Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Woke up to a pot of water with some coffee added into it. And it wasn’t even warm. Maybe room temperature, but when the room feels about sixty degrees, you know it ain’t worth drinking. I tried anyway. Failure. I wound up pouring down the sink and eating the slice of pumpkin pie – a failure’s breakfast – without any.

After working two weeks with a strange schedule, I’m finally back to working six-hour days again. That is until the holidays roll around and I’m stuck making up eighteen hours again. Big whoop there. Trust me, it may be better than having no job, but part-time work is for suckers.

I just saw a guy wearing pj bottoms asking for help in reference. Assistance for what? What pants look like? This ain’t no college dorm, sucka. Get some pants on your ass.

Why is it acceptable to wear pjs in public? If you ain’t a kid who isn’t sick, there should be no excuse. That’s just me, though.

I bought Jyg her X-mas present already. Set me back some eighty-something bucks. Ain’t nothing but a g-thang, though.

Two men are talking about god. I’m leaving. Adios.

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