Balls.

This post goes out to all the poor sons of bitches who are at work today.

And unlike most of my posts that start that way, this one is written from my desk. Because I am one of those poor sons of bitches.



I was supposed to have this day off; the calendar still says I do, and it taunts me, the motherfucker, taunts me from the filing cabinet where it's held by dusty tape and fairy magic. Everyone else in this damn office has the day off; all the supervisors, anyway, because they're the ones with the 15 extra vacation days. We've got me, the transcriptionist quality control lady, and that's it in this room of 10 cubicles and an office. My girlfriend's asleep on a futon mattress back in the flophouse, curled up with a stuffed alligator as big as her body, and all I've got to hold is a non-ergonomic keyboard and a mouse that's so old it still uses a fucking ball. I'm writing an occupational report for a guy who wants to be a full-time RA. The research assistant left a plate of Christmas treats on my desk but all the good stuff is gone and I'm down to the weird chocolate bird's nest and the mashmallow-peanuts-white chocolate globs that look like the Flood. There are little cups of peanuts smothered in chocolate that I'm not even going to touch.

But here goes the bird's nest:

and it's not so bad. It's chocolate, nuts, and little . . . Asiany . . . noodles? Crackers? It is a mystery.





God, I'm gonna eat that bloater here in a second . . .



Tonight I will return to Albia. A lot of people who aren't Ryan will return to Albia. This is the thing: Garrett's apartment no longer exists. Amish no longer works at K & G. There is nowhere for us. Nowhere. Nowhere. Also, any Christmas ruination that I am to partake in must take place this very night, as the next night (Christmas Eve) I must stay sober.

I have no idea when I will be around tonight, but I would guess it will fall between 7:30 and 8:30. You are all invited to swing by after 8:30ish, or contact me otherwise or, you know . . . whatever.