" 'decomposition' is the same in french"
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january 14th STORMY SEAS. There's a kiss assin coup attempt in progress. Nevermind the impeachment, I'm talking about how one of the other floor buffers wants to get his laundry friend on the buffing crew. They are poisoning my cellie in the mind of Bob the janitor. Oh, I hate people. If they get this kid fired he'll move to laundry...which means he'll have to move to another room, which means one of the surly guys from the laundry will move in here, which means an incident will happen, which means I'll lose my goodtime. That's the way it goes. And it's VERY frusturating that it's ALLOWED to go on. Never can get a moments secure peace that I'll get out on time...and that IS NOT MY FAULT. Believe it or not I do EVERYTHING to stay out of people's way. But just like on the outside, greedy rotten selfish coworkers will weasel their way...and I will PAY and I will have it look like it's my attitudinal fault. In other news, I'm hearing the HACKING of the website was probably a bitter temper tantrum coming out of the ATLANTA AREA. Cheap. Cheap. Cheap. Not sure what WILTON JR's problem was...something to do with my "webmaster", not me. And SO one can only conclude that it is GOOD and right to do really cheap shit to people. Exhausting, isnt it. This would be a good time to get drunk, you see, I had a hard day at work. "Bombastic" in the language of love is "amphigourique". "To boil over"..."deborder en bouillant." And Morty says that "decomposition" is the same in both languages. Why, why, why doesn't the embittered Atlantan relax himself by going down to Cypress Street in Midtowne and selecting a nice male prostitute? One day soon we'll all be locked up. Jail is like life "on the outs" only remedial and everything slants towards the weasel. In what ways shall I make society PAY when I get out.I should go to a nice rstaurant ( co owned by any old sports star) and RUIN everyone's meal by slapping a leather bag over my head with a padlock tight around the neck. An angry muffled, "You all make me sick", is all that can be heard as I thrash myself into suffocating corpsification. You people make it hard. You WONT get out of the way. You just wont. "My lips are chapped, gonna eat my own crap". There's my song, along with "Gimme something". Why, I oughta run the buffer over my face ( I look EXHAUSTED) and go down to LT. HAAS'S office. "What now." Wish I could ram the damn thing right thru an ant infested wall (exterminator came today) and ride it to the mall. I need some SLEEP, you blockheads. "Thrice cursed be the council" you gave me. Cheap cheap cheap. I saw a big Fed Ex in the office workstation tonight and hoped against hope, but no. Not for me. What do I do? What's the frequency? What's the answer? Can one cut the bags out from under one's eyes with eine razor and hang the eel like objects from the wall? No. One wouldn't have a countrified wall to hang em from. I think I'm on the verge of vomiting tonight. Rocking back and forth even as I try to stone myself into a stupor listening to the impeachment hearings. To NOT feel like THIS. That's the ticket. To NOT feel like this. I have become allergic to PEOPLE in general, and therefore you are watching my doom. Within the context of desperate hopelessness what liberties would YOU take. I'm not like YOU...gimme gimme gimme. "Gimme shelter". current | 1999 | 1998 | colfax diaries |