I'd been fine with in the trash just yesterday. It was a near two page letter, with citations and evidence, all tatters of weeks barely remembered. An hours quilt of inequity, tree-bare corpse whistles in time. Gone gone gone.

But sing-song wishes are just a bitch with the ringing in your ear. I could hear the fucker clear 'til 4:30am this morning. I had two crows worth of energy drink in me, just half a dozen hours old but in their prime. Combined with the letter that I knew was waiting for me in my inbox, I sat sitting. Laying breathing hellspawn thought layers, a blood cake of annoying cloying ideas.

I got a refresher on my threshold of trust for humanity at large. Downtown train for bad thoughts, standing on a platform, watching the fucker roll by in perpetual slow-motion flashing metal light action. I imagined she would beg for a meeting. I rehearsed for that meeting. Planned for contingencies. Spent 15 minutes planning out my speech in case she accused me of raping her.

You want logic from me at 4:00am?

So I decided enough was enough, bite the bullet and see just what she was gonna say. The e-mail was pleaing/begging and didn't have anything bad to say about me. That's mostly what I'd worried about: somehow getting screwed for firing her. So that was out of her playbook. Good. Good.

I looked into my mirror and make commentaries about various sections. I like doing this from time to time for no good reason. I've got two bad reasons, however: I like the sound of my voice and I think I'm pretty damn cute with this new haircut.

I decided replying was pointless. I'd start sacrificing words to some godless altar, stringing ass cheeks and pez together like Chinese New Year post-modern celebrations. Cake and celibacy. My method of creation was more simple: a straight hit of Smirnov from the bottle. Nearly gagged on the fucker. I guess you need some juice in you. Spoonful of booze helps the medicine go down--in this case, more booze.

Somewhere today, however, during good smooth experiment times with my monkeys and my good undergrad, Ams, I got me a think-thought: I could make N do data entry. I'd give her a second chance by going through an entire fucking file drawer filled with nothing but social network questionnaires. After all:

1) I'll be working on this survey eventually

2) This gets N to keep working toward regaining her letter of reference

3) This gets N requisite punishment for burning ours of my time like marshmellows at summer camp.

4) This maximizes selfish gain and minimizes necessary input and track-keeping.

Funny enough we randomly saw each other on the street after I'd gotten out of the lab. She looked despondent. She's usually pop rocks in Jolt. So she wasn't just yanking my mind-wank about the begging and pleading. I told her my idea. I don't think she quite got what I was saying, either that or she didn't appreciate the slightly outrageous amount of mercy I'd decided to show.

Fucking arrogant, perhaps? You try hours of training someone and schedule rearrangements with no return on stock investments. My immediate supervisor said she'd have cut N away awhile ago. Dr. C was more understanding, but he also doesn't know the day to day stuff as well as my immediate supervisor.

Soundtrack: Belle and Sebastian: 'Slow Graffiti'

So another chapter of lab drama has been written. To think: it's the experiment that's the easiest part. But ain't it always the execution that's the sweetest sling shot? Flying over verizons and trees alike.

What else is up in my corner ain't much. No word from my friend in New Jersey. I'm seriously concerned. She's never just dropped off the earth like this. My West Virginia friend has, but she just does that. Ah well.

I'll figure out something else to do for a week. I could drive to New York. Maybe Ontario if I felt really sadistic toward my car. I want to do SOME travelling across this great schizophrenic self-sodomizing party parade of a nation. The world ain't got shit on fucking ourselves.

Emphasis.

'sides that, I've been enjoying some wonderful live music from a guy that plays his guitar like a percussion instrument. Just damn fine music. If I had some ones with me, I'd pick up a CD.

They call it the most delicate of schizophrenias. Musical interludes. By 'they' I mean me..and myself. Maybe I too, the giddy fucker.

The music has thus ended, and a curious middle-aged american indian chap speaks with the resident local music lady guru about abortion, feminists, and the war. Sometimes I kinda wish I could live films with coffee scenes. You know: a conversation of upper teen-somethings and up where something elitist or genuinely interesting comes up. And discussion ensues. But conversation is a dead art we mourn in dark theatres and bright stages. This sojourner of nearly every coffee haus in this city knows the truth: the lot are just pretty study halls with drinks. LA is the same scene, baby: all cock and no foreplay. Big John Shaft town, all around.

So I'm gonna writer here awhile longer, drag on home or to the forest with a 15 pound weight 'o laptop, and eventually find my way to bed.

In the next several days, there are at least three separate occasions of getting drunk as a fuck. Will the white-shirted crusader cruise the Casba for cuervo? Will the dastardly dickery of don't know rear its ugly head?

Tune in next time (hopefully not week): same bat time, same bat channel.

...How in the fuck can you have a bat channel, anyway?

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