Holy shit just completed a 7 day stint at Lompoc.
Don't typically work on Sundays. In fact I never work on Sundays. I refuse. I believe it is unnatural to work on Sundays. Unacceptable. I gave this one up for a co-worker who had an annual family event of immense proportions.
She is a real human so I made the sacrifice.
Still, it hurt.
THE PATS kicked off at 4:25 so I maintained hope that I would arrive home in the third quarter and dig that and the entire 4th.
The goddamn game moved too fast.
By the time I got home THE PATS were two minutes into the 4th.
I was angry and rushed so even the game that I saw I didn't see.
Know what I mean?
I have missed TWO PATS games this year.
That is it. I am done.
Football is an overiding passion for me. I gotta have it. It sustains me, it maintains me, it gives me a thrill, it stokes for me a passion that negates the incredible boringness and sheer stupidity of my life.
Football makes me feel alive. It vibe-connects with the actual person that I am and vibrates at the frequency of Joe.
Other than my family, nothing else does that.
Besides music and quality literature.
So I pissed off another Sunday - a Sunday when Kevin Harvick finished 2nd in a Chase race and THE PATS kicked butt - working like a bug, a grunt, a non-human - at a job that is so meaningless it assassinates souls.
You know the feeling intimately, don't you?