Chino challenged

I am running on about 5 hours of sleep. This isn’t an excuse for a soon to be iffy attempt at a witty blog, more like a statement of surprise. I am not tired at the moment and I got 3 hours less than usual, exciting isn’t it? So fun thing today, its work related yes again but I feel that it would be fun to jam out here so why not? I don’t know coffee. That is a statement ringing in truthfulness. Anything that would end in –chino or latte, doesn’t register. Even if it started in “I” and ended in “talian soda” I wouldn’t have the slightest idea. To paint my total and unrelenting lack of knowledge of the coffee bean spawned world further, I use this violent image. If you stuck me on the edge of a pit kneeled me down and put any type of firearm to the back of my head and a mocha chino and a latte into my two hands. Then ordered me to tell you which one is which by tasting them, risking the obvious ends if I was wrong. I would end up at the bottom at that pit with my miss-chosen latte running out of my mouth and less brain mass then before. I am the last person you want at the espresso machine.
As fate would have it we do have an espresso machine. We are a bakery and a sandwich/soup shop. To have coffee is understandable even necessary, but to have the whole latte, mocha chino, espresso unit complete with Italian soda side rack is a little off. Not many people think “hey lets get a nice French vanilla turtle at Le Boulanger”. No one at all. I am sure that they would go straight for the fountain drinks if they knew who was going to be throwing together their caffeinated beverage in the cups without the trendy orange straws (sorry no dutch bros here). I am not saying people are incredibly dumb, they don’t know my chino handicap. I mean even if I did know what I was doing our lattes would still suck because we are a bakery. But my whole rant comes down to the proposed solution. I feel it would be in the costumer’s best interests to have a nice hanging sign right above our cash register that reads something like. “Don’t expect a latte when you order it”

Bombers and closing shift

So I sit here experiencing a mediocre world and a near perfect world on the other hand. I mean I am watching a 2002 era Ms. Spears dance on mute while jamming Stankonia. She is quite the fetching gal but the knowledge of what was to come for that little belle just predictably stops it short of the best of both worlds. So I thought of like 7 ideas of what I could write tonight, don’t worry I wrote them down. I also day dreamed of how sweet this all would be if it worked out. But what am I going to write about today? I work the closing shift at the bakery/restaurant that employs my services; I work it every day I step into that hotspot for Silicon Valley slaves and retired bored persons of all general kinds. Such is the life of a college student, and I love it. Closing shift is something I would of avoided earlier but now that I have worked it 3 weeks straight, my conscious nor limbs could handle the separation. I liken it and it took me a while to analyze it enough to the point of semblance of another lifestyle but I finally did, it is like a Bomber crew in WW2. How so you ask? Those bomber crews lived a dual life, when the southern major was sitting on his field somewhere in the picturesque country side of Britain he could sip all the mint juleps he could put down. But the next day he could step out of his B-52 fortress into the sky thick enough with German flak and walk home. Yes my closing shift is like this. Some days what a piece of cake or bread pudding which I can steal for you if you ask. Other days I am running with 22lbs of left over bread on my back hoping around the corner Vanessa didn’t just mop. I got no complaints right now. I could come up with a million in those “flak filled” moments but these are the cards that are dealt for us fearless employees slaving out the waning hours of the fiscal day. All I can hope for is that if I were to ever get a date with a girl, laying out plainly that “if” is intentionally there. I’ll be sipping my julep instead of losing two limbs to ack-ack the enemy of 11:30-7:30 can aim at me.

etching away at that first hour

So I read somewhere that if you wanted to be so good at something that someone will pay you. You have to practice around 10,000 hours at the activity to be that good. Now I don’t think that I have put in anywhere near that number for the money that I am receiving at this point in exercising my craft as a cash register operator. But I think that it is safe to say that this rule of 10,000 applies to the jobs and careers of a higher nature. No more necessary but if anything a little more competitive in trying to secure. I couldn’t think of many more awesome options than a happy life supported by a career as a paid writer. So it’s pretty obvious why I am writing this, and it is becoming more and more obvious with each stroke of the key that I need the practice. If not just to teach my fingers where the desired letters are, I blame France and its non-linear keyboards for that. So I have no real topic for my first rant and I don’t feel like BS’ing one. There is a lot going on in my head from topics of which I can strike out into blogging history. My style also in question, “how am I going to be original amongst all the other bloggers?” Will I just rant about what annoyed me that day, will I offer solutions? Does anyone want to hear my opinions on movies and music? Does time spent on writing assignments count as I march to my 10,000 hours, if so will anyone want to read recycled homework papers? The questions couldn’t stop if it wasn’t for that merciless clock at the bottom of the screen telling me it is time to turn in. So as I say ok this is the last sentence and last Bad Brains song, I am excited. Could this be the creative output that will please me and in the best case scenario impress girls that I am really smarter and a better bet than my facial structure relays? We will see, I don’t know if 10,000 hours could make females make that deduction on my account. Thanks.