Cobwebs

This is the only job I've ever had where there has been a need or a means to run and hide from one's bosses for three hours. This is also the only job that has caused me to gain a face full of cobwebs more than once a shift. Or that has given me a reason to climb to the top of a steeple and crawl around in a basement tunnel in the same hour (oh signing walls, I WILL FIND YOU.)

I offered to loan Partnerman a copy of Katamari Damacy, which caused him to invite me to his housewarming party on the 24th. I won't know anyone there, but I feel like I should go. If I don't, I'm worried he'll think I don't like him. And who knows; he and his friends are more mature than most of the drinkers I know, so it may be tolerable. He told me to just call ahead and see what's going on before I decide.

And now, two short letters:

1) Dear high school kids on bikes--
Yes, I understand that you're put out that we told you to get off campus, and then beat you to the parking lot where you thought you were going to keep doing your clown tricks unhounded. Doesn't it sting when you find out you're one of the predictable masses? But no, I will not "suck your sack;" judging by how fast you're biking away while yelling those obscenities at me, I doubt they've dropped yet anyway.

No love,
Security chick who could take you both

2) Dear cheerleaders--

NO.

No love,
Security chick who is sick of you forgetting your damned keys