I'm in Tulare. Tomorrow at the absolute asscrack of dawn, I have to drive to prison in Nowherseville, Central Valley, California, to oversee my purchase of a housing unit roof. I hope they got a lift for me. Last time the construction dudes just threw a shadey-ass looking Home Depot ladder on the side of the building expecting me to first climb it and then hurl myself 20 feet down over some fucking razorwire.
Bitch, PLEASE. I guess I behave a little like Princess Vespa from Space Balls with her giant hairdryer in the desert, but I just can't even. My title is "Analyst." What other Analyst has to perform Double Dare-esque stunts of the deadly variety in prisons all up and down the state? They might as well just dump a bucket of slime on me at the end of the morning. I'll just prepare myself for it
I have been listening to a lot of Trever Something lately, and GOD DAMN, DO I LOVE THIS HUMAN.
I want to be his betrothed and become 'Colleen Something.' I'd live in his native Miami, nary a swamp alligator in sight of course, soaking in the synthesizers and his beautiful voice droning throughout our mansion and drifting outside to the pool where I lay in my pastel pink bikini, sipping virgin pina coladas under the orange-streaked sky. In this scenario, my ass does not look like the moon and my mullet has grown out to a shimmery, shiny mane of lux black locks that cascade down my bronzed brown back.
Pray I don't fall off a prison roof tomorrown into a pit of inmates. Or actually, I don't care. As long as it isn't a slow, painful death. I don't want to be crashing through barbed wire, smashing into a concrete yard below and then be ripped to itty bits by the general pop while I'm still conscious.