|
|
Cracked an eyelid before the alarm went off... the sun illuminating the drawn blinds and curtains. Damn. First appearance in days, and it's gotta be a workday. In an act of defiance, I sandwiched my head between the pillows to steal a few more minutes sleep... before the first telemarketer started the robot-call machine. Before 8:30. A Pox on you, oh foul demon of telecommerce, and may the fleas of a thousand camels infest your crotch. The same goes for the four others that called afterwards. In their respective crotches, of course. The Official Opening of Christmas Season 2002. Bastids. In between... a call from Slick Willie. From shipboard... leaving his Russian buddies passed out in the stateroom. On deck in the Beagle Channel between Tierra del Fuego and the Antarctic... times is hard for Old Bill. And, I was thinking, earlier in the weekend, how wealth was not measured in bank accounts alone. Not for everyone, apparently. Certainly, it made for a different approach to this day... which could only wither in comparison. Slamming clothes haphazardly into the bag. Scraping the wino disguise off of my face. Absent mindedly loading the car for the three day adventure. Yet another phone call, before I could escape... this time from Dear Mom. The fusebox was acting glitchy, and she feared the steps into her basement... and the black snake skins on the way down. Yeah... I love 'em, too. Drafted. Here, in the Gulag... it's Silly Season. A retiring salesman has set the domino effect in motion through the office and desktop departments... all ambitious types scurrying like roaches for the prime positions. It's gonna get ugly. But not today. After 5PM, it's like a mausoleum. Which suits me fine, since I feel like pulling the drapes, locking the door, and building a roof over my veal fatting pen. Well, that was another little ray of sunshine, my Monday specialty. Where's my pillows at? |
|
|
