Really Random Thoughts

I'm wrestling with myself today. Trying to crawl out of, stand up from the funk and get back on the positive energy train.
Got a lot of time on my hands. Don't have to be at work until 5:00 because it is inventory night, otherwise known as hell night.
It is a slow moving, boring process counting bottles and boxes of booze. Everybody hates it so we all do the phony baloney cheery thing to get through the night. I'd prefer the entire process be conducted in silence. It would be more fitting. Kind of like the silence one encounters in a morgue.
You are on your hands and knees a lot or stretching to get to the top shelf. Peering at columns of wine bottles that are askew and trying to count them accurately. Counting nips is the absolute worst and really hammers home the stupidity of the event.
It is a ridiculously dehumanizing process.
I learned a long time ago that speed is what counts; accuracy is irrelevant. So that helps.
I am trying to make positive use of my time so I am continuing to solicit newspapers in the hope that they will recognize my wit and facility with the written word and offer me an escape from the hell I presently occupy.
I'm cruising Colorado and come across this headline in The Berthoud Recorder: "Firestone man pleads guilty to poisoning neighbor's dogs." This guy laced meat with strychnine and fed it to Kyera, a German Shepherd, and Dozer Boy, a chocolate lab. They both died. This hump later sent an intimidating letter to a neighbor who was a witness in the case.
You should see the picture of this guy. He looks like he wouldn't mind replacing footballs in the NFL with infants.
He will be sentenced on December 12 and faces up to 7.5 years in prison.
How the hell am I supposed to cheer up when there are people like that in this world? Lots of them.
If cruelty could be erased from the human race there would be a lot of people wandering around aimlessly looking for a purpose.

Completely unrelated: If I could grow a bushy, black beard, I would. My beard comes in pure white now and it doesn't really get bushy. It just frizzes in on itself and becomes an age accentuating thicket.
I have a picture of Morrison on the wall with a full head of hair and a dark, bushy beard. I love the look.
I'm kind of in between right now anyway. Can't sport the scraggly beard because I'm still kissing ass in the pursuit for dignity. A few more years though and I am thinking I wouldn't mind a scratchy beard or goatee, a wild growth of facial hair to support my image as a lovable curmudgeon.
Something free roaming and slightly dangerous with a permanent reserve of pea soup for long, cold winter nights away from the domicile.
We'll see.
I even entertain the thought of cutting my hair and slicking it back. I like the look.

These are the thoughts that pick at my brain as I wait for the torture called inventory.