There is a small firehouse on my route to work. It's a tiny little station - only three bays, and one story. That really breaks my heart - no firepole to imagine the ripped, sweaty bodies sliding down. I pass it every day. It's been there forever, and it looks like city grew up around them. There's a new, shiny station up the road from them, but I love this little station.
And every day, I try to sneak a peek at the firemen. Some times they're washing the truck, sometimes they're switching shifts, or packing the truck, but most days I am deprived of the view. Of course, the next intersection is chock full o'stupid, so I can't ogle the firefighters too long, because, invariably, someone will decide to turn at the last minute, slam on their brakes, and generally tick me off.
But, there is an adult bookstore just after the corner of Stupid and JackAss, so the imagining is right back on. Maybe I've just been hanging out in Cattle Valley or St. Nachos for too long, but I get all kinds of inspiration every morning. Don't be surprised if temperatures start rising soon.
I guess that's why I'm rarely stressed when I get to work. Horny, but not necessarily stressed.