Name: The Title of My Journal

bobthepariah's imagining...

Sun, 14 Aug 2005 19:32:34 GMT

... of his "BMG Misses You, Please Come Back" Email As an Actual Conversation Between Two People

Phone rings, I pick up

Me: "Hello?"

BMG: "Hey... baby? Is this... This is Bob, right?"

Me: "Yeah?"

BMG: "Oh, oh I've missed your voice... I can't tell you... I've missed you so much, baby... please come back."

Me: "I... I don't know..."

BMG: "Please? I can change... tell me what I did wrong, and I'll fix it."

Me: "It's not you, it's..."

BMG: "DON'T TELL ME THAT! That's bull, and you know it! You know I know it! I'll do anything. ANYTHING!... Anything. Please. Just... come back..."

Me: "No, BMG... I'm sorry, but we've grown apart. We're not the same people we were when we first met."

BMG: "No, YOU grew away from me! You probably starting talking to that slut Columbia -"

Me: "Look! Me and Columbia House ended 12 years ago and you know it! She's nothing to me any-- Y'know what? What the hell are you doing? Look at us, we talk for like 30 seconds and already we are at each other's throats. Why do you want me back if -"

BMG: "No, no, I'm sorry. You're right, I know you and Columbia House aren't together anymore... I just... I want you back so much and I get jealous sometimes. I mean, Columbia House has a far bigger marketshare, and a bigger library of art-"

Me: "Listen, I --"

BMG: "Wait, just wait. This isn't about Columbia House. It's about us. Listen, baby, I'll do anything for you. I have one hell of a special offer for you, just to show you how much I've missed you. You can get 12 -"

Me: "BMG, I said no. Don't... don't embarrass yourself any further, don't... this is only going to..."

BMG: "What about all the good times we had? What about... you remember that one times, you took my catalog into your hands, you looked inside, and you saw-"

Me and BMG Together: "-The Screaming Trees!"

BMG: "Yeah, that's right. THe Screaming Trees. You were so happy, you were laughing... you said... do you remember what you said?"

Me: "Yeah, I said, 'I haven't thought about them in years!'... I got that CD... and I think there was a Mark Lanegan CD, too. I still listen to them sometimes."

BMG: "See, we.... I don't even know why we broke up. Do you? We can be good together, again. We can make it work.

Me: "No... I... I mean, I heard that you don't properly reimburse the artists for their work. You have some weird deal with the record companies, and none of the money they get for the CDs you sell goes towards the royalties."

BMG: "What, who did you hear that from? Where did you hear that?"

Me: "From a friend..."

BMG: "Your friends never liked me. They wanted us to break up from the beginning. I can't BELIEVE that you'd listen to them, without even talking to me about it. How thoughtless... how crue--"

Me: "Cruel? Cruel? Oh c'mon, get ove-"

BMG: "Yes! Cruel, yes! Yes! Cruel, unkind, untrusting... you never, ever shared, you know that? Things like this, things you heard, you never told me about them, you never asked me what went on. You never shared about your life, either. No wonder we did-"

Me: "Okay, okay, you want to go down memory lane, let's go down memory lane. You remember that time, I asked you if you had Queens of the Stone Age?"

BMG: "Oh, god, not this again. This is dead and buried. Why do you feel the need to bring it up?"

Me: "You say I never shared, now I'm sharing. We're just talking about the memories, right? The good times, right? Let's talk about them, then. I asked you if you had any Queens of the Stone Age, and do you remember what you said?"

BMG: (silence)

Me: "Do you?"

BMG: "You know I do."

Me: "What did you say?"

BMG: "I said I didn't have any Queens of the Stone Age."

Me: "Then what?"

BMG: "We don't need to do this."

Me: "Then what did you say?"

BMG: "Y'know, I don't neven know why I tried. You are just as big a child now as you whe-"

Me: "THEN WHAT DID YOU SAY?!!??"

BMG: "I SAID MAYBE YOU WOULD LIKE SAVAGE GARDEN INSTEAD!!!! ALRIGHT? ARE YOU HAPPY YOU SICK FU--" (sobs) "Great... now I'm crying. Are you happy? What am I saying, of course you're happy. I... why do you hate me so much, when all I ever wanted is to love you?" (continues sobbing)

Me: "I.... I'm sorry.... I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have sai--"

BMG: (hangs up the phone, still sobbing.)

Okay...

Thu, 30 Sep 2004 15:43:50 GMT

Currently, I've got a headache, and I'm very busy at work, and I have some other project that I'm working on, and I'm not in a great mood.

I have some stuff to say, but I don't really have any time to say it, so someone else say it for me.

Run with it, people.

Sat, 18 Sep 2004 01:16:23 GMT

Update

Temporary and Chemical Brotherhood

Mon, 23 Feb 2004 18:45:28 GMT

Once, I received a message online. When I tried to view this message, it said "The message you are trying to view has been deleted by sender."

It plagued my mind, so I went to a bar.

At the bar, I got drunk.

I told the bartender, "Barkeep!" I said.

The bartender, he replied, "I am a barTENDER, not a barKEEP, and I have a name. Chad. It is written upon my shirt. Do you not see it? Chad. It is written upon the left side of my chest, above my heart. This is no accident. Why can you not see me as a person? Why?"

"Barkeep," I answered in turn. "I do appologize; however, I give exactly one point five shits about your name. I would give two shits about your name, but I already gave one half of a shit about the poor plight of that fellow over there" I pointed to the fellow in question, for Chad's edification, "whose stripper girlfriend left him for the bassist of... umm..."

"Brrrkn Ennnnn....," the fellow in question replied helpfully.

"Yes! Thank you. She left him for the bassist of Broken Engine. Now, between the half a shit I am giving to him, and the 18 shits I have giving about the content of a deleted message I received, I can only spare your plight as a largely faceless and underappreciated servant to a collection of drunks the previously mentioned one point five shits."

"How many shits can you spare for the fact that I am going to be spitting into your beers?" Chad inquired.

"None at all, barkeep. I am drinking sterner stuff."

"In that case, by spitting into your shots, I will more than likely end up displacing at least a quarter - if not half - of the liquor."

"Chad," I replied. "I feel your pain. Deep within my heart, I know the truth of your anquish. You are not a person to the teeming masses that come to your bar to drown their sorrows. You are a thing. Something to serve them drink, something to complain to, and something for them to prove their sexuality by flirting with -"

"- that last part isn't so bad, really."

"Let's stay on track, Chad! I feel your pain, and it saddens me. Let me demonstrate the depths of my sorrowful sympatico by giving you a sizable tip now, and then, let us be as brothers."

"Brothers who don't spit into each other's whiskey."

"Precisely, Chad, precisely."

Then, I got drunk. Very drunk. I bought for Chad and the poor fellow whose stripper girlfriend left him for the bassist of Broken Engine as well.

At some point, that young man got lucky, as a woman began flirting with him. He was, at that point, quite furiously drunk. He had been dedicated, as I and -to a lesser degree- Chad had been to waging a campaign of terror against his own liver. Therefore, his senses were not quite as sharp as they might normally be. One could even say his senses were addled, if one was inclined to such statements. Therefore, the woman's flirting to the form of her rubbing his crotch and yelling into his ear "I THINK YOU ARE CUTE!"

Thus, I helped the young lovebirds into a cab, and return to my stool, where Chad and I returned to our grim war against the dual armies of sobriety and vomitting.

After a time of silence, Chad asked said. "You, and I... we... we are we... you know what I mean? I mean... me and you. We're like..."

"Brothers?" I offered hopefully.

Chad shook his head 'no' with great passion. "YES! Only... more."

"I know exactly was you mean, Chad."

"I know. I know you know." He said, with all the solemnity in the world. No one at the moment was serious, because Chad used all the seriousness that the world had to offer at the moment. Somewhere, a gun shot victim was giggling while remembering a nasty limerick about some young man from a small island off of the coast of Massachusetts. Meanwhile, a young woman determined to kill herself decided to wait a minute, because that scene where George's dad falls and gets the statue Kramer made of Jerry from pasta stuck up his ass, because that is her favorite scene ever. "I know." He repeated again, and I could see tears in his eyes.

He smiled sheepishly, and so I said "don't, don't worry about it. No shame in showing tears to your brother. Hang on. I think I need to vomit." After several seconds of deliberation on the matter, with my head respectfully turned away from Chad, I spoke again. "False alarm, gimme a triple".

Chad nodded and delivered. "So," he said while pouring. "What's that you mentioned about getting a message that was deleted? How can you get a message that's been deleted? Isn't it gone if its deleted?"

I looked at Chad, and I said, "It's complicated. Besides, I've decided to rethink my position on the issue of vomitting."

After vomitting, I found the relation between Chad and myself broke down considerably. Before I was forced to raise fists against my brother, I called myself a taxi, and went home.

It took several tries to call a taxi. One would be surprised how much the "3" key looks like the "#" key and the "8" key looks like the "*" when one has had 17 gallons of cheap whiskey.

A Story I Promised Someone

Mon, 23 Feb 2004 06:31:36 GMT

To: Emasterson@Homefort.com
From: Voodoochile86@Nationlink.com
Subject: I am going to kill myself

First of all, don’t worry. I’m not really going to kill myself. That was just kind of a venting thing, you know. pLus I wanted to make sure you opened this email.

OK, so, get this. I had my 16th birthday party about a week ago. It wasn’t a big party, maybe five or six friends, and my girlfriend, Lila. Oh, and my mother. My father was supposed to be there, too. He hasn’t been at one of my birthdays since I was 11, but he wanted to be at this one, ‘cause turning the big one-six is a big deal, or something. That’s what he told me, anyway.

So, anyway, dad couldn’t show up, because some work stuff came up. He’s a lawyer. He isn’t some big time trial lawyer, or anything, but he works for some big time trial lawyer. He had to do a bunch of research on some case ‘cause some pursecutor is bringing up something that my dad’s boss didn’t think of.

But my dad did decide to give me a new car. Like, brand new I mean. Its an Eclipse. It’s got leather interior, and a good sound system, and all that crap. My mom was all pissed off when it arrived. She yelled at me, like it was my fault my father was trying to buy my love.

All of my friends thought it was real cool that my dad got me a new car. I thought it was real cool that he didn’t show up. It’s not that don’t love him, or didn’t want him there or anything, but it’s always weird when my father shows up. It’s like there’s a stranger hanging around that I’m supposed to treat like a relative. Besides, none of my friends know him. And its always weird when my mother and father are around each other. Its like they can't decide if their fighting, or trying to hook up.

The party was okay, I guess. My mother cooked out on the grill, next to the pool. This gave her a chance to wear her bikini top and short shorts. My mom was like, 15 when she had me, so she’s still real young, and she works out all the time. Which is okay, but she’s all fucked up. She listens to the same music me and my friends do, and gets all happy when one of my friends call her cool. But its fucked up, ‘cause she gets flattered when one of my friends tries to stare down her shirt, or checks out her ass.

Anyways, back to the party. My friends and I took the car out for rides, and it was cool, I guess. Then, we went swimming, and everything, and had cake and ice cream. Then, just to prove to my friends how cool she was, again, my mom let us all get drunk.

So like, a week before my birthday, Lila said that she was gonna give me her virginity for my birthday. Which actually means a lot to me, ‘cause I think I’m in love with her. So, my friends got all drunk, and were all spending the night, crashing in the extra bedroom, and on the couch, and Lila was actually getting kind of excited, and nervous. She started trying to drag me up to my room since about 1 in the morning, but I didn’t wanna leave the living room until my mom went up to bed, which wasn’t tell about 4.

Oh, here’s something I really didn’t need to hear: My mom was talking to Brian, telling him about how she once had “a lesbian experience” with one of her good friends, Stacie, when she was in her mid-twenties. I used to have a crush on Stacie, when I was about 10 or 11. I wanted to puke.

So, anyways, Lila and I finally go up to bed around 4:30, after my mom was in bed, and most of my friends had passed out.

We were both real nervous, ‘cause she was a virgin, and I’d never been with a virgin before. I was really careful though, and gentle, but I could tell her hurt her a lot. She told me she came, and I told her that I loved her, but don’t lie to me. I knew she didn’t come.

Then she appologized, and told me how sweet I am, and that she loves me too. Lila’s an awesome girl.

So, like, everything’s cool, right? Wrong, whoever you are.

See, me and Lila fell asleep for a while. Then, around, maybe, 7 in the morning, I woke up, and went to take a piss. Afterwards, I was gonna go back to bed, when I saw my mom shambling down the hall. She was wearing this big fluffy robe she’s got, which I thought was a good sign, I guess. At least she wasn’t wearing her little black silk robe that barely covered her ass.

She looked all sleepy, and had trouble standing up. I didn’t look that drunk when went to bed. Anyway, I went down to her, to try and help her out. Keep her steady and everything.

So I walked up to her, and I put my arms around her, and she started mumbling about how she could hear me and Lila. I stiffened up a little, and she mumbled something about how I get embarrassed too easy.

Then, I started leading her to the bathroom, and she mumbled something else, about me being a gentleman, or something.

She stopped moving, and turned to look at me, face to face, and I could smell the gin on her breath. Her eyes were all sleepy, and she looked happy. Stupid, but happy. She started mumbling again, about how grown up I am, and how her little baby is gonna be going to leaving her soon, and how handsome I am, and how beautiful Lila is, and how lucky we are, and how I should be careful and treat her good and not get her pregnant, and some other stuff I couldn’t understand.

She mumbles a lot when she drinks.

And the she almost fell. I had to catch her by grabbing her arms. And then her big fluffy robe opened. She was naked underneath. I stared at her. Not ‘cause I wanted to, but because I was stunned. I mean, I haden’t seen my mom naked since... since I can remember. Like I said, my mom is pretty hot. Not that I enjoyed looking at her. It probably would have been easier, if she was ugly, you know? Somehow... her being pretty made it worse.

Oh, and here’s something I didn’t need to know: My mom shaves. You know what I mean, right? Not her legs.

So anyways, I’m standing there, holding my mom up by her arms, staring at her, stunned. Horrified even. I was pleasantly surprised though, that only her belly button was pierced. Seriously, I expected some other stuff to be pierced, too.

So I’m starting for who knows how long, and my mom says “Oh... David” in this real quiet voice, and I almost start crying. I start wondering how I’m gonna explain to her that I’m not checking her out, I start wondering just what I’ll see in her face when I look at her, and I start wondering how I’m ever gonna look into my mom’s face again.

So then, I look up at her, and she doesn’t look angry, or scared, or disappointed, or even confused. My mom was biting her bottom lip, like she does when she’s trying to look sexy. Then she leans against me, which is bad ‘cause I’m not wearing a shirt, and she whispers into my ear, but real close. Close enough that when she talks, its like she’s kissing my ear. She tells me that I look just my father, and that I so handsome, and so strong. She’s still slurring her words, but she’s not mumbling anymore. And then, she puts her hands on my hips, and she whispers again, she says, “put me to bed.”

So then, before anything worse can happen, I push her away, but not hard, cause I’m afraid she’ll fall down. Just enough so we aren’t touching anymore, and I tell her she’s drunk.

Then her face gets all twisted up, and she starts crying, and she says “fuck you”, only, it takes her about five seconds to get the “f” sound out.

She looked like she wanted to slap me, but she didn’t.

So, anyways, I went back to bed then, and I woke up Lila, and I asked her to have sex with me, and she said yes, ‘cause she’s a good girlfriend.

I think I hurt her this time. She wimpered some, and I think she may have asked me to stop, but I don’t know. Anyways, when I finished, she cried some, but she asked me if everything was okay. She told me I seemed angry, but I lied and told her everything was okay, and she said okay.

Lila is a great girlfriend.

So, like I said, I’m not really gonna kill myself, I just said that ‘cause I’m upset, and I wanted to make sure you’d read this. I guess its not the worst thing in the world. Its just hard, you know? My mom and I have been avoiding each other, and we haven’t said like, two words since my birthday. I’m afraid to have any friends over, ‘cause I think she might fuck them to get back at me.

Oh, and Lila and I are okay, I guess. We have sex at least three times a day. It doesn’t hurt her anymore, but I don’t think she’s come yet. She’s starting to get upset, though, because she says I’m always angry when I fuck her. And she’s right. I’m trying to fuck the image of my mother’s naked body out of my head, you know?

I think I’ll be alright, its just gonna take some getting used to. I didn’t tell Lila what happened, but I told her me and my mom are fighting, but Lila’s dad said I can move in with them if I want, which is cool.

Its just sick, you know, that my mom would hit on me. I mean, what the fuck is that shit, you know? How am I supposed to handle that? What kind of mother does that?

Anyways, don’t worry, I don’t expect you to write me back, in fact, I really don’t want you to. I’m sorry I dumped all this shit on you. I know you don’t know me, or anything, and I don’t want you to help solve my problems, or anything like that, I just wanted someone real to listen to me, you know?

With applogies,
David

Not A Good Sign

Wed, 10 Dec 2003 16:45:27 GMT

I just yawned for the first time today.

I can see it now.

I'm going to fall apart like a jigsaw puzzle.

Wait, that's not a great analogy.

I'm going to break apart like a ming vase. One that's in the middle of a sumo ring with Bill and a bull in a diaper.

A Brief Inventory of Self

Wed, 10 Dec 2003 16:34:49 GMT

Okay, so, I went to bed at about 3:30 in the morning this morning. I actually got to sleep by 4:30. I have to be up for work by 6:00. Well, that's not necessarily true, because I actually got up at 6:30. For those with calculators, you can see I got about 2 hours of sleep.

Now, here it is, several hours later, and I am still functioning. My brain is not punishing my lack of sleep with a terrible headache.

Y'know what? I'm going to interrupt myself for just a second to tell you about the conversation between Bill and Katrina. A pair of my cow-orkers.

Katrina (A 5'6" or so girl, weighing in at a massive 120 at the most) does something that Bill isn't liking. I can't what it is she's doing because I don't what Katrina every fuckin' second of every fuckin' day. I am not a stalker. If I was a stalker, I'd stalk David Letterman, because that would just be funny.

Bill (a 6' or so guy whose easily 350 pounds. He might be able to successfully suma wrestle a bull on PCP. Sure, the bull has a more stable base, better strength, and angeldust turning his blood into the fury of Ghengis Khan, but the bull has no hands with which to grab the belt sash): "Cut it out! I'll whip your candy ass."

Katrina: "Yeah, right. The bigger they are, the harder they fall."

Bill: "Remember, though, the bigger they are, the bigger their reach. You'll never get close to me, Katrina. You've got no chance."

Now, the first part, when he threatened to visit physical punishment upon her sugary bottom, he was joking and playful. Her reaction was... well, frankly, it wasn't very joking and playful, but Katrina's sense of humor isn't that well developed. I think its a gland problem.

However, when he replies with his wisdom about the reach advantage he will enjoy in any surfuffle he and her engage in, it got a little surreal. See, he was serious. Not like he is actually desiring to - if I may paraphrase Ivan Drago - "break her", but as though he were honestly and objectively assessing her chances against him.

Yeah, Bill. I'm sure you're reach advantage is going to be what sees you through in that fight.

Okay, back to my whining about lack of sleep.

Its around 11 AM, like I said and I am holding up very well. But I am not cocky. I know the Sandman is a boxer who does the most damage in the later rounds, and he's bought off one of the judges.

Wait. I think I may have lost my point. Did I have a point? Fuck, I could have sworn I had a point somewhere around here.

I'm already losing ground. If you don't here from me again, tell my 10th grade English teacher that I used to stare down her tops.

Wed, 10 Dec 2003 04:03:16 GMT

If I was a superhero, I'd probaby get stuck with some stupid power, like the ability to change chees from one typoe to another.

How can I be expected to catch Dr. Devious when all I can do is change his chedder cheese to baby Swiss?

When he finally conquers Los Angeles, don't come asking me for help. You want a the world saved, go see Superman. You want a nice edam, I'm your hero.

Something I wrote a couple of months ago.

Fri, 15 Aug 2003 10:40:17 GMT

Once, there were angels in this land.

These angels had a terrible duty, and one that make them cry tears that fell like liquid diamond from their cheeks.

It was their duty to hold the unjust trapped within the land. It was their job to punish the unjust, in way and forms far more horrid that anything that the unjust had ever done.

It was their job the craft the architecture of Hell.

Given time, these angels learned that cruelty is an aquired taste, and their cheeks became dry, and their lips curled up in gleeful smiles.

For times unknown, these angels, the jailers, tormented those whose transgressions brought them into the created Hell.

The jailers actions were far worse than mere punishment. They tortured their captives in countless ways, only limited by their twisted imaginations, which were vast.

Their joy was great, until the time that these terrible angels learned the truth.

One of these angels sought to leave the pleasures of Hell, and travel to the world of just men. However, he could not cross the line of bone and iron that seperated Hell from the rest of the world.

Thus, the angels knew that they where not the jailers, merely more of the jailed.

It was they who were chosen to build and toil in Hell, for, in God's wisdom, he knew they were the angels who mose deserved to be in Hell. He knew that evil lived within their breasts, and that it would blossom.

The angels fell upon each other immediately, hating their prison that was only moments ago a great and joyous place for them. They struck at each other, enemies that were just moments before brothers felled each other with great swords of fire, and spears of hateful black stone.

Though they fought, and though they were cut low, nothing can truly die in Hell. Each time a terrible angel's body was sundered, and its weapon shattered, it was raise up again, weaker.

Now, most of the angels are shadows of their former selves. Though still mighty, their voices no longer shake the world, and their weapons can no longer cleve mountains.

Some small few are so weak that they are no better than the humans they once tortured, with broken and bloodied wings that no longer hold them aloft.

The landscape of Hell became worse for the angel's wars. The blood of the angels either fell to the earth, and grew into terrible flora and fauna, or it was carried by the winds, to form great storms of burning blood.

These storms are black with smoke, with deep, blood red flames. Their rains are rains of fiery blood that even the angels must take shelter from, and the winds that accompany these storms are strong enough to cut flesh, and carry drops of blood (human or angel) back to the storms, so that they are never deminished.

It is sad that this hell has no light, only darkness, which illuminates the horrible and terrible aspects of Hell.

This is no completely true, however. When the sun passes into Hell, it becomes a sun of deep black brilliance, and the shadows cast by this black sun are pure white.

Even the angels must take care when the white shadows are cast. No beings in Hell can stand the white light, for it is pure, and purity and anathema in Hell.

All who look upon the white light cry tears of blood, and are blinded by its brilliance. Sight returns within a few moments, but staring direction into a white shadow for more than a few minutes will burn the eyes of the viewer out completely.

Far worse things will happen if a white shadow passes over the body on someone within Hell.

Those humans within Hell are now free. The angels have neither the power, nor the desire to cage the humans any longer. Their life is not good; of course, but some make the most of it. Some humans, in a great irony, have learned secret rituals, allowing them to cross the line of bone and iron, into the lands of good men.

Others prefer to carve out empires among the wretched. A Castle, made of dead bone and wrapped with living flesh mark the kingdom of Turgen Onehand, while a great city made of glossy black lies is ruled by She Whose Name Was Sold.

The greatest kingdom in Hell is that of an angel. One of the most powerful angels, he survived the angel war with most of his strength. His home is a tower of ivory, gold and glass, so vast that its upper levels are obscured by great thunderheads of blood and fire.

His name is unknown, and he is called the Bright One, for his halo is made of the same painful white light and the shadows cast by the black sun.

Desk Update

Mon, 04 Aug 2003 01:21:44 GMT

Noooot that anyone cares, but I have a desk now.

Have since last Tuesday.

Woohoo!

I'm going the mail, and the filling out the deposit slips starting this Thursday, and ending on the 26th, while the HR lady is on vacation.

This displeases me.

I hate doing the mail, and I loathe doing the deposits.

Wait, that needs to be capitalized. I LOATHE doing the deposits.

Numbers suck, and money's boring.

Wed, 23 Jul 2003 17:11:33 GMT

I think reality has issues.

When life is boring, life is grey. No joy, no pain, just hearts beating, lungs breathing, neurons firing, and food and water being processed.

Then, life gets fun, life gets to be something worth writing home about.

Hearts bursting, chests heaving, neurons SINGING, and food and water being processed.

However, at the exact same time life makes you hurt.

Hearts breaking, breath catching, neurons burning, and food and water being processed.

I think existence was probably abused by a parent, or was hurt by a careless lover.

Either that, or I'm just a broken little boy.

Don't misunderstand me, though.

bob's doin' pretty good right now.

Smiling.

First Entry:

Wed, 23 Jul 2003 06:22:26 GMT

Okay, so, I just signed up for Live Journal, because this person I know said, "hey, do you have a Live Journal, because if you do, I could be your Friend."

I want to be this person's Friend, so I got myself a Live Journal. I have no idea what I'm going to do with it, though.

So, uh...

Oh, hey, I'll complain about work!

So, several months ago.

Boss: "bob"

bob: "yeah?"

Boss: "We think you'd be a good fit for customer service."

bob: "Uhhh.. okay."

Boss: "great! We'll get you set up once the majority of our clients are on the new web system."

bob: "Cool."

months pass.

Three of them. That's 90 days. Maybe a bit more.

90 days! You know how they say 'Rome wasn't built in a day'? Well, they have that day, and 89 more.

Yet, they couldn't give me a desk set up in my new customer service area.

Not only that, but I have almost no work. No work, no desk to not do my work on, no computer on top of my no desk so that I can at least abuse my internet privileges so that I'm at least not mind-numbingly-screw-driver-piercing-my-brain-through-the-left-ocular-socket-bored at my no desk doing no work.

90 days they had to prepare for this. Well, at least its proof that I'll never get in serious trouble at work, because they are messed up enough I could come into work in a leather mask, a see-through Hello Kitty t-shirt and a pair of assless chaps, and then tell my boss that it is TOO my work uniform, and they will be too stupid to tell the difference.

This is something I wrote, and have no intention of ever following up on:

'It's 3 AM.

It's been several months since I've gotten a good night's sleep, so it seems like it's always 3 AM.

I was sitting at the bar of Nap's Diner. Behind the bar was Napoleana's daughter, Josephine.

Behind Josephine were canopic jars, voodoo dolls and shruken heads.

These things were what passed for a decor at Nap's.

Frankly, it looked ugly, and tacky. It looked like a two bit hexer had a garage sale, and Josephine bought him out.

Of course, that's what happened. Over the years, Josephine would by a hand of glory here, a dowsing rod there. None of it worked, of course. Josephine couldn't afford them if they did.

They were all the failed works of shitty magicians.

I recognized a couple of my own pieces. A voodoo doll that was suppossed to be linked to an ex-girlfriend, and a shielding talisman made from the first bullet I was ever shot with. Both failures.

"I brushed the hair from her eyes and the tides shifted."

I looked over at the young man, and his face immediately began shifting to form more pleasing to me.

A doppleganger, then. A drunk one.

"She was crying, and stars tumbled down her cheeks."

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I knew nothing good could come of this.'