Balls and beards.

Holy balls, does packing ever suck. Wah wah wah. That's all the time I will give to that becuase it is consuming every waking moment recently and I'm SICK of it. Bloody life drama.

So, apparently, the office across the hall has some sort of association with, or allegiance to, Russ Meyer. Seems like all the women who work there are 7 foot tall amazonian proportioned women. 4 inch high heels, blindingly blond hair and the biggest boobs they can bob around on their pointy-toed legs. Sound like your dream office? Then you are a creepy creep. They are always in the bathroom admiring themselves in the mirror or outside smoking - admiring themselves in the windows.

When I look out the window I can see ships going along on the St. Laurent. They move so slowly. I've always kind of wished that working on a ship (not a bloody cruise ship, just a regular old cargo ship) was a more viable option. Considering that I have no desire to be a highly-harrassed, female pioneer in male-dominated work-forces, get seasick, and enjoy not being away from my peeps for months on end, I'd say it's pretty much a write-off as a careeer choice. Still, I have romantic notions of brisk, over cast days in the middle of the ocean, out on deck as I gaze into the distance, smoking my pipe, the salty wind dampening my beard. Wait a minute: I seem to be a man in this fantasy. So clearly, the whole thing just doesn't work.