sreeeeep

In the midst of an incredibly aggressive alien attack, when all hope is lost, I do a few things.

1) I kiss my grandmother goodbye, I'm clearly never going to see her again.

2) I take some pictures of these incredibly crazy space ships that are destroying everything in sight.

3) I remain (incredibly unreasonably) calm

4) I call a few people and tell them they were cool.

5) I call more than that and tell them they sucked.

6) I proceed to buy a rattlesnake, and name him buffersford waffles. He comes already trained do to cool little snake tricks. I put him in my pocket where he happily hangs out.

7) There are a shitload of people playing drums. I think this might have been the influence of the music store that opens early on Sundays that I live directly above.

Everything remains 'all good.'

Dreams are rad.

Now, I tried to be nice, I tried to put my two weeks in.
Trying for civility only goes so far. You try to be humble and understanding, and do things the right way, but it doesn't quite work out. When an 'executive' refuses to listen and goes out of his way to make you uncomfortable during your last three days of employment, its time to walk.

Walking out mid-shift was incredibly gratifying.

Bike n' roll, fuck you. Most of all, fuck you, Colin the executive. Nobody cares about the fact that you were in special services, help me unload the truck or get out of the way if you're going to talk about the military on your cellphone for forty-five minutes.

Goodbye, bureaucracy bike, and all of your excessive paperwork.

Freedom is grand.

Perfection perfection perfection.

Every day, he wakes up. He turns, either to the left or the right.

This all depends on which side of the pier he slept on the previous evening.

Be it left or right, he heads for Rosie the Riveter. Rosie the Riveter, in this scenario, is a sign, pointing to a retired warship.
As he approaches the sign, he assesses the placement. It has to be perfect.

He makes sure it is lined up directly with the "Keep" portion of the "Keep Clear" painted on the ground. It has to be perfect.

He repeats this obsessively, every day. After all, it has to be perfect.
He stares down, along the sign. He moves it an inch to the right, an inch to the left, half an inch back to the right, all to make it perfect.

He spends anywhere from three minutes to close to half an hour, perfecting the placement of the sign. Perfection, for this man, knows no time limit. Not within about half an hour at least.
He stands back, surveys his work, and makes sure that it is perfect, as it has to be.

Some people call this insanity, but to this man, his home is the pier. The forty-third-and-a-half pier, and he will keep it perfect for the rest of his days.

He'll keep it perfect for the rest of his days, or until the manager of the retired warship tour finally gets sick of denying him 'his rightful paycheck.'

Some people call this obsession, but it seems to be all he has.
That, and cigarette butts he picks up on the ground.