Work Place Prose

Last year I was working on a horrible project in Hardeeville South Carolina. It was horrible. Did I mention that?
Most towns populations break down statistically as White, Black, Asian, Hispanic and other. In Hardeeville they replace other with whores. When I say whore I mean fucking whores, and by fucking whores I mean ugly women you pay to fuck...and get nasties from...oh, and crack cocaine and meth.



The company was taking advantage of me, the guy leading the project was a fucking worthless idiot..oh...my dog got sick and had to be put to sleep...good memories.  The only thing good to come from it was trips to the beach and the following bit of prose that I wrote in my field book. The P.I. didn't find it amusing, but who cares, screw her!

I wait patiently as a light drizzle sets in. The crows ca-caw back and forth. Each in turn as surprised as the last that they too have found theirselves in Hardeeville, SC. I second their tragic sorrow as I as well wonder where I went so wrong as to be stuck in a place as god forsaken as this drained swamp land.

As the drizzle gets more rain like I harken back to better days spent on Phase IIIs: on actual land not drained swamp. Finally I hear the rest of the crew. My wait is almost over.

I sat there wondering why we are here. Not in a metaphysical sense but in a archaeological sense. Why are we here? in a drained swamp?

 Did I mention it was horrible there?