Your cocktail sir,





2002-03-18 - 9:20 p.m.

I am updating so Eryn doesn't take another finger.

Work has been killing me. Crushing my soul. Not even baking is working anymore. Instead I just muster on. I see myself becoming a fixture there, an old belligerent fool in a sweater vest, who people talk to out of kindness. Thatís how I treated the old fool at the office before he retired. Damn Karma. In my fictional life I see myself in Armani (rather than Armani Exchange) brokering deals on my cell phone on my way to board meetings, before coming up short at a girl scout cookie table where I put the client on hold to purchase some Thin Mints, ruffle the childís hair benignly and allow her to keep the change from the Ben Franklin I gave her. Then I resume the call, my voice becoming hard and cold as I negotiate the contract, pausing now and then to eat a small dark cookie. In reality Iím sitting in rush hour traffic trying no to use up my cell minutes and desperately wanting a cookie as I try to figure out how Iím going to get everything I need to get done tomorrow in the small amount of time. Itís my own fault. I say that a lot. I should push back, not be an eager sycophant trying desperately to please everyone. I shouldnít take requests for baked goods, or agree to make cookie recipes torn out of magazines. I shouldnít get up and press the damn go button on the printer because someone who is just as far away as I doesnít want to get off her lazy ass and push it herself. And I should have fought to keep my table. I miss that area most of all. So instead I will turn into my fictional self. A tough as nails bastard who takes no prisoners and doesnít let anyone keep him down. Like a male Helen Reddy I will roar roar.

previous - next

Zen and don't cry out loud - 2007-07-29

Zen and the stumbling rocks of fitness - 2007-07-19

- - 2007-07-11

Zen and fasting - 2007-06-20

Zen and hiccups - 2007-06-18

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