Andare, Partire, Tornare

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Saturday night's alright for drinking

Very tired, yet mysteriously not going to bed yet. Had my last official day as a dog bather, so I can start up my new life as a full-time (well, full time being both weekends) cashier. Still wondering if it just means I get the chance to fuck up a cash drawer on a regular basis.

Went out with Persia and shopped and spent money I didn't really have (hey! Bath and Body Works was having a great sale!) and ended the evening with a Wootini and fried shrooms from Outback. Not a bad way to spend an evening, no, not at all.

Bemo is out at the Little Bar with the Little Latino Men with the Big Hair. His band will play, and the little latino men will mosh on top of broken beer bottles. Sadly, I do not kid. It doesn't happen every time they play, but it's happened.

I'm passing on to Bemo the card of a guy who brings his dog to the salon. He comes every week, and sort of has become an friend of the salon - if the entire salon was composed of gay men, he'd be a fag hag. He mentioned to my Idiot Salon Manager that he could use people who knew basic computer skills, and tried to get her to take a job with him, but she declined, being terminally computer-retarded. But she mentioned it to me, I mentioned the offer to Fag Hag, and he said that Bemo should send him a resume. I'm a little leery, since I don't really know if the guy is full of hot air or not, but as far as I can tell, his buisness card looks professional (yeah, I know about how much that's worth) and he does seem to be gainfully employed. So we'll see. Remember, however, that the last time I tried to get Bemo a job, we ended up in Penn State with Bemo getting dicked around by the Ken Doll station manager, who had been given the station as a present from his dad and didn't know shit about how to manage it.

I am kind of trying to avoid the topic of Bemo's employment/underemployment/always potential unemployment like it's a sore tooth. Every time I think about it, I start to sink into this unproductive depression that I have to pull myself out of. For crying out loud, all the man wants is a nice little job that pays in the range of 25K, which is practically considered poverty-line here in Northern Virginia, land of the half-million dollar home located on a four by seven slab of sod. Apparently that's just too freaking much to ask.

12:29 a.m. - 2003-07-27

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