It's about time I got on here and wasted everybody's time rambling through my innocuous day. Can you believe a Washington state driver's liscence lasts four years while the equivocant Montana model lasts seven? None of you care, though, because nearly everybody that reads this thing seems to live in Minnesota or Wisconsin, barring Brad in California and Annie in Connecticut... am I missing someone? I don't think Josh still gets on here, otherwise he'd be a close-by neighbor to complain to. Oh, how awful Lynnea must find all this grammatical mishappenings.
So I was told the other day by an 18-year-old engaged female coworker (born in Georgia, the country, not the state) that I should find a real job since I have a bachelor's degree. I was slightly shocked. I thought the real jobs simply included paychecks, and as I get a paycheck someitmes, I thought my job was real sometimes. To have an 18-year-old first-time-in-a-job'er telling you that a job is below you can really set you back... or I think it could. How my mother would love to hear that I'm discontent with my job, and I was for a single moment about two weeks ago. I was slicing through a piece of wheat bread, listing off vegetables for the customer to choose from when a raging torrent of hate overtook me. In that one moment, I hated making people's food. It was like the opposite of falling in love - momentary and yet frighteningly real. And then it passed and I was enjoying my job once again. I told myself if I ever have that feeling for more than a moment or with any regularity, I need to find a new job. Otherwise, I'll simply be content.
I'm not playing counterstrike yet with the other lads, and I haven't any offspring to show off (please Lynnea, laugh at that pun), so all I can do is try to make my life funny, which at 23 working in an 18-year-old's world I am funny. That's why I'm growing a beard. I need to look 23, or in my case at least 19, to bring myself a little respect. I mean, all great men have had facial hair, and so the equation must go that being great means having good facial hair. Abraham Lincoln, hello! Moses. Nebuchadnezzer. Jimmy Hendrix. Earl from My Name is Earl. You know the list goes on. I can't think of a clean-shaven worthwhile man... that'll get me in trouble.
I don't remember how much I've talked about the new church I'm going to, but it's sweet to be around people again, and most of them are our age, and they all went to a little Bible school in Portland, so it's great. Our "home community" consists of chatting about our favorite colors and reading Blue Like Jazz. They even tell me that I can play the banjo for a worship set (I know they're just being nice, but I like nice people, like my grandma... she's really nice). So, now that you've heard all about southwestern Washington, minus the crappy length of driver permit renewal stuff, now you all want to come live out here, right? Okay, enough rambling and slaughtering the English language. I've gotta go watch the nightly news anyway. Brian Williams ain't no Tom Brokaw. It's sad, really. I mean that I care about who reads the teleprompter on the national evening news. But I'm not sad, I'm funny, because I'm 23 and have absolutely nothing important to say right now. I'm like you guys minus the things that keep you busy. Just think of it that way. Okay, toodle-oo.