I've a rotating, randomized chunk of music that makes its way through my brain on a semi-regular schedule.
Every few weeks I get Collapse stuck in my head to a point where I sing it under my breath constantly. I bob my head along and find a rhythym in my step that matches the tempo. Collapse, 4 out of 5, Rolling, Buddah Rhubard Butter, Blame, Monster Man, Disseminated... so many soul coughing songs are far too absorbable.
That's how I think the floor crew guy at work must be. I've decided he's Tom Waits' second cousin or something. He's jazz on feet. He's got a swanky, slick walk pushing one of those 5 foot wide brooms or controlling a floor buffer. He's the most effortlessly smooth guy I've seen in a good long while and I see him almost every morning, wandering through his duties with a cool that belongs in a smokey bar.
The other day while pulling stock in the back, a bundle of rakes with plastic wrap around the handles, making 4 into one, fell forward from the place it wasn't supposed to be. I got my hands up in time. I thought I was remarkably calm for having just narrowly avoided a 5 lb. chunk of sharp metal to the face. I didn't even scream when I told the manager of that area he really needed to double check his guys back there because they're doing really stupid shit. But I did give into some whineyness later in the day when Joe grabbed both my hands and marvelled at the indentations on my palms. I *am* just a girl, after all.
Kids bandaids have no staying power. I sliced my finger today with the box cutter and I needed to not bleed everywhere so I found the nearest first aid kit and tried to find an appropriate bandaid. Turns out that, while I was horribly gratified by the power puff girls bandaid, I'd chosen looks over substance. The thing didn't last 10 minutes.
But it was bright neon green and had Bubbles on it.
Think I'll go to bed at an old lady time of night tonight. Tomorrow is friday. Finally the weekends have meaning. ( Collapse )