloud of the children's laughing gas
and remember that I love them all.
What a wonderful afternoon; meeting new friends, swaying to the beat, having a cold beer.
I ate two deep fried Reeses cups for dinner with whip cream on them.
Then I caught the bus home.
Work again tomorrow.



In other news, I am teaching myself how to play the accordion.
I am looking into the mirror to see the buttons, but you can pretend I am looking deeply into your lovely face.