Still at sea for another week. Working my fucking ass off on hour 14. Wearing noise-cancellation headphones with hard fucking rock turned up WAY TOO LOUD. Periodically singing out like a dying cow, or randomly yelling, "FUCK,FUCK,FUCK!" while pounding on the desk. Throwing things and spilling coffee all over everything as I slop down the 20-25 mugs of mud I'm pounding every single day, now. People avoid me and I am getting weird looks. Fuck em. My best buddy has just reminded me I have less than 150 hours to complete my work and chopper off this rusty old piece of shit. My goal is to sleep at least 20 of those. I've got my flights and seats reserved, flying through O'Hare (ORD), which chaps my ass like no other airport in the civilized world. Except of course Charles De Fucking Gaul (CFDG), but France is populated by effeminate cowards and they can kiss my redneck Yankee ass. OK, that's not strictly true, but I'm fucking angry and it's easy to hate the French, so sue me.
Tonight, I was filling out a form online and could not remember the house number of my address. I tried 3 or 4 numbers but nothing looked right. I know it used to be number 6 before the 911 bullshit, but other than that I was drawing a blank. Had to call PW. Felt like an ass. Not 30 seconds after I hung up, I realized I didn't know which street I live on. Had to call her back. She took it well, but I'm wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. Ah, who cares as long as I can still wipe my own ass, right?
Last night, in a sort of measure of defiance, I did not go to sleep after my 20 hour shift. Yeah, kind of stupid, but I took a sauna and then watched "The Boat That Rocked". Awesomeness, in its most pure and pleasurable form, is just dripping from this movie like honey from the hive of heaven. Sound track like rocket fuel for the soul and by God, fuck the British government, those fucking tossers! Watched the movie, watched all the credits, right to the bitter end and then watched all 50 minutes of deleted scenes and was not disappointed. I LOVED the deleted scene of Rhys Ifans in the South American cantina, which damn near got me dancing in my cabin, alone. Talking to some of the Brits who grew up in those times, listening to the North Sea pirate radio stations was an added extra treat this morning, almost making walking around with my eyes glued shut by some sort of crusty shit, bearable. Anyway, I had to use a region-cracker, so I know I watched the European, full-monty version. If the castrated, American cut falls short, don't blame me, blame the lame dicks in Hollywood, or take a hike with the fucking French. Later.