chemicalTortuga

My poor, dear Arthur, old and bare Rests his arse upon the chair Amidst the parlor's chilling air And sees his hair is thinning. He rests his head, remains upright, Then eyes, forbidding every light. Fantasizing calming nights Prepares his head for skinning. My hubby's nerves have gotten frail. He not yet knows what's in his mail. His hiding place, to no avail, cannot conceal his sinning. My Arthur, thusly, shields himself At the barber's, here on Twelfth. His battle for his mental health Is not one he is winning. Relax, dear Arthur, calm your mind. Release from Tuesday's daily grind. As barber nicks a vein behind, His face

 One and a half stars out of five. It wasn't the most horrible dining experience I've ever had, but I would definitely not recommend this location to anyone. Simply walking in at noon, I could already feel the sticky floor, which I doubt has seen a mop in days, resisting my shoes' movement with a sticky "shlick!" for every step. The semi-mustachioed man I ordered from (his name tag read "Carlos") behind the register repeated every order I said out loud, half the time repeating the wrong thing. I normally consider five minutes a decent enough waiting period, but I didn't see any of my order until a good fifteen minutes! I had to wade throu

 You tell your boss how you haven't filled as many shifts as what's expected of you, you still haven't figured out your co-workers' names yet, and how you're still not exactly sure how certain things work just yet. From behind a mess of papers and folders, he quickly looks over a paper and makes a quick note here and there. "Well, you pretty much covered most of the things I wanted to talk about." Ten minutes later, your employee evaluation is over. It is the end of your first year at your job at the campus' basketball arena, and yet you still feel like what some circles would consider a "newbie". It's not as though you're bad at your job,