if this is the algonquin round table, it's purely incidental

I stumbled upon something that I found disturbing. A serious writer let their seriousness about writing bleed rather bitterly out in the form of judgment onto another blog.

Another blog.

It was nasty to witness someone who is clearly not interested in the art/world of writing, to be confronted so rudely by the abuse of this particular, so called serious writer.

It appeared to be a frustrated attempt to pick on someone, anyone (afterall, there are so many victims to choose from) because the serious writer was afraid to pick on his/her own peers. That is, other serious/aspiring writers.

Of course critique, within context, is good. Critique was an important and necessary part of the design process when I was in school. I definitely wanted feedback about my work from other people who were in my field.

But this serious writer, who I assume doesn't need a blog to get published, yet blogs quite a bit, did not issue a thoughtful critique of this blogger's blog. And this blogger, who was clearly blogging for blog's sake, did not in any way request said critique.

And blogs, per se, are not necessarily the peer base for serious or aspiring writers.

Of course, this serious and abusive writer was well aware of this fact.

On a lighter note: in a few minutes I'm going to out to get a burrito. I then plan to spend a few hours getting some things organized, and then, later, to possibly view a DVD, as I have been jones-ing to watch movies for weeks.

finger bandaged and doing ok

The other day. It started out good. I was happy that I finally addressed some school loan issues, along with some other things that I've been putting off. And I exercised. And most importantly, I did things before work, that is, hung out, did some errands (happy errands), got a coffee. All so that I sort of wound up at work, rather going immediately to work. Because, normally I leave for work at 9:30 pm. Which is dismal. So, the other day I decided instead to leave at around 7pm, and do things along the way. I was attempting to Live My Life. And that is just not like me.

Then I got to work, and it was this horrendous private party which filled the club to capacity. I knew over a week ago that this was going to be the case. That we would be insanely busy. And that was OK. But, still, I felt horribly guilty. It was too busy for me to do my job well. Or even poorly. It was going badly. I lost all control over my tables. And there was no getting it back.

Then I cut my finger.

The whole club was out of kilter because of this party. And especially because there were caterers present. As the caterers needed any extra space there was in the club as staging areas. So everything was wrong, and everyone, as busy as they were, were doing things they normally wouldn't be doing. In areas they wouldn't normally be doing them. For instance, I was cutting limes and lemons in an area that can only be described as outside, near the dumpster. This is an area I've never worked in before. An area reserved for delivery trucks. Crime. And probably hookers. This was were I was cutting my fruit. Because my bar-back was in the storage room doing dishes for the caterers (in what was THE MOST makeshift sink I've ever seen). Which led to my bouncer taking orders for me. Which naturally led to me bar-backing for the main bar. As well, the waitresses on the main floor were doing security checks. And I saw the DJ restocking beer. It was a mess.

All I needed was one slice of lime.

I had already laughed earlier in the night, when my bouncer went outside to cut a lemon, and came back with just the one slice. But I wound up doing the same thing about forty times. There just was no time to worry about future slices. So, I went outside to again slice a lime and the knife went clean through my finger.

Several things went through my mind:

cut=bad>sharp industrial strength knife+finger=not OK>emergency>go to hospital=(embarrassing)x(no time)+waiting people=angry people>blood>shock>swear word>cry

also

(envy of lesser problems of just a moment ago) x (magical thinking)
= brief second of believing I can undo cut. Just go back and not cut my finger.

Then I went into denial/damage control. And proceeded to the bandage area, with a bunch of saturated cocktail napkins wrapped around my hand. And I was afraid to look at my finger because I was afraid it was gone.

(PS finger condoms: not embarrassing)

So, I was having a bad week work wise. Then my sister-in-law, called me back and asked me if I'd like to come in next week for two weeks. This is a real gig. A design job. She is amazing. She will train me. Show me the ropes. That kind of thing. She says she wants to see if I like it there. Hopefully they will like me/my work. I'm going to be working a lot during this period. And it might be a while before they need someone permanently. But this is a great turn of events. I want to send my sister-in-law flowers. Or pizzas. Or cashmere sweater sets. I don't know how to begin to thank her.

And this makes me happy.

how to build a gingerbread house/ printerfriendly

About a week ago I googled frankenmonsterblog to see what would happen. And I found out that frankenmonsterblog was considered, among other things, simple, step by step instructions for building a gingerbread house. I was surprised by this as well as curious. So I typed in the key words how to build a gingerbread house, to see if this worked in the inverse. And frankenmonsterblog appeared. And it was ranked ninth.

This made me happy.

But not right away. It broke down as follows:

Upon first noticing that frankenmonsterblog was inappropriately considered instructions for building a gingerbread house (a better gingerbread house, any gingerbread house) it felt alright. It was alright with me, and I got on with my life.

But this became something more like ok with me as the day progressed.

Then I found myself to be pleased.

And then I laughed about it. To myself. No one was around to hear me. But, I promise you, I did laugh.

So it was around this juncture that feeling pleased became feeling amused.

Which ultimately led to feeling happy. Which, by the way, is a good feeling. (Tough to describe. It's kind of like a sense of well being or rightness with the world. It's fleeting, but can be accessed at later times in memory. But remembered happiness doesn't feel so much like happiness (in real-time), as it does jealousy (in real-time). That is, jealous for having once been happy/not knowing if you will ever feel happy again. All in all, worth the risk. I give it an 8: Happiness = OK)

So, naturally, I wanted to keep it this way.

Meanwhile, I should mention, I have no idea how my blog got confused with websites that are devoted to the subject of gingerbread houses. I understand there's an algorithm involved. But I've purposely used the words gingerbread house very sparingly in my posts. But whatever happened, I was happy about it. Then, this morning, the worst happened: my google result for gingerbread house was gone.

And I want it back.

So, roughly six hours and forty pieces of notebook paper later, where I tried unsuccessfully to brake it down mathematically (then took a break to make a lasagna), then spiritually (because it's the opposite of math), which required trips to both the library, and La Boutica Religioso (where I bought a mess of candles, as they were having a sale), I finally enlisted the tarot (which, it turns out, isn't just another pretty card game, more on that later), and, NOTHING. No ideas. No way that I could find to get frankenmonsterblog re-associated with gingerbread houses. At least, in the eyes of google.

Then I thought of this:
how to build a gingerbread house

not a trick:

I went out tonight to go get some rice at the rice place that's just a few blocks away from my house. I put in my order and went out to walk around for a minute, because, for some reason, this restaurant always takes forever to put together my rice. So I walked over to the new antique store. And it appears that there are now at least two couches that I need. As well as a couple of lamps. Then next door, at Una Mae's, I found two skirts, and a pair of tennis shoes that I love. And then, while at the 7-11, I saw that the fabulous, big green can of ice tea that I've had my eye on for weeks is still available. But, no, I told myself: not today. And I bought none of those things. I just wanted to get my rice and go home. So, I went back to Mucho Gusto and, lucky for me, my rice was almost ready. That's how the woman at the counter put it. Almost ready. Suggesting to me from her tone that this was (as we both well understood) a very special order of rice. And that they were probably, right then, as we lived and breathed, just putting onto my rice some very special, final, finishing touches. And, as everyone knows, such a masterpiece of an order of rice takes time. So I waited. And I looked around. And I noticed that I was the only one left in the restaurant. Yet, curiously, from what I could glean (through the ever swinging kitchen doors), the cooks appeared to be very busy. And I need to pay my phone bill. The end.

Ok. That was a trick.

My question is this: If I end a story in such a way, is that a non sequitur?

Really. What is a non sequitur?

The dictionary defines it as: an inference or a conclusion that does not follow from the premises.

And I get that.

(I don't. That was another trick.)

It all started years ago when someone I worked with accused me of ending all of my sentences with non sequiturs. Now, even though I'm not certain what a non sequitur is, I don't think it's possible that I ended all of my sentences with non sequiturs. Maybe he was exaggerating. And maybe he didn't realize that I was joking around. There was some kind of misunderstanding between us. Which, as I recall, was never quite cleared up, and led to lots of attitude from both sides.

Meanwhile. Non sequiturs. This has been bothering me for some time.

pinocchio versus finger puppet

I'm not going to lie to you. This is ridiculous. Not to suggest that I've ever lied here at frankenmonsterblog. Now fiction, that's a better word. Something factual happens, I strain it through a fictionalization machine (an Industrial Age, circa mid 19th century very, very British machine), then repackage the resultant glob into lots of green cellophane shrink wrap, and send it off on a truck. And I never think about it again.

But is that blogging?

Recently I read a blog about knitting and dried flowers. And thought it would be really funny to satirize it.

But, isn't that kind of mean spirited, Vic?

Yes it is. But to change my blog to The Wonders of Yarn and Dried Flowers, or some such thing (with a pink and purple interface and swirly, swirly girly font) makes me laugh. And why haven't I? WHY HAVEN'T I? What on Earth is stopping me?

I wish I could knit. And I love to sew. Don't get me wrong.

I think I'll call it Yarn Talk.

I wonder what it would have been like back in Shakespeare's day had there been computer access. Nothing else being changed. Just 1605 AD. And there are computers. Not cars. Not space travel. No other technology. Just computers. They run on kerosene. Maybe windmills. My real question is: would Shakespeare's blog still be out there today. And is that how it's going to be? Will my blingbling blog still be out there in five hundred years? Because I forgot my password/how to access it, and I'm afraid that it's just out there. Period. Forever. My only lasting contribution to this world. A fake ghetto blog.

That's about right. Sounds like me. That would happen.

I once drove somebody crazy with all of my talk about time travel.

(I'm sorry I was so ridiculous. I was just being myself. You know.)

Some of the blogs I read are people that I personally know. It all started with Winky (how many times has that sentence been uttered). Which brings me to an idea, but it would be such a rip-off on Winky, that I just can't do it.

But I will say this: impressions have been formed, people. They have. Though, again, half are people I already know. None the less. Impressions have been formed. And it's not good. Not good at all.

Just kidding.

I thought of integrating a photo of my Pinochio puppet into my blog. Just his face. I would spend some time getting the photo/lighting just right. Dramatic shadows would be necessary for me to pull it off the way I see it in my head. Or, I thought of using a photo that my brother took of a finger puppet that he had abducted from me about fifteen years ago. It's a long story, but this photo was a ransom note/birthday card. It's really harrowing as there are flames positioned behind the puppet. The flames are out of focus, but it's unmistakably fire, and my puppet looks so scared and out of it's element. But I'm afraid either of these images would limit frankenmonsterblog somehow. I mean, which image to choose? Meanwhile, human being need faces. And we'll find faces, conjure faces, look for faces even where there are none. It's the Gestalt Principle. Designers manipulate this to no end. Houses, cars, eyes, noses, mouths, headlights, windows, doors, grilles, bumpers. Kittens. We find faces because facelessness is scary.

I could always sketch something. Like a certain Ho that I know (but you do realize, Ho, that that is how I see you.) I don't know. I'm sure it doesn't matter. I'll figure it out.

Wait a minute. What the hell am I blathering about? I have no idea what I'm doing.

I felt like doing this right now. Just blogging. Like a Japanese school girl.

Ok.

I regroup. That is, I get a Corona out of my refrigerator.

Note: Blogs are public. But who reads blogs?

I should mention that I had to go into work briefly for a meeting tonight, and what nobody knows is that I was wearing my pajamas under my long coat. They're black, so my pants legs didn't give me away. Ha. I get away with wearing my pajamas outside all the time.

Right now I'm listening to T Rex.

And I'm avoiding something.

And I'd give anything in the world for a piece of chocolate.

angry couple sold separately

It's March. The only reason I know this is because yesterday, when I went to check the time on my cell phone, March abruptly appeared on my phone's screen saver. Which just so happens to be a calendar. Which is no mistake, as I have yet to get a calendar for 2005. And I didn't realize that it was leap year. But I didn't care about any of that. I gasped and quickly snapped my phone shut, that is, tried to make March go away (rudely confronted by March as I was) as March was such a shock to my eyes. Because, according to my cell phone, March is quite a different story than February. And my cell phone, or more specifically, Samsung, definitely wanted me to understand that February is NOT to be confused with March by employing a not so subtle method of surprise via sudden and contrasting images. That moment (that first moment of March, when a Samsung customer with this particular screen saver first becomes aware that it is March, NOT February) is so shocking that it's reasonable to assume that such a Samsung customer will never manage to surpress the memory. And I believe that that was Samsung's objective. Because there is no other explanation.

Let there be no misunderstanding: March. It's not the same as February.

Consider last month. February. February's screen saver was a horribly desolate snow scene. February. Innocent enough. Probably not intended to inspire suicide, so much as something just short of suicide. Like an especially debilitating case of seasonal disorder. Malaise. Certainly the Blahs. Because a grittier, more in your face look at February does not exist in any other cell phone that I've ever seen. The foreground of the photo was filled mainly by a terrifying tree with it's bare branches reaching out into the bitter cold like so many skeleton's fingers. And, save for one decaying leaf, which remarkably had managed to hang on presumably since Autumn, there was no reason to believe it will ever again be Spring for this tree. The rest was just a lot of swirling snow against a twilight sky. That moment just before the sun goes down. Once and for all. Forever. Grim, indeed. So, as cell phone screen savers go, Samsung must have felt, after many a meeting and lots of deliberation, that this haunting, relentlessly unforgiving portrait of February was the way to go. Their gift to us, you might say.

And believe me, I said, thank you, Samsung each and every day. I did.

But now suddenly it's March. Not just March, but March. Samsung's March. Just twenty-eight days later, and I guess it's all going to be ok, and you can put away your gun, because according to my cell phone, March is fabulous. It's 75 degrees warmer than it was yesterday, and all of a sudden there is no limit to what you can do with your life and imagination. I mean, if I'm to believe what my cell phone is suggesting, March brings a profusion of red tulips. Millions of tulips. A seemingly endless field of flowers. On a fantastically sunny day. Fantastically. Frighteningly sunny. It's an overwhelmingly happy scene. There's spinning. Mania. Love is everywhere. You've been assigned a muse. Inspiration grows on trees. Everything is funny. And you are free. Yes. And the sky is sapphire blue with only just a few wisps of clouds. Wait. Don't worry. Those aren't really clouds. That's sky writing. An airplane has written crazy cryptic messages across the sky just for us to read. Just for us. Down here. On Earth. Incredible.

So, as you can imagine, I was shaken.

But then I noticed something. When I looked at this scene a little more closely, I saw in the background what can only be identified as an angry Asian couple. They were way in the background of this image, almost imperceptibly hovering in the margin. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and the pixels were killing me, but from what I can glean about this couple, he seems to be accusing her of something. And her head is turned defensively, as if in reflex. And she's wearing pink. I imagine she had no idea that morning, when she put on that dress, that it would always from that day forward be thought of as the breakup dress. My guess is that the sudden field of tulips proved to be too much pressure for this couple. This part of the image is sort of airbrushed out. Sort of. But not quite. And Samsung thought no one would notice.

..thank you, Samsung.

attention:

There is a spider in my house.

I thought it through, and I believe I am responsible for this turn of events. I disrupted the spider community, aka Spider Village, that had been established off in the corner of my apartment in what was referred to as Unincorporated Junk Town (also Junk Park or Junk Square). I was fully aware of the population of spiders in that corner. Likewise, they knew that I was as far away as possible, at a minimum distance of about two feet. Usually much more. And it was ok. Nobody ever crossed the borders. We had an unspoken understanding. We maintained a peaceful tolerance. But then I made the mistake of getting rid of that TV and all of the adjacent junk. I realize that the spiders had to go find other places to live. And I understand it was a tumultuous time for them. But I thought when I said, Spiders: go outside! Or, at least, please, go live in the stairwell.. that they felt that this was a reasonable request. Because I never saw or heard from any of them afterward.

Until now. That is. Until yesterday afternoon at approximately three fifteen.

I understand that this is quite alarming, but, please, do not call the police. I contacted the authorities late last night, and the agents that were dispatched to my residence have already briefed me on several methods I can employ to cope with the situation. And, I have to say that after a lot of breathing into a paper bag and the liberal application of vodka, I think I've got it under control.

Still, I'm afraid that this is only the beginning of a much bigger problem.

The reason I say this is that the spider has built not a web, but what can only be described as a cocoon around itself. And my instincts tell me that this is not good. Everything about this cocoon suggests permanency. This is bad. I look at the cocoon and all I can imagine is that, at some point yesterday afternoon, the spider arrived at the decision to stay. Stay. Right there. Near my bathroom door. For the duration of some undisclosed event, or for purposes that are beyond my understanding.

Actually, I'm not going to lie to you. A few things have already crossed my mind. I can hardly bring myself to write this. But, think about it. Why do creatures set up house?
Yes. I think this is going to get much worse.

I was told to continue to document any changes, as I had already jotted down quite a few notes before the detectives arrived. I now check the spider on an hourly basis. And, as I'm sure you can imagine, this is not a pleasant project. The whole thing is most disturbing.

Sergei

Tonight I waited on some Russian mobsters. This doesn't really matter. But I haven't posted anything in a while. And I finally got some real sleep. And I feel like I just woke up and realized that I've been writing in a blog for a few months. Months.

As one would expect, the Russian mobsters like their vodka. And they like their vodka served warm in these small straight up and down glasses that we don't have where I work. But that's ok. They'll drink their vodka out of the wrong kind of glasses, too (hey, just like me) which is good for them, and for me, I guess, as I'm supposed to care if my customers are happy and drinking and remaining on the premises. But, to be honest, I don't worry about it that much. I figure if I do my job, and I'm pleasant, and the vodka's warm and everything, it'll be ok.

I like the Russian mob. So much better than that other mob. But, lets face it, the Mafia is not really the Mafia anymore. Most of the mobsters I know aren't Italian. Most mobsters I know aren't even mobsters so much as they are supposed friends of mobsters, or supposed cousins of mobsters. But the Russian mob is Russian. Period. Criminals. Yes. Pure and simple. They're old-school. They've retained their integrity, which is really refreshing in this day and age.

I asked Sergei if I could work for him. He said no. Actually he said, you are working for me.. right now. He laughed as he said this. I saw that Sergei thinks he owns me like he owns so many people. So I laughed at this, too. Because he's wrong. I said, Sergei, you think you own me, don't you? He nodded. So I paused and said to him in a mock whisper, Sergei, you know, you don't own me.. and you never will. And I added something really smart-assed in Russian for his ears only, and then I smiled and lifted an eyebrow. And then, just to demonstrate how much Sergei doesn't own me, I (cleaned his ashtray, removed all the empty glasses off of his table, asked everyone if they were doing ok, and) walked away. Slowly away.

I have to say that sometimes when I'm bored or upset I tend to get myself into trouble.

I should explain that as I'm trying to write this thing about the Russian mob I'm listening to some internet radio which is currently playing a lot of Jefferson Airplane (don't you want somebody to love.. dooon't you need somebody to love.. you better find somebody to love..), and I'm sorry, the two just don't mix. Not really my choice of music, either. I don't remember how it came about that I'm listening to classic rock, but I don't want to stop and put on a CD or something, so I'm trying to write through this music, instead of stopping and switching. I'm working against this music. And it's not working.

my plant, at home and doing ok

I have been waiting seven years for one of my plants to decide whether it's going to fight for it's life or finally die. It's been threatening to die for a very long time. And, it's disconcerting, I'm pretty good with plants. I've had this plant for eleven or twelve years. It's a large plant. I've given it vitamins, new soil, better sources of light. I make a point to breathe on it. I even talk on the phone right near it, so that it might further benefit from my breathing on it. Not to suggest that I don't talk directly to my plants. I do. I tell them how they're doing, like, Oh, look you're sprouting, that's great.. or sometimes, Oh, no what's happening to you..? As well as, I love you, please don't die.. That kind of thing.

And I've dusted it's leaves, as I do with my other plants. At one point, I moved this plant around from window to window three or four times a day, just to insure that it got the best light possible. I did this for years. I even dried it out a couple of times. Gave it a week of no attention at all followed by lots of attention. Finally, I arranged all of my other plants around the dying plant. I thought this community of thriving plants might somehow lend a sense of solidarity, or support to my dying plant that might strengthen its will to live. And no. Nothing. And, I should mention, the fact that everything started to go down hill right around the time I got a kitten is not lost on me.

The kitten is, for all practical purposes, innocent of any foul play. She never messes with the plant. Not in any obvious way. Still, I've always sensed some tension between the kitten and the plant. Most likely, the kitten has been sending the plant bad vibes all of these years. It's something she would do. She has many reasons to be bitter, and I can see how she would take it out on the plant instead of me. It's displaced aggression. Or it's passive aggressive. In either case, I know the way the kitten operates, and believe me, she can be jealous and quite petty. Still, the plant did seem to improve for about a year. And I moved a couple of times during all of this. And it always adjusted.

But, now, there's no denying it. The plant is sparse. And becoming sparser. And people have made comments about the plant. Their insinuation being that I've murdered it, or that there's some kind of Munchausen by Proxy deal going on between me and my plant. Which really upsets me, because they have no idea what lengths I've gone to to make this plant happy. So, finally, about a week ago, I was feeling heartless, and I took the plant out to the garbage. I was trying to get rid of things.

It all started when I threw out this broken TV that had been sitting in the middle of my desk/dollhouse/drawing table area for a few months. I left the TV in the middle of the room for so long that, I admit, I got used to it being there. But last week I hit my shin on it for the thousandth time, and it was as if I finally woke up or something. My whole sleep-walking-through-life, not caring that the TV is always in my way thing: I snapped right out of it. I became appropriately disgusted, and went into a mode where the TV and everything, EVERYTHING had to go. I said, This TV is ruining my life! And the TV (not as heavy as I remembered it, though it might have been a product of sheer adrenaline) went out into the garbage. But not before I attached a post-it note with something to the effect of: This TV is 100% broken! scribbled on it. I've noticed other people doing this, and it's good to go ahead and label most of the garbage these days, anyways (sorry, just garbage, refuse, dirt: no browsing please) otherwise in the morning you will be greeted by the horror of yesterday's garbage strewn all over the side yard (by the thoughtless, non tidy, non conscientious garbage enthusiasts).

So the TV went out. The way of garbage. Out of my life. At last. Among a few other things. And then I looked over at the plant. There it was. 90% dead. It must have known that it was next. I had to do this sort of rotely, though. I could feel myself taking it down the stairs and everything, but it was like it was someone else doing it. My mind wasn't ok with this. And so the plant was placed outside by the odd collection of items by the garbage, though, seriously, my memory of this incident is a little sketchy.

My plant looked so sad out there by the TV. I had to turn around and, no matter what, not look back. I got upstairs, and mopped the part of the floor where it once stood and tried not to think about it. But it kept nagging at me. Then, the next morning I went out, and on my way back, there it was. I felt as guilty as I would have had it had been a pet that I abandoned. It was around fifty degrees out during this period. So everytime I walked past I saw not my garbage, not a frozen plant, not a dead plant, but my plant, 10% alive, looking thirsty, pathetic, standing there quietly, not understanding it's fate, and seeming to say, It's scary out here.. why are you doing this to me..? Please bring me back inside.. I'll be good this time.. It was awful. This went on for a couple of days.

The garbage is taken away on Tuesdays, and it was now already Monday. I felt like such a lowlife. When I went to go get a cab to go to work that night, I was again confronted by my sad, abandoned plant. And it was starting to get colder out. And it was rumored that it might snow overnight. It was the eleventh hour. I walked three blocks, got a cab, and heard myself asking the driver if I could make two stops. He drove me back to my building, and waited while I carried my 10% alive plant back up to my apartment. I gave it some warm water with plant food and put it near the window. My cat came bounding into the room, stopped dead in her tracks, and looked at me incredulously.

I told the plant I was sorry, and I promised I would never put it out by the garbage again, that if it was going to die, it would die at home, and I vowed to do whatever it takes to make it the lush, wonderful happy plant that it once was. When I got back into the cab, the driver had the good sense not to ask me any questions. So now, a week later, I'm able to report that the plant is pretty much the same. I dare say more like 12% alive. We'll see. I still haven't let myself off the hook about any of this, though. That may take some time.

Next week: why the Japanese evergreen was moved to another window..

fake questions answered

Certain parts of this story have been fictionalized:

I was crouched down behind a Honda for about a half an hour yesterday. It was due to my avoidance of this woman, who was walking her dog. She lives in my building, and she's always trying to sell me something, or make me join me something, or tell me something, or become friends. I feel that I've finally gotten my avoidance of her down pat. I can absolutely sense if she's in the laundry room, for instance, before ever stepping out of my apartment. This is good. But, I guess it doesn't work when I'm out doors. Because I was completely caught off guard. I looked up, saw her running around with her dog, and had this reflex to quickly hide behind the nearest object, which just so happened to be a Honda. And, I kept looking up through the windows to see if she was ever going back inside. I was thinking as loudly as I could, just go back inside.. just go back inside.. the dog is fine.. go back inside. This became my mantra. And I tried pushing her back into the apartment building with my eyes, which, it turns out, doesn't work. Finally I sat down. It was gloppy. Not too cold. But even if it were warm out, I don't really want to be sitting on the curb up against somebody's car. And now I couldn't just pop up and walk over like everything's fine. That would be weird. And she was close by, too. I could hear her talking to herself and to her dog. I would have even opted to have that conversation with her now. It would have been better than this. She might not want to talk to me anymore, though. Seeing that I've been hiding behind a Honda, and everything. And that would be fine. Still, I sat there. Pride, you know. And a need to finish a project to completion kind of thing. How long does it take to walk a dog? I got out my phone to see what time it was, and right then it rang. Real loud. I answered just to make it stop. It was my boss. He asked me about a million questions in order to update my information so that he could send me my tax stuff. He kept saying, What? Because I was whispering, which was clearly annoying him. I hated this situation. I hate any situation where my boss has to wonder what is up with me. And it's all my fault. I was the one who asked him the other day where my tax stuff was. And I only asked him about this because there was this horrible silence that I was trying to fill, as he was just standing there watching me make drinks. It was really unnerving. I wanted to make it like I wasn't being observed, as I was, but that this was something more like a conversation. I did this for me and for him. To take the pressure off of everyone. So I asked this fake question. And now, two days later, he was addressing my question. Seriously, it couldn't have been at a worse time..