Tuesday, October 14, 2008

I’m tired and hungry. I accidentally sent an email to the wrong person this morning, and it’s got me all flustered, checking myself on every little detail before I pull the trigger. It ended up being harmless, but it’s the fact that I did it, that I could do it, that which I have never (that I can remember) doing, the lack of reliance on myself, momentarily, that I have to live with. Of course, these kinds of things happen, and will happen again, and ad infinitum until the great monkey king comes down from his throne with a big fake bone dipped in quail’s egg residue and bashes over the wizard of id willingly and gleefully. So que sera, what can you do, pass the ammo, fill in your soliloquy choice of expression whereby you avoid actual communication here. Gratzi.

The ironic thing is, and you can check with Ethan Hawke on this, is that I’m having one of the best stretch runs at work ever. Counting tomorrow and the first, well, let’s just say the jurk storr is not calling and as for the shrimp? Eat all you want, we’ll make more. Kahuku is ready & willing to satisfy your needs in that industry and then I hit 2 for Spanish for some unknown yet vaguely known reason. The answers, the wind is puzzled.

2:53. Seven seconds to kickoff. Not a game, no, a way of life, in which I leave and this seat gets cold. Then the fedex guy shows up, and the whole trifling shenanigan is completely thrown into a bollixed window, actually, out the window, and the English curse is spelled wrong, but the author thinks it looks strangely interesting, reminiscent of some Grecian urn shit he once dreamed about while his body shivered in the Yosemite cold. Yes, it would be a good way to, well, you know.