So, my feet don’t want to work any more and I had way too much sun and I still don’t feel comfortable talking about work here, but I still have to say this: I ended up behind the “Employees Only” barrier at Hatch Show Print. And I could have wept for joy. I saw two employees mulling over whether they liked what was happening on their test run of a poster for Paul McCartney.
I saw tall walls full of type and print blocks and way back there were stairs that seemed barely weighty enough to even land on the ground.
Well, fuck it. Between this paragraph and the last, my dad came in and I was telling him about my awesome afternoon and I was trying to tell him how sore I was from standing in crappy dress shoes all afternoon and he said “I am you father. It’s not the shoes.” Really? There’s an out of shape you can be that just affects your feet? And that’s more plausible than you wore the wrong shoes?
And then he went in and proclaimed that there was mold on the toilet. Which I just cleaned last weekend, so that must be some hella mold. Yes, mold the color of dirty cat footprints.
Seriously, I have been awake an hour and I am already, apparently, a dirty, fat, liar.
It just fucking pisses me off.
And he’s trying to get the Butcher a boat. Which I can only assume means the trip to Arizona was worse than I heard. Because I should get a motherfucking pony for this shit this morning. Seriously, it’s like his default is ridiculously mean and undermining.