I'ma grow me some turnips some day

The countdown is on: six more days at the grill.

I can't believe it.

It's not that I relish scrubbing out the big boiler and all surrounding equipment and drains after the mixed vegetables boil over and leave their mark over everything in the surrounding square mile area. It's just that two years ago I started pestering my boss about his scheduling habits and he told me I needed to be dedicated and despite my best efforts I did. I dedicated myself. to my job. at a campus grill. It's half ridiculous but I've ended up loving it terribly.
I hate the uniforms we have to wear, but I kind of love swallowing my pride letting myself be masked up in baseball cap and aprons. For two years there were 15-60 hours a week where no one would pay any attention to me for how I looked (plain as heck in the uniform) but only for what I can do for them. I don't want to throw on too much cheese but I'm going to miss that.
And every minute I can spend scrubbing the grimiest pot or for smiling at the crabbiest customer was another minute I could thumb my nose at stupid politicians, block buster movies, Juicy Couture, vegetarian clubs, activists, and "F-you"'s scribbled on walls. In the most unphilosophical job of the century, I felt a little better for escaping that "mad, mad world."

That being said, I will admit that this is the loveliness that is my job: Every morning I eat my granola bar as I ride my bike to work. I no sooner finish that granola bar and tie on my apron then I have to wrestle crates full of gallons of milk and 50lbs of cow to unearth raw pork and chicken that will inevitably baptize me with their blood as I prepare them for the smoker.

BUT: Today at work I heard a woman take her daughter to the bathroom. I hear her say, "I knew they'd have bathrooms in here because even football players have to poop."
The little girl says, "Football players go poo-ooh-p" over and over again.
Again the mother, "Everyone poops."

How disgusting. But I'm laughing. O profundity!

that fit in my life I can let go for your revolution

I had to dig out my stapler the other day so I could mail the French Monkey and get it off my back (my application for the dear internship). It was in a little baggy and I just noticed that on the bag there is some kind of list written.

Cincinnati
Fire Kites
Equipment
Not including
Newspaper

I know I write ridiculous poems....
But I don't know where this list or whatever it is came from.
And it's in my handwriting.
Isn't that the mark of a genius? Or maybe someone who's been ruffied.

Sad but remarkable news, dear folks. Today I arrived at the grill only to hear the story that apparently last week the Onion-cutter told my Boss he quit. He didn't tell his parents. They dropped him off to work today, he walked in the front door, out the back and onto campus. He has decided to become a university student and take cooking classes to learn to become a chef.
A student found him and took him to a cooking class and the professor let him stay. Luckily, Onion-cutter was wearing his uniform, so the student came down to the grill and alerted us.
I am inspired by his ambition.
But Onion-cutter does mean to quit and that is the sad part. Who else is going to think my jokes are funny and elbow me in the side? Who, now, is going to hear me updating our overseeing Grandmother on my life and then tell me "Good job" with a thumbs up?
Who is going to dance to My Sharona?