I need to pee

I started letting my hair dread back in February, no twisting, backcombing or chemicals, just paying attention to how the curls started to lock up until I had to start pulling them apart every morning.

Then I went to a music festival in Texas, drank too much rum and Joose on night, and woke up with about two thirds of my dreads in a pile by the door of my tent.

Right now I'm stuck on a beach in Alaska, trying to earn some cash as a dock worker. With a job that gets me covered in fish slime every day, the dreads were just getting to nasty. You have to pay seven bucks just to take a fucking shower at the camp grounds. So I combed what was left of my dreads out over the course of a week and coughed up the money to wash out six months worth dirt and Cthulhu knows what else.

Now it's a question of whether to thin out the hawk and trim it down enough to put up (undreaded my hair goes down to my waist), or shave most of what's left off and leave the front in a chelsea. I kind of want to dye whatever I have left blue.

I keep my head covered at the dock job because there are fish guts and ooze flying at me for hours on end, so there's no point in putting my hair up right now.

That's the most exciting thing on my mind while I sit at my weekend job in the office, where I take rich people's money so they can be flown across the bay to watch grizzlies eat fish. I'm waiting for the plane to land so I can confirm nobody died; can't leave the office to empty my very, very full bladder until then.

Fucking tourists. No, middle-aged upper middle class lady, it is neither cute nor charming for you to act coy about how much your fat American ass weighs when I make you stand on the scale in order to seat you properly on the plane tomorrow. Yes, it is pathetic that the idiot twice your size whom you have been married to for twenty years is not allowed to know how much you weigh. Please shut the fuck up, give me your money, and leave so I can get back to listening to Democracy Now.