Turns out, 50's rocker Eddie Cochran was right: there ain't no cure for the summertime blues. You never fully realise the validity of such words until you are stuck in a glass booth only slightly larger than a fish tank, running solely on super-strength coffee and working double shifts until six-thirty in the morning as others are going on vacations, leaping headlong over chilly sprinklers, grilling mountains of food in their backyards, and spazzing out at the biggest metal concerts of the year (granted, I'm a night owl, but the above scenario is not my ideal way to spend the dark hours).
The fun quotient is not at all heightened by a viral infection in one's eye (try finding the correct buttons on a register when you have no depth perception; it's a trip).
I'm exhausted. I want to go out and play. I want to get ridiculously drunk at a bonfire. And I have every right to complain. Everyone does. Instead of holding in their frustrations, more people should stand up and bitch about their shitty jobs. Will it change the situation? No, but it will certainly prevent the lot of us from having strokes before the age of forty.
So, go ahead - bitch a little. You've worked hard; you've earned it.
