I met this umbrella salesman yesterday

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

And I was really impressed by his routine. He was standing outside downtown Berkeley Bart–at the top of the escalator–sheets of rain surrounding him. He asked each person as they exited if they needed an umbrella, paying more attention to those without. It was my turn.

“Do you need an umbrella?”

I looked at him seriously. It was true, I did not have an umbrella. I had been fearing for my hairdo and my health.

“How much?” I was suspicious. Umbrellas always wind up lost or broken.

“Five dollars. They’re eight at Walgreen’s.” I knew I could get a three dollar umbrella at Walgreens. But five bucks wasn’t bad, and the three dollar umbrella was pretty lousy. I wondered if I had enough cash.

He could tell I wasn’t convinced, and handed me the umbrella that was providing his shelter from the heaven’s vicious onslaught. I shook it to determine it’s sturdiness. Convincing. It was black, and it made a nice dome over my head. Sold!

Immediately, I regretted my initial reluctance. As a fellow sales representative, I had to admire his persevereness. And why hadn’t I realized right off the bat that I’d rather support this poor soul trying to make a buck than those assholes at Walgreen’s headquarters?

He even opened my umbrella and held it over my head while I searched my bag for quarters and wished me well on my way.

in another possible world…

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

…I was arrested during my lunch break today. I took a long route to my fav coffee shop to smoke a spliff, and here I am, just puffing away, when I realize that I’m sharing the sidewalk with a cop. And not just any cop. A mean one. And he’s feeling even meaner than usual today. He was not happy to smell my leafy greens and he noticed my hand-rolled cigarette right away.

I decided not to say anything once he’d read me my Miranda rights. I wasn’t really interested in having my clever generalities (“smoking pot is a victimless crime!”)–or not so clever generalities (“whatever, man, everybody does it”)–used against me in a court of law. Instead I just batted my eyelashes all the way downtown to the police station.

Needless to say, I didn’t make it to my coffee shop. I used my one phone call to get an estimate from the carpet cleaners, then I whipped out my credit card to post bail and to pay for a taxi back to work (I loooove credit!). I made it back just in time to be fifteen minutes late from lunch. I’m awfully glad they were so quick with the fingerprinting.

(Let the above be epistemic evidence that the first rule of blogging should be: If you don’t have anything funny to say, don’t say anything at all.)

In the actual world, I do have a very large pimple on the inside of my nose. And after twenty-three days at this temp job, I can finally remember the firm’s name so that I might answer the phone without notes. Too bad it’s my last day. I am really enjoying the lack of responsibility for today’s actions, though. I’m collating really slowly, and I’m considering peeing on my chair before I go.

who you gonna call?!

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

In the event that I lose my job as BART train operator, I’ve decided to pursue a career as an office machine psychic.

Young Susie J. was once quite impressed by the effectiveness of a pet psychic at mending the relationship between two fiesty cats. It turned out that Smudge, who invested hours grooming herself, was offended by Moondance’s dirty paws, leading her to behave in an aloof and dismissive manner. Poor Moondance felt demeaned and inferior, but she really did have some damn dirty paws. There’s a bit of a hole in my memory as to how this information was actually implemented in our lives, but I do remember never having cat fights in the house again. Really, the most impressive part of this pet psychic lady was that she didn’t even have to meet the cats! She did it all over the phone, only knowing their names.

But office machines don’t always have names, so I’ll make house calls. I’ll target those companies with really, really troublesome office machines. I’ll be their last resort, solving only those problems even the best repair people couldn’t solve. I’ll come in, charging 350 dollars per hour, as if I were a bigshot divorce attorney or some shit. Dressed in long, flowing skirts, hair scarves and wearing ever so much jewelry, I’ll be the picture of psychic prowess. Or, maybe I’ll dress bus-pro, just for kicks. Depends on the job, maybe.

Anyway, let’s say I’m called in cause the big old copier in the vault is making wheezing sounds and acting up sporadically. I’ll make a big production of listening to every side, opening each cover and looking inside. I’ll push different bits of paper through to assess the problem. Then I’ll ask to be alone with the office machine.

Now, it doesn’t matter what I do here, cause I’ll be alone with the office machine. But, since I’m a genuine machine psychic, I will genuinely communicate with the copier. I’ll channel it’s innermost being, if you will. And you know what its innermost being will say?

That it’s the typewriter’s fault. I’ll dramatically conclude that if they want their copier to work, they had better get a new typewriter. It turns out that copier is still holding a grudge cause the typewriter wasn’t initially very welcoming, since it had been around since the beginning and had seen copiers come and go. I tune in to the typewriter, and all its energy suggests that its just “too tired of the rotating copier game.” Can’t argue with that.

So, let’s say they take my advice, and get a more sociable typewriter. Then the copier is still having problems! They’ll call me back–especially since I was ever so effective the first time–and I’ll put on the same show. And I’ll dramatically conclude that the reason for the copier’s continued misbehavior has to do with the abuse of a wayward technician long ago. It feels violated, and is having trouble moving on. I suggest that they call my friend, Deseree, the office machine counselor, and I’ll give them her card. Normally, I say, Deseree is able to work through an office machine’s problems–no matter how deeply rooted in its psyche–in only two or three visits. And, I point out, she’s cheaper–only $250 an hour. Everyone knows counselors make less than psychics.

Yes, I think this is a very good plan. Fool-proof, even. I just need a couple of good references.

apparently

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

Idle threats don’t do much to you people.

Out of 20 visitors, I got 4 suggestions. Out of 4 suggestions, only two or, possibly, three were decent, and one of them I posted.

Proof that we’re all alone in the universe. I am, of course, still accepting submissions.

to my readers: a contest

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

Please help me.

1.I am in dire need of a title to a soap opera.
2.I still sleep on the living room floor.
3.My confidence is shaken.

Let’s address these points in reverse order.

3.My confidence is shaken.

Honestly, I don’t know what you can do about this. Let’s move on, but have it be acknowledged. You can even feel sorry for me a little bit if you like.

2.I still sleep on the living room floor.

Now, I know that I was the cheap one that wanted to live, well…cheaply. But I’m over it. What makes matters worse is that I’m an absolute germaphobe. Really. And this is not a clean living room floor. Many of you have stepped exactly where I sleep with all sorts of BART residue, excrement, what-have-you on your shoes. How do you think that makes me feel when I awake during the night to realize I’ve rolled off my foot-wide camping mat? Well, quite paranoid, actually.

1.I am in dire need of a title to a soap opera. Now this is important.

I have been searching the world for a title to a soap opera, with no luck. As a result, I’m turning to you, my readers, capricious as you may be.

So, anyway, a good soap opera title. It needs to be catchy, and have a good acronym (like DOOL). Plus extra points for being norCal relevant. Submissions will be judged by a committee of fifteen. If you’d like to sit on this committee, let me know.

What do you get out of it?! I’ll put your name somewhere someplace mixed into my top secret project. Next to the produce section of the supermarket. There your name will be: in large captial letters. Title by ______ (insert your name). That could be you! Or your name, anyway.

Participation is NOT optional. Post suggestions as comments on this post. And please remember that I have an invisible stat counter, so I know:

a.) what IP address you’re coming from. Not only does that IP address uniquely identify the computer at which you sit, but I also get a map of the world with a little red dot pointing out exactly where you are.

b.) how many returning visitors that I get. I can compare this number to the number of comments posted on this post, and easily conclude who has and has not posted a suggestion. So, if you’re thinking about skirting this particular duty, know that I’ll track you down. I have already. I know, it’s freaky. But, really, I don’t have much to do. I’m actually really terrified of this blogging habit I’ve developed. I don’t know what’s going to happen when I get a job where I actually have to work.

And you don’t even have to leave my your name! It’s totally fine with me if right by the eggplants, the sign reads:

TITLE BY ANONYMOUS


Or you can reclaim it later. I’m flexible. I might demand proof though, so you might plan ahead.

Oh, and I added a link to the right that says “friends&siblings.” If you want to be a friend/sibling, just let me know. I’ll link to any profile be it myspace, Russian bride, lesbos-for-peace, whatever.

(If Meatwad doesn’t have a friendster profile, such would be a gross, gross oversight on the part of the younger generation, don’t you agree?)

A date from three perspectives

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

Perspective #1: Susie J. updates her father’s office

From: Susie J
Reply-To: Susie J
To: susiejster@gmail.com
Date: Apr 27, 2005 10:11 AM
Subject: Jen’s Big Life Adventure: Date #2 with the Millionaire* (Date #1)

Summary

Score: 6.1
Food: Excellent (Scott’s at Jack London Square)
Chemistry Test Results: there’s potential…

Details

On the way to dinner, he mentions his internet dating failures (-5 P.p.). The implication, however, was that he likes me. A couple minutes later he admits that he realized the severity of our age gap. I wonder when it occured to him. As a good friend of mine put it: “I was just punching some dates through the calendar, and I realized that I’m a lot older than you!” (-5 P.p.)

I had a glass of a northern coastal California cab and the mahi mahi with hush puppies and garlic butter. He had the fresh crab and made a funny joke about how he was going to get messy (+3 P.p.). The conversation had some definite second date lulls, but we pulled through. I really only had to fear for the fate of the date for a matter of seconds at a time. We finished with the creme brulee, really quite a good rendition.

As it was the second date, it was necessary to delve a little deeper into each other’s lives. Among what we discussed: Swedish reality television, his apartment and the nearby organic grocery store, his mother’s visit, his bunions (just kidding!), other products I could sell at home fairs, my boring job, et cetera. We hardly touched on any depressing subjects, save the past two elections. He expressed that after the 2004 election, he was depressed for two weeks and he’s still ashamed to return to the homeland (+15 P.p.).

The highlight of the date definitely came when he tried to figure out what I do in my free time. After briefly mentioning my knitted goods plan, I realized it was the perfect time to bounce one of my entrepreneurial schemes off his business-oriented (sponge) head. (I mean, really, what is a millionaire good for besides investment possibilities?) I quickly (and intelligently) decide to persent the most solid of my buisness models: the bar/laundromat. And–this is where the Patrick points really start rolling in–his brother has always wanted to start a bar/laundromat! (+6,304 P.p. – or should they go to his brother?) I wondered briefly if I was out with the wrong brother (-45 susie j. points).

After dinner, we took a walk along the pier and then he brought me home. He mentions that it’s chilly and I offer him my coat (+14 susie j. points for chivalry). He declines (+3 P.p.), but strangely mentions that he thinks we have an audience. He was referring to the window flanked restaurant nearby, but unbeknownst to either of us, we definitively were not alone. It seems two of my great friends had concluded that the best use of their Tuesday evening was stalking my date. I don’t disagree; their reports follow.

Conclusion

Investment Potential: high
Romantic Potential: see investment potential
Compatibility Assessment: eh…see investment potential.
*This claim is as of yet unsubstantiated.

Please direct any comments, queries, and concerns to susiejster@gmail.com.
If you would like to subscribe to the Jen’s Big Life Adventure newsletter, please send an email with the subject “subscribe.” If you would decisively like to be left off the list for any future mailings, please respond with the word “unsubscribe.”

Perspective #2: Stalker #1

Once a bitch always a bitch, what I say. Dusk had turned to darkness and Gayle and I were feeling hungry and mean. We were driving in circle after circle, and the restaurant eluded us time and time again. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning in a cheesy metaphor, an idea struck me, an idea awesome in its brilliance and immaturity.

“Wouldn’t it be funny if we went to the restaurant where Jen and her Swede are eating?”

“Oh my God, that would be so freaking hilarious.”

Our restaurant finally appeared. We ate, and the food displaced our hunger, but not our predatory impulses. Nay, it fueled them, and what had at first been an amusing suggestion became a goal, a challenge, a grande cause. It was to go like this: we would arrive at Jack London square and peruse the restaurants. Being quality people, Jen and the Swede would be seated prominently, next to a window. We would enter and pretend to notice them, and Gayle would express surprise that we happened to be at the same restaurant: “Oh my God, I can’t believe it! Will and I come here all the freaking time!” I would excitedly tell Jen that Zach and I had made progress on our list of the fifteen best states: “Jen! Number five is going to be… Alaska!!!” Then I would take notice of the Fjord-jumper and exclaim, pointing at him, “you’re right, Jen! His head really does look like a sponge!”

I will spare you the details of our drive from Albany to O-town, fascinating though they are. We found an unbelievably choice parking spot – picture this if you can: the very last parking space on Broadway! The one right next to the corner, right across from Jack London Square! An auspicious start, to be sure!

Then began a rather lengthy survey of the various boojie restaurants; through the window we scanned the scattering of booj-bags in a bistro and a seafood restaurant, with no luck. The night air was pleasant and the grimy waters of the bay provided an undeniably romantic ambiance.

“What if we find them making out out here?”

“That would be freaking awful.”

We continued the search for our prey undaunted, entering a Steakhouse. I played the hostess like a fiddle: “Hi. I’m planning a graduation party for next month; would it be okay if we just looked around?” But alas, this ruse was for naught, for there was nary a Jennifer nor a Scandinavian in sight.

“Okay, I’m getting Jen vibes from this direction!” said Gayle, and we investigated the restaurant’s bar. Another disappointment for our hapless heroes.

It was now becoming rather late, and as we walked along the pier I worried aloud that the date might have finished already.

“No way… I’m sure they started at eight. And it’s, what, ten o’clock now? Two hours for dinner is about right.”

“I don’t know. Swedes are very efficient.”

Gayle stopped short, suddenly staring at the walkway beside the restaurant that we were approaching.

“Hey! I see two people!” she whispered. “And the girl’s got curly hair. She’s got curly hair!!!” We had to duck behind a boat, and Gayle peered eagerly across the pier. I could see nothing. I have bad eyesight, and refuse to wear glasses. Glasses are for nerds. The couple reappeared, and it was as if Gayle suddenly exploded:

“Oh my God! It’s them!! It’s totally them!” I was overtaken by a sudden panic: what the fudge were we thinking being there? How pathetic were we going to look? Jen would see us, and her face would register momentary confusion, and then a toxic melange of disgust and contempt. “What are you guys, ten years old?? I can’t buh-leeeeve this!!” And she would treat us to an ostentatious roll of the eyes. Being naturally cowardly (I’m Irish/Scottish), I bolted, taking refuge beside a nearby fountain. Gayle (also of Celtic descent) frantically followed. I made her light a cig, so as to look natural, and we sat dreading our imminent discovery.

And yet, as the star struck couple passed, cheeks pink from cold, they were too absorbed in each other to take notice of us! They strolled slowly past the fo
untain, sparing nary a sideways glance. At this point Gayle and I went from saboteurs to spies. We were spying. We were creepy. But we couldn’t interrupt the romantic promenade; that would be bad form. Jen and Spongehead – there really is an uncanny resemblance – sauntered dreamily along towards Broadway, eventually walking right past my car. They soon began to recede into the darkness of the underlit street. Gayle and I trailed them about fifty or sixty cubits behind, praying to soon be done with this sad episode of our lives. But as we finally reached my car, Jen and the Swede crossed the street and BEGAN WALKING BACK TOWARDS US!

“Should we wave to them?”
“Okay. Yeah, we’ll drive by and wave. That will make us less creepy. And we won’t actually have to talk to them.”
“Oh, but there’s no U-turn.”
“This is Oakland, the land law forgot.”
“Should we open the windows?”
“No, no, let’s just wave.”

And we gave the biggest, smelliest wave that we could muster, excited staccato heartbeats resounding in our anxious bosoms as we barreled toward our victims. We were sure that our attack met its target, because as we waved Jen turned her face askance, and there it was, that look of disgust and contempt, aimed at none other than us! It seems, however, that Gayle and I can’t even manage to make asses of ourselves properly: Jen swears that our wave went unseen, that her withering glance had some other object, or was a hallucination, that if we had not told her our tale she would never have suspected a thing. Next time we’ll do a better job, Jen. We’ll make our presence known AND give you ample cause to regret it.

Perspective #3: Stalker #2 weighs in
The only information we had to go on was Jack London Square . No time, no specific restaurant, no assurance of success. But, no doubt because of complicated and fateful astrological configurations and a special psychic connection between Jennifer and myself, the seemingly needle-in-a-haystack chance of successfully stalking her on her date was in actuality more of a stick-out-like-a-sore-thumb given.

Thinking back, it is almost as if the millionaire wanted us to stalk him on his date with Jennifer: why else choose an area where the restaurants have so many windows? Of a particularly paranoid disposition myself, I question this decision. After walking around the third restaurant and peering in the large bay windows, I must admit that hope was fading fast. Will, as a Taurus, has an arguably natural inclination toward defeatism, so I felt that I had to rally his spirits: “It’s only over the next hill, bucko!”

And then: in the distance, a girl with dark, short curly hair. A pair of people, walking out along one of the piers. I was almost immediately sure that it would turn out to be Jennifer and the millionaire. My heart leapt at this success, and I turned to inform Will of my suspicions. But then it hit me: they were holding hands. And walking along a pier. Slowly. For a moment, this evidence of romance made me doubt that it was Jennifer (after all, I’m very skeptical of this whole millionaire thing). But a certain slant of light hit her, and I could see that she was wearing her red coat. And a familiar “business cas” gray skirt. And that was certainly her walk, though it was slowed down to a sexy not-a-care-in-the-world sashay.

As I slowly processed this all, I realized that they were walking back from the bay and would soon round the corner and see us!!

Now, to be fair, I can not speak for Will. But having read his description of our escapade, I would argue that it was neither our Celtic heritage nor our astrological inclinations that made us bolt at the prospect of running into them. At some level, we both knew that this was not how we had imagined our happily impulsive encounter: it should have been (and would have been, had we found the damn burrito place earlier) them seated, us standing. Not an intrusion on an intimate moment. That is just poor form, and Will and I both shudder at the thought of poor form. So I think that our bolting came from the best within us: despite my skepticism as to this strapping Swede’s intentions toward Jennifer, despite Will’s hatred of people with money, despite Will’s disapproval of taking a date to Jack London Square, and despite my dislike of many born under the sign of the twins—despite all these things, this type of moment between two people is to be respected.

Quickly noticing how absorbed Jennifer and the millionaire were with each other, we became less and less afraid of being noticed. He is only slightly taller than her, dressed in all black, short sleeves, nice slacks. His walk had a certain confidence to it as well: certainly the pretty girl on his arm didn’t hurt matters. I really didn’t see his face this whole time, for I was much more interested in watching Jennifer. She was smoking and smiling, casually holding his hand and ambling ever so slowly this star-speckled night, as though she was made for dating, made for romance, moonlight, candlelight, the like. A scene worthy of the cinema, to be sure. An aura of charm radiated from her—how could this millionaire not be in love with her? Happy to behold this web of magic she so effortlessly had woven, I became even more reluctant to disturb it. And the millionaire became a person, no longer an abstract, vaguely pathetic shade, and I had no desire to ruin this happy stroll for him. After all, he was just enjoying a beautiful moment in a cold, hard world.

You know: I don’t know if I actually felt any of this. Will’s description is much more accurate. I get carried away sometimes. After all, I am a Leo. Of Celtic heritage, no less.

Look, I like being single.

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

Okay?

I just wanted to get that out there.

I also like my really lame, boring temp job that leaves eight of the nine hours of the day entirely unoccupied. Wandering around suburban San Leandro at lunchtime hardly counts as an occupation.

So, I’m walking around these curvy, sunny streets every day for an hour. Sometimes I talk on the phone, sometimes I listen to music. Often I just walk.

This temp job I have right now is situated in the middle of a circle the circumference of which is entirely composed of retirement communities. One refers to itself as a “gracious retirement residence.” That makes me wonder.

Consequently, my company on the sunny suburban streets of San Leandro is comprised mainly of the elderly. This makes me wonder, too.

I remember fresh-faced and pimply me wandering the dirty streets of downtown Berkeley when I first moved there. I remember the shock of the homeless, the smell of the riff raff. I wasn’t offended, of course. I even made friends with a good many when I was living right off Telegraph.

Standing out in my memory is the picture of an older woman who, presumably, had spent much of her life terrified of the world. Or, perhaps, not terrified. But, definitely attempting to avoid it. My evidence was simple: Everywhere she walked, all the time, her head faced down. Her eyes focused only on the sidewalk, on nothing besides her feet and the soft concrete beneath them. Sometimes she’d carry two brown paper grocery bags, heavy with some sort of grocery or life stuff. Her arms would be straight at her sides, the bags barely missing the ground as her eyes bored a deeper rut in the sidewalk with every step.

I’d see her from time to time while I lived in Berkeley. I bet I’d see her still if I spent more time over there. Maybe you’ve seen her. Maybe you, too, have wondered about the life that stiffened her posture, her body eventually forming that immovable tee.

One time I passed her on Dana. She was walking towards Telegraph, and I was on my way to Shattuck–probably to play pool or some such nonsense. All I saw while I passed her in awe was the center part of her straight gray hair, the scraggly ends a no longer optional curtain over her face. I’d have to be a pancake on the sidewalk to actually get a glimpse.

There’s something about me that you should know if you’re going to make sense of what’s going on here. I have an overactive cingulate gyrus. No, really, I do. When I was a baby and my mom would take me on planes, I’d turn around and I’d make baby small talk with the people behind us. Passing people on the street, I don’t just see passerbys, I see faces. I see lives. It’s really fairly inconvenient on public transportation. Sometimes I’ll [seriously] shed a tear from the pain reflected in a fellow passenger’s face. And my overactive imagination is surely also to blame. If only it didn’t enumerate the scenarios that may or may not have put said pain there.

Anyway, so my cingulate gyrus is overactive. It’s the part of the brain that lights up, so to speak, when one sees a face. Okay, so I just looked it up and I’m totally wrong. The cingulate gyrus is the part of the brain that has to do with emotions. My cingulate gyrus, then, is just as active as one would expect given my dramatic nature. But some other part of my brain is out of whack which leads to a particularly obsessive obsession with people.

So, here I am in San Leandro, walking around and watching the old people, and remembering the Berkeley resident that has made such an indelible impression on me. And then, low and behold, I notice the top of a gentleman’s head walking right towards me. He doesn’t look up to meet my smiling face as we pass. I look across the street. I see a woman watching the ground while she ambles her way across the street. She doesn’t need to see the flashing hand, the intersection is beeping her safety message. It’s an epidemic!

Saddened by this disturbing fate of humanity, I resolved that fateful lunch break to never allow my gaze to fall–to instead face the world and welcome my cohabitants of this admittedly often cold, hard, bacteria-infested world. In keeping with this resolution, I have since tripped over bits of sidewalk multiple times and stepped in shit twice. In a week! Conclusion: the world is a dangerous place.

Let this be considered my living will…

Posted on by Jennifer Heller

I’ve decided to start a collection. Of what, you ask? I’m going to collect those little paper holes that–fortunately for me–are a necessary consequence of beaurocratic life.

Now, it’s going to be quite a collection. Inspiring in size, and–if I’m lucky–an awesome mosaic of color. I’m going to keep them in secret places–only my sister will know where–throughout the world, all left with instructions on how she is to attain them should my time come. (And come, it must.)

The nature of this collection should not be surprising in the least. As a child, I quickly bored of stickers and decided instead to collect little shiny pieces of confetti. Oh, I had bears for birthdays, chicks and bunnies for Easter. There were little red X’s and magenta O’s in case I should ever love somebody – hearts and stars in every color. A lovely collection, it was at one time lovingly displayed in rectangular boxes and baby food jars.

Only days ago, G. forced me to acknowledge the uselessness of this collection. Goodwill is now in possession of an astonishing array of confettios.

Regardless, the time is now and we’re moving forward. Paper dots now will fill this void. Many, many paper dots stored in safety deposits all over the world. I wonder the cost of a safety deposit box? No matter, I shall soon find out.

So, in the unfortunate event of my death, I would like whatever parts of my body for which the world has no use to be cremated (my eyes are to be sent to a particularly peculiar ex-boyfriend in accordance with his wishes). I would like my sister to take my collection of paper dots and to fold in my ashes. No mixing here. Folding is a delicate craft only pastry chefs truly appreciate. Perhaps, if she can find one willing, a particularly notable pastry chef will teach her the trade. Pastries might make good refreshments for the funeral, too.

Once my ashes have been sufficiently folded into my beloved paper dot collection (Alex will know when that time comes), you all will gather at a convenient dump. Now, it doesn’t matter which dump – a dump is a dump is a dump. All that matter is that you have a have a good view of this dump – each and every one of you. Play some music, sing along, and watch as a helicopter sets my ashes free in a delicate snow of colored paper dots. But for goodness sakes, you people, bring an umbrella. And then eat some pastries and have some whiskey. I would have wanted it that way.

Now, to tie up a few loose ends. I did at one time collect soda can tabs – to no useful end. If I end up in some vegetative state, please only cut me off when I cease to be amusing. Having obviously already lost any capacity to be clever, I leave it to you all to determine any manner by which I could possibly amuse. Stick carrots in my vacant eye sockets, celery in my ears. Don’t be crude, though, please.

In other news, I’m learning to staple with the precision of a copy machine.