Working amongst vile G5s and people who keep saying,
"I sink,"
and
"I will ship this drink,"
and
"I am moving into a bedshit,"
and
"flee of charge"
and if I go all corrective I get to be called a gunta by a punk whose parents are from my country but who has a Brit passport. Nobber out of daiture I say nanti, am just thankful I get them anyhow. It's like a gift, or skill, takes years of training. But sometimes, after hearing this sticky dona with lally goes on and on about her charvering some omi, or hearing a chavie yelling a BT fish down a phone out of keenness towards work, I do feel a little more Auntie Nall than molly cull.
I know I got the messe attitude, and it's not competition, and I will never win anyway, and yet can't help but to wonder if I should be there at all. It's just completely new and afresh, exactly what I needed, or at least one of what I need, yet I am dazed and lost in a little universe of abnormality. Maybe I am expecting too much of bonaroo, maybe I should just think of measures.
