Asked to leave

I was kicked out a coffee shop the other morning. Apparently 2 hours is the maximum time allowance for napping after purchase of a medium, medium roast at Moxie Java. The owner may have let me sleep another 30 had I purchased a large. I thanked her for the charged phone, and explained it takes awhile to reach 69% battery before leaving gracefully with a tipped bill and my head held high.
Finishing my coffee cold that morning I skipped down 4th street on a scavenged all terrain bicycle repaired a couple days prior after collecting it from the pool of borrowed college cruisers I paid a flamingo Schwinn into 8 years prior during my orientation week at Concordia.
Blessings come in chrome, this rogue pushy was painted red also. Back to campus to edit articles for 8 hours forgetting to eat and skipping a couple scheduled cigarette breaks before borrowing a secret shower I found taking landscaping breaks for campus gardeners the summer following that freshman campaign.
Doug, the best manager, knew where to find me when some kind of skilled labor needed to be accomplished. Usually, I was sleeping off a hangover collecting underpaid hourly for overpriced diplomas in a backwards America.

The 1001 was a 25 meter jaunt across 8th street. I frequented our living room while on the clock. I blame my roommates for skipping their jobs so often at the local country club. I would insist on playing something other than 2k while they insisted I smoke pot. At least they had drops of Rotos for me before I would jog back to the Maize in time for our scheduled 15 minute breaks.
Surprisingly, These tactics were not officially discovered until late July at which point it was too late to fire a summer employee. Cobbers pay high tuition rates anyways…

We were about the only sophomores allowed to live off campus, thanks to an official doctor’s note for the “allergies” I had to all the resident advisors giving me under aged drinking violations after stealing our beer and confiscating a fridge during that first month.

No longer allowed to keep anything cool in our dorm room, I think the number was 213, but you would have to ask Jordon Benson about that. He was less upset about this incident after I asked for the fridge one weekend I was “heading home with it.”
Well I had to carry it pretty fast straight back down the hall to my closet before Mr. Robley could find it again. That man had a tattling problem, well mostly it was just the way he abused his Asian girlfriend for his lack of friends. No matter, he was elected to student senate later to be promoted to campus president, douche.
I have had trouble following rules in my lifetime. It seems to me they were written by someone else who broke them; there are so many extenuating circumstances in this life.

People have told me I should have studied law; contemplating the idea of placing myself into further student loan debt.
Also, the real money lies in defending mostly guilty people avoiding taxes or other mistakes. I prefer the opposite kind of humans, living on their own accord.

I have chosen to waive the option of paying my student debt, thus far, for now. Interest rates have been capitalized, however, my monthly payment is a better number.

I was searching for a reason to remain unemployed in this economy. Although, I do prefer to stay busy. Catch in this system, non-profits provide a great deal of flexibility.

I am disinclined to join a societal machine grinding too many friend’s gears. Many have now been promoted, for them I am proud. I have kicked the can down the road personally…

Choosing a transient tent life over a hurry to start mortgaging a marriage and the kids that come with the latter, inoring simple facts of white picket life. Today I am interviewing to join “the race.”

Assimilar a derby horse that has been stuck in the gate. Waiting to run a later race.
People have described envy for the way i have spent four years across the Pacific. I argue the homeless life is not as green until one loses their favorite shoes and digs toes into soft Bermuda grass. Lately, mine keep getting smashed in all the doors closing in my face. Lucky, I have quick reflex.

Balling on a budget requires a sacrifice of most everything a person like myself was accustomed. Commitment to personal ideals and flexibility with the advice given by just about everyone.

Anyone could do what I have done. Simply travel life just requires an ability to miss all the friends and family a person has ever known to cast out a line for new ones. The dreams about waking up back in Minnesota and regretting the fact I left Australia before my visa expired stopped about 9 months into year one. This was when I realized I could no longer afford to fly home anyways.
Working a professional internship to find out the business was too small to sponsor me later. This had something to do with increased regulations providing mandatory spending (15% of profits) towards government training programs, coming about after the allowance of 7/11 petroleum and other large corporations hiring exclusively migrant workers for minimum wage.

Life has its own plan for me. Had this position worked out I would have never had to take a bus to Queenstown, New Zealand one sunny afternoon in March.
I had nearly six hundred dollars in my pocket that afternoon I checked into Base hostel before heading out for a casual drink with Ed Woodley an English mate who borrowed me a white T shirt for the pub that night before I woke up hung over with a hundred less NZD’s and a hunger to find a job, needing a place to live for free.

It took me about 2 hours to get my unlocked iPhone 4 connected to Optus and the new number to Joel Murch. I knew this bar manager would never email me about the job I asked him for. Lucky, he was from California and offered me a trial shift two nights later. Job sorted, I headed back out to the pub to celebrate.
It did take me 10 minutes at that trial shift at Barmuda before I was offered a Belvedere shot from the owner named Fergus. I felt like the shift was going well at that stage. This man was a bit of a legend around town, let’s just say it had something to do with the world famous burger joint he refused to franchise on the most popular corner of Shotover Street.

I think is was called Fergburger, difficult to remember how to spell. We always arrived there so drunk after closing down the Boiler Room. Pub survivors were given $5 local specials and drunken quarter until 4am. Depending on how well a kid knew the bouncers, drinking laws in New Zealand are firm. I batted mostly .900 that season, there was one or two strikeouts, bad timing, right Mac? (They issued me a 6 month suspension that lasted me three months of hardship before I learned how apologize properly. Another long story, ask Ted how that glass broke).
I digress back to the second night I spent out in this Remarkable village finding Searle Lane. Jack McDonald was there waiting for me with a pint and stories of a crazy place to live. A guitar player at the bar I worked at in Australia we moved to Queenstown less than a month apart. Glad I knew that guy. Spent $100 on beer and cigarettes to make mates with Avalon and move into a mad house the following evening. I slept on any couch left over, sometimes outside on the porch in 50 degree mountain air. The Stars were magnificent, regardless of a one blanket shiver.

We spent so much time hiding from Sean Whitaker at 40 Avalon, between the thirty of us living there rent was dry usually due how loose and wet our mornings were after parties that last all night. There were like 50 bars in between 16 town blocks, not sure if that number includes the one Miles, Jack and I visited one wild evening for half priced wings and free beers thanks to Tom Bridge behind that bar. Well, roommates don’t pay for drinks… Just put it on the Hospo tab mate.

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