7:13 p.m. - 2005-06-14
I got sick on my third day working at the casino. Iím pretty sure every strain of flu, bubonic or otherwise, is alive and gettingí down up in that piece. It takes a while for one to get the real live importance, not just the lip service importance that is usually enough, but the viral research facility like importance of washing your hands at every effin opportunity there. Yes, there are tons of folks breathing and coughing and sneezing and wheezing and in one unfortunately observed case, leaning forward and clearing their noses onto the carpet in about the dead center of the room, but the real danger lies in, or upon rather, the chips.
To call them filthy is like calling Bush out of touch. Does no justice the truth. At every break I wash my hands and at every break a grayish drain-off pours down the sink from my clean to the naked eye palms. Whatever it is that makes the chips sticky seems to have a chemical reaction to water to make it visable. And the bathroom. It seems as though folks here, and as a male I have seen many despicable public restrooms in my day, get it less than most. They seem to think the toilet is merely a suggestion of where to aim, ON the seat apparently too lofty a goal for many. And although the stalls may be lined up two or three deep with those waiting to piss all over them, the sinks are notably crowd free.
Now I am not what could ever be characterized as a neat freak. Among my mental instabilities, obsessive compulsive isnít listed. I do shower and shampoo frequently, at least on days I make a public appearance, but if cleanliness is next to godliness as they say I am decidedly godless. Still and all I have taken to regard washing my hands BEFORE I go to the bathroom even more important than after. I'm not touching my penis with these things till they have been all but boiled.
So, other news...In too many options to choose from for a man who doesnít feel like his future is of any importance what so ever news...that job that I have been waiting to get rolling with the contracting company is threatening to take off any moment leaving a buch of maybes floating in front of me. Maybe I move to L.A. for the summer, maybe I donít. Maybe I take a salary that is much better than the one I am being paid now, maybe I donít. Maybe I quit the casino job and decide for once in my life to give up my passion for underachieving, maybe I embrace my laziness and keep the easier, less fruitful, less stressful, less potential wielding job as an effin gambler working in a sars infected petri dish.
Who gives a fuck? Maybe I don't.