Candle. Both ends. Burning.

Something about midnight oil, except it's 3:30am and I still have about another half hour to go.

Still. I love my job.

Scene: me, sitting on the bus stop, enjoying an unseasonably warm day.

Car pulls up. Guy rolls down the window.

"Do you speak Russian?"


...well, at least that fulfills the universal requirement that a stranger must ask me that at least once a month.