Ass-cracks (it takes one to know one)

Wake up, eat breakfast, make beds, clean toilets, eat lunch, vacuum, mop, watch movies, sleep, repeat.

This is my brand-new life.

Now that I have shifted to the Housekeeping department, I have the time once again to commit my angst and anger to that infinite, perverse resevoir where it is always welcome: the internet. The boss came up yesterday morning after my 13th straight dishwashing shift (did I mention I have been doing split shifts this whole time? 10 hours a day, 13th days straight, of SPLIT shifts) and offered me the position of "permenant relief", which is a title that neither I, nor Ex-Lax can ever really live up to. No, at this junction, I think I am going to take the money and run, run away. After all, I've quit jobs despite both love and money before, and this has none of the former and only a tempting splatter of the later. But before I state that so sheepishly, I really ought to offer up a slice of what this like pie of barge life tastes like, and it is blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand.
Saying that I am working on a barge in the middle of nowhere gives a tinge of romantic envy that completely betrays how entirely mundane this atmosphere is. There are currently four barges here, chained to a precipice of solid granite that goes straight up from the sea; no beach, no forest. The entire length of walkable land space is confined to just under 200 metres between the barges; the rest of the area is a hard-hats only construction zone. The barges themselves range from the uber posh private fishing lounge one, with the jacuzzi we can't use cause marmots ate it's inner working, to the scrambled shanty town that I live in, which is 3 portable trailers (you know, the ones you had class in when the school was over capacity) held together by tar, plywood, and some amount of mastabatory residue from the poor bastards who made it. Speaking of which, the first day I arrived, the sea was bright white from the herring spawning, which Candy and I christened the "ocean of devotion", eliminated the other one hundred entries by the workmen for "sea of cum".

Logging and construction have often been referred to as Canada's answer to the French Foreign Legion: give me your strung-out, your lonely, your addicted, your foolish, and I will find them a high-paid job the earnings of which will refill the government coffers through tobacco and alcohol taxes by the next full moon. I am really afraid that this job is cementing in me that dreaded prejudice of the working class that "intellectuals" have a habit of succumbing to, but you know, it's not because they are working class that I hate them, it's because they're a bunch of monkey bastards! I've taken baths that were deeper than the best chit-chat I've managed to make here, and overheard some of the most hilariously shallow statements ever made in polite company-best so far is "You know what, I have the fuckin' sweetest ass-crack in the whole world", followed closely by, "Dude, they have asparagus! This day just went from good ta better".

There are many in fact who are genuinely sweet; one leaves a Werthers butterscotch candy on his pillow every day to thank me for cleaning his room, but a chain is only is strong as it's weakest link, and the weakest links out here couldn't even hold two strings of boiled spaghetti together. Nevertheless, some of the monkeys are even trainable. We showed them "Children of Men" to teach them to think about the future and the meaning of human life, and the general consensus on the topic was "intense", which depending on your accent is at least 2 syllables. Progress!

My biggest regret so far is not bringing any sex toys along. Ashamed as I am to admit it, after going on about the monkey bastards and all, a likely overabundance of male pheromone in the air supply has been taking it's toll, and I'm fastly becoming a screaming horn-dog. I can only pray that I make it out of here before I accidently sleep with someone, because it would be as much an accident as any flaming wreck on the roadside, and just as devasting to my good taste and fine reputation.

Right now, there is a transport loaded with 15 tonnes of explosives less than 50 metres from my window, so there is a good chance that this will be my last entry, but if I do survive, I should be back town-side on the 27th. Look for saner entries from then on.