Peak Insanity
Smoking my way through another black pack Michigan Monday night. Just because there is fuck all else to do, here in the frozen wasteland of an empty December 517 holiday season. Downing dirty pints. Like it’s my actual job. And not the pretend one. The one I play at every night. Dressed up like a ramp running G.I. Joe; the one where I am kitted out in a uniform of cobbled-together high-viz ridiculousness. With an endless variety of electronic paraphernalia strapped to an aging, uncooperative body balking at the inhospitable weather. It’s always the same damn battle. The one fought six nights a week. Or sometimes, even seven. Especially when it’s our peak season of commercial craziness. And there are glaring staffing gaps to fill. So …
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