At the moment, it's 12:30 PM, and I'm sitting at the kitchen table in my house in Nelson, New Zealand. I'm about to go to the pool. Following that, I'll come back and work on the site, read, and get ready for work (which I'm scheduled to do at 8 o'clock tonight for some stupid reason. Which leads me to a brief complaint about my job at the moment: I work at a pub that just opened in this area, but somehow I'm not enjoying it as much as I was when I bartended in Houston. We don't get tipped, so we're dependent on an hourly wage (much like the stupid retail industry, which I avoid at all costs), which sucks, because no one gets enough hours. They have us come in at around five or six o'clock, and we generally close at around half eleven or twelve on weekdays. Any way you add it up, working five days a week doesn't equal forty hours. More on why my boss is a fuckwit later.