In Protest of the Apron Scale or Whatever the Heck That Was, Mariel

The closest thing I've ever had to a 'normal' job was paging at the library, which I did for about two years to pay for my wicked horse habit until I couldn't take being inside ONE MINUTE LONGER one April and quit.  Otherwise, jobs have included shoveling many, many tons of manure, shoving cows around in the wee morning hours, taking apart fresh pigs (yeah.), sidekick for an equine dentist (sidekick is an awesome job: you often get to drive, you look good by association, and while Batman was probably up at night worrying about the safety of Gotham, I'm betting Robin slept like a baby), working for the surgery teaching department at school, and now, general farm whipping boy.  

Last week, I cleaned kennels, got paid for four hours in the sun in a field playing with dogs, dusted the ceiling, painted all the exterior trim of a house by myself with a single paintbrush, Round-Upped the whole farm with one of those backpack things while not humming the Ghostbusters jingle to myself even a little, was the nail in the coffin for the farm's decrepit riding mower, hossed out the sawhorses and an angle-grinder and felt supah BAD-ASS de-rusting a gate for priming, took the power hedge trimmers to the nasty barberries and maybe (maybe) drove Eli's massive truck back and forth across the property to the garage for things that I really didn't need to 'haul' just because it felt cool.  Also I observed minor surgeries, handed the doctor acupuncture needles, and tried to restrain some small animals which I swear is harder than horses because they're so freakin' wiggly.  Why be normal?  And why compose a sentence with less than seventeen independent clauses?

In other news, I'm watching Burn Notice and I was about to ask Where are the cops in Miami? Are all the streets just littered with bullets? And then I remembered my trip with Janet to West Palm Beach late at night and if Miami is anything like that then yes, yes they probably are.