It's amazing how long four little hours can seem. I don't work a lot and trust me, I'm very happy with it. I'm one of those Sum 41 guys who can walk around the house unemployed for a year without feeling anything but utter freedom. Although of course, when the money runs out I reckon I'll regret not looking for work during all those months out of captivity. I'm not there yet though, I work enough to keep me going, but those four hours on Sundays are serious killers of my joie de vivre.
Let's just say I had a shitty day today. It's not really the work itself (selling sports equipment to half-wits and self-important rich dads of ice hockey playing brats while trying not to speak my mind but instead being nice to them) -- it's the tediousness of not having anything to do when there are no costumers in the store. Fuck cleaning up, I get enough of that at home.
I hope I won't have a lot of these days when I finally move out after New Year because one of the few things that have a remote possibility of turning my headache-induced bad days around is my mother's cooking, and from January on I won't even smell it.
You can tell that I'm having a bad day when even an episode of Californication doesn't hurl me into a good mood. Although, it was an episode I've watched five times during the last two weeks so that may be why -- still, every episode is a good oppurtunity to study the little desirable details of Hank Moody, my favourite fictitious American author.
Speaking of California, I just remembered something that makes me, if not overjoyed, then at least slightly merrier. I remember last year's West Coast Riot, a Punk Rock festival here in Gothenburg where I managed to be right at the front when favourite Punk Rock heroes Bad Religion played. It was a happy ten or so minutes until I got trampled over by the crème de la crème of Sweden's punk rockers. At least I got a good snapshot of Greg Graffin.
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