Tag Archives: money

Carrie Nailed That Shit

1 Mar

“If my life wasn’t funny it would just be true, and that is unacceptable.”
-Fisher

According to Ms. Fisher: my life has been piss-your-pants hi-fucking-larious, for the whole of February. A lot of things were terrible, a lot of things maybe not-so-much, but still super uncomfortable. And a shit ton of changes from all of it, has whooped my ass so hard that by Sunday — still very much not yet done with my ass-kicking– I woke up and puked my guts out for no apparent reason, save emotional overload. 

…I know this, as I had no rhyme or reason for said puking. And for the first time in my life, I actually felt better after doing it.  Enough directly after, to undergo a four-hour callback, in fact.

Just this month alone there have been three family illness (two of which were hospitalized, one a beginning cancer treatment), Mom got downsized (along with 40 other people in the administration) at work, Harriet started making even stranger noises and neglecting to work above 40mph, I found an over $8,000 fraud charge on my credit report, and this weekend took the absolute cake with over four hours in new car haggling, insurance shopping and fighting, dead cell phone repurchase needs, and last night…the last of this fucked-up past 28 days: a rent raise notice spiking me $60 more per month.

What-the-actual-fuck you guys?!

New car payments. New insurance payments. New phone payments. New house payments. And what’s even happening with my credit?

…I need to win the goddamn lotto just to financially survive at this point. 

…I literally haven’t had time to even look at my taxes yet, so who the hell even knows what might come from that mess…as I am swimming in place the hardest I can, hoping to stay solvent afloat until…I dunno when.

When will it be safe?! I can’t even freaking tell!!

My little blips of oxygen come in the form of:

*Little-Man Cuz, is back home again

* Aunt L is killin’ it at Chemo

* Ma’s severance and unemployment somehow actually cover her bills for a few months, as she looks for what’s next

* I have a dependable car to get to work and rehearsal 

* I have a cellphone that can accept a charge.

* I said “No,” and held my ground, for hours and hours without a damn twitch, in that dealership and with my insurance

* I’m in a show with the capacity to throw all my angst channeling

* I might just get into that other one, so I could continue doing likewise, double-time, come April

* I’ve got the kind of family/friends you can bottom-out bitch to, who say things like, ” Here’s some bucks, I’ve got a weird feeling you’ll need it,” “Yeaaah. That’s fucked up. Lemme buy you a drink and we’ll go on a walk-and-talk…,” “I’m praying stuff stops sucking!” “Let’s art tonight, until 4 am!” and “No one won the Mega Millions yet. I got us a ticket. Start planning now…”

…Cuz, really? I still don’t know how I’m even cognizant right now. 

Thanks for being my team. Wish I was more worthy of my Badass Conspiracy Co.
I’m working on it. But the dues might kill me.

-D

They Have An App For That

16 Nov

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At the moment, am working from my bed, whilst laying on my tummy next to a bottle of pain pills with a heating pad on my back.

…Mrs. Johnson strikes again.

…But I’m really productive in bed.

–I mean…I still work well on my tummy.

–I mean…aw, fuck it.  You know what I mean.

Thanks to the cloud world of remote office-ing, (and Apps), I did all my batches, closed out just over $10k, and popped out contract paperwork reminders for $12k…all before 9:30 AM…and all while in the horizontal position.  Really, the only thing not being in the office limits me in, is “being in the office”…which just proves that Boss could be doing all the things that need doing in a day, if he really wanted to…he just chooses the “not” option.

In Other News: Last night’s performance was an epic-filled slog for several casties, due to the apparent silent adoration of our audience.  I say “apparent” as we are told they were at least smiling…while we felt that they were flatlined beyond all resuscitation.  We all know what that means to the Actors.  So we’ll be leaving it at that.  I (strangely enough) was not in the least affected, outside of the initial frustration of silence. Prob’ly cuz I gave up on them early and decided to just have fun playing with m’buds. Also, I was busy babysitting my cleavage…

…But I would like to state for the record, that seeing dear friend L.M., (and post-show-hang times with her and the cast), was totally worth wearing a corset over my bloated form all night.  And making sure that the ten obscene gallons of extra boobage this time of month encourages, didn’t accidentally overflow out into the audience, changing our viewership rating completely. (It was pretty close, a lot of the time.)

And now, after posting: more pills, more tea, then maybe a short nap.  Then onto a shower, and into the office…because I feel like I should, though I am technically done for the day anyway…and travel thence to the theatre.

Come on, Friday night audience!  Help us out with a little extra boost tonight, would yuh? I’ll even breathe extra heavy in the direction of the house that gives us the most verbal love. Heaving bosoms await your participation!

Thanks, sweeties.

~D

Hello Idaho & The “I Quits”

19 Sep

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Boss: “We needed to do something to cut the bottom line…”

…This is maybe the second thing Boss said to me, when he arrived three hours late to work, my first day back from Vacation.

Me: “As in…?”

Boss: “You’re booking Spokane now.  And also, Idaho.”

Me: “So we aren’t doing the Spokane remote office.”

Boss: “Nope.  Oh, and also…the Vancouver Manager quit while you were gone.  So you’ll have to help the new guy figure some stuff out.”

Me: “Can you maybe be a little more specific?”

Boss: “Yeah.  Teach him how to do the job.”

Me: “Remotely.”

Boss: “Right.”

Me: “…While I catch up on the $47,000 in orders you didn’t process while I was gone, plus book all of Eastern Washington and Idaho.”

Boss: “…But I brought you whiskey.”

(He plops it on my desk.)

Me: “…Which is great if I didn’t have like fifty-thousand things to do right now…”

(He cracks it open.)

Me: “Also…it’s not even noon yet…”

(He tosses one back, clean.)

Boss: “I’ll be in my office.”

(He takes the bottle with him.)

…And this is how my Monday went. It just got better from there…the more buzzed he got.

[Around 1 PM]

Boss: (Singing from his office.) “…No I’ll NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

Me: (From my office.) “Can you maybe not sing so loud? I’m on the phone and things…”

Boss: “…No I’ll NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

Me: Seriously!

(He chuckles.)

…You guys, it’s taken me three days to stop hating him enough to find the “funny” in this shit, and actually write it down. Also…HE NEEDS to FUCKING LEARN MORE OF THAT SONG’S LYRICS. For three SOLID DAYS, it’s all he’s been hollering. Non-stop.

[Around 3 PM]

Me: “What is it with you and that song…why do you keep yelling that?”

Boss: “I just really identify with it, is all.”

Me: “Cuz you’re a 22 year-old pop-it Country superstar from Nashville?”

Boss: “Yes. And I’m gonna make you a CD of it to remember me by…”

Me: “No.”

Boss: “…Or a mash up, with that one Kelly Clarkson song…”

Me: “–I don’t want it.”

Boss: “Over a House beat.”

Me: “–Go away.”

Boss: “…And I’ll NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

Me: (Yelling.) “YOU AREN’T EVEN SINGING IT RIGHT!!”

(He stands there in the doorway and grins.)

Me: “What.”

Boss: “…It’s good to have you back, you know?”

Me: “I’m sure it is.”

Boss: “You missed this. Come on. Admit it.”

Me: “I will quit and leave all this work, if you say one more word. I swear to you.”

(He disappears back into his office. At some point, I get up to go pee. When I come back, a shot of whiskey is sitting beside my computer. I think of all the work I’ve done today, and how little I get paid for it, and how he’s getting a bonus that I earn him every month, so he can sit there Facebooking and drinking whiskey all day, while singing pop songs. Badly. I shoot the drink.)

Me: (From my office.) “This doesn’t mean we’re friends, you know.”

Boss: (From his office.) “… … … AND I’LL NEVER, EVER, EVER…!”

…You guys…sometimes, it’s just too much.

~D

Foreign Travel & Foreign Ways

13 Sep

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Here is a secret: Traveling to a foreign country is exciting no matter where you go. Even if its Canada. Even if they talk more or less like we do. Even if they still deal in “dollars” that are somehow worth more than yours.

…It could be because they have things like Darth Vader playing a violin with a lightsaber. (Even Buddhist Monks think that shit is dope):
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…Maybe its cuz they pastry-pipe your potatoes:
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…And doodle all their art on sidewalks:
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…And light their government buildings up like the St. Louis Fair of 19-ought-four.
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Everybody seems to be much more polite…(even after they find out we’re Americans.) People go outta their way to give good service (like whoever ran my coat from the hotel to the ferry, and got it on board, just before launching.) Store owners don’t haunt and bother you while you shop (I was left unmolested in Munro’s books for two hours after the initial smile “hello.”) And, they are willing to help you break some small laws, as needed (“Uh, yes…would you suggest a rolled-up sock, or poster tube art, to get this Cuban cigar home?”)

…In the end, we went with a Hemingway and couple Macanudos instead…but they totally had our back, if we needed them.

No question.

…And I like that in a hosting country.

It solidifies trade and tourism.

…Also, did you know that calories consumed outside of your national country do not count against you? It has to do with the metric system and how its all secret and magical. I try my best not to understand it on purpose. It’s one of those things that if you break the code, it won’t work for you anymore…like that one time I decided there was no mathematical way Santa could do his gig. I haven’t gotten a damn thing outta that dude, ever since. (And I even pleaded math-stupidity, and tried to take it back ten or twenty thousand times.)

Other awesome things about foreign travel include:

* Funny Money
Not since Monopoly have you had this much fun with colored buckage. Also they name their coinage like cartoons.
Me: …And…you’re never gunna b’lieve it, but this is a loonie, and this is a toonie…
Puff: Nuh uh.
Me: I swear to you, on a Canadian Mountie…

* Everyone Has An Accent
You know how I go weak in the knees when people start throwing dialects around? Well, I haven’t walked upright in 48 hours, and have asked questions I don’t given a shit about, just to milk a little more Aussie, Scots and French out of a store clerk.
Me: Um, yes…can you please list out — in detail — all the reasons I should or should not buy this one item versus the other one. And can you tell me slower, please.

* Not My Room, Not My Problem
Traveling is the only time my OCD living-space order can go take a flying leap. Guess what? I didn’t make my bed today. I didn’t fold my towel or wipe down the sink. I never put the top back on the shampoo or cleaned out the coffee maker either. Cuz I am a disgusting mess of a human being, when on vacation…and you know what? That’s okay!

* You Can Justify Almost Anything
Me: I’m gonna get those truffles, and the caramel apple, cuz I may never come here again. I will have two beers, thank you…and I’ll prob’ly not eat anything green today…unless they find a way to cover it in this chocolate sauce. Know what? I deserve this journal I know I’ll never write in: because I want it and this isn’t just a regular “run to Barnes and Nobles” kinda thing. Yes, I have an entire shelf of tea, but I need three more because it’s foreign tea, therefore tests smarter and is prob’ly less toxic. I HAVE to buy that thing, because I have all this fake money left over, and it’s either that or give it to the street mime over there…but I’m a selfish asshole, so I’d rather spend it on me, instead.

…These are just a few reasons that you too should venture out into the big wide world of poshness and foreign travel.

…’Specially if you’ve got a kick ass bed and five pillows waiting when you come back home again, to swallow you up whole.

~D

Conspiracy To Chicken-Dog & Other Things

6 Sep

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Conspiracy Theories.

…It’s one of my favorite things.  I thought maybe I’d share a couple with you and then if you agree, we can form a team and do secret Op investigation on it all.  This has nothing to do with what I’m watching on T.V. lately, btw.  All I know is, if I suddenly go missing (or this blog does), and you only faintly think you remember wasting time reading something resembling this entry… you’ll know I was on the right track and they had to silence me.

My theories are in no particular order:

* KFC chicken isn’t really chicken, that’s why they did the whole new marketing name change in the 90’s.  So what animal with tiny bones are we actually eating then?  I have it down to Chihuahuas imported from Mexico.  And the thing is…I totally still eat there sometimes.

* The term we have come to know as “Aliens” is only the evil kind that they keep covering up, so we don’t freak out all the time. The good kind of Aliens have already adapted into our society, so we can’t really tell the difference.  But I can.  Here is a listing that may help you figure out their patterning:

 Good Aliens                                 
– Elvis                                                                                                                    
– Shakespeare                                               
– Helen Mirren                    
– Abraham Lincoln                                      
– Bill Gates                                                      
– Whoever invented coffee                        

Bad Aliens
– Simon Cowell
– Whoever wrote Beowulf
– Ann Coulter
– Rasputin
– Bill Gates
– Politicians in general

* Almost every disease known in the world already has a cure, but the pharmaceutical companies make more money for endless treatments, versus a single dose of “fix it” meds.

* Somewhere, a CIA agent is reading this blog right now, because it just got dinged as “suspicious” due to the tagging contents. They totally agree with at least half of the things on this list, and prob’ly could add to them.

* Reality TV has nothing at all to do with “Entertainment Programming.” It’s only a monster syndicated product placement program. The joke is totally on you for investing in it emotionally. Even a little bit. All they really want is for you to buy their stuff.

* Secret Agents actually break into your laundry room routinely in order to steal your left socks. This is so you will spend all your time wondering on where they disappear to instead of things like “the government” and real conspiracy theories.

* All advertising is actually in a special code that allows people to sell you old or compromised versions of things that didn’t sell the first time, but without getting sued for it. Here are some of the codes I’ve broken so far:

– All New! = (We painted, dyed, or repackaged it.)
– Fat & Sugar Free = (We pumped that shit with toxins to make up for it’s total lack of flavor.)
– Four Out Of Five Specialists Agree! = (One or the other group we asked about this is right, we aren’t sure which one, so we are covering our asses by including them all.)
– Extra Strength = (Trick advertising. Nothing comes “regular strength” anymore, and hasn’t since sometime in the 50’s.)

* Stupid people herd in groups in hopes of lessening their individual weeding out. This is why when you have “one of those days” where it seems like every person you communicate with is a total asshole or idiot: they actually are. Your aren’t imagining it.

* On another planet in another solar system right now, a little kid version of their world-rulers are looking at us through a microscope, being told that what they are seeing has been dead for thousands of years. And we probably are, we just don’t know it yet.

* If statistics can be applied to patterns, and patterns can be applied to coincidence, and coincidence can be justified by choice, and choice can be based on averages and averages go into the making of statistics, then your life span is totally computable, and “fate” is real because whatever choices you make already have a mathematical path of possibility. (I’m just totally making shit up now, but it sounded like a real thing at the moment, didn’t it?)

~D

Senior Envy

22 Aug

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Sometimes I feel jealous of Senior Citizens.  I tell myself that someday I’ll reach those special years of amazement as well…but then I’ll think of the powers they yield and start to get impatient.

I’m jealous how they can wear pajamas to the grocery store, and not even think twice about it. 

…My Gram used to do it all the time.  There was this tiny market down town?  It smelled of raw beef and cardboard boxes, and when you went inside you’d know every person in every aisle, cuz everyone was a regular.  And for some reason, Gram (who was usually spiffed out in fully coordinated blouse and slack outfits), could walk through that store on a Tuesday morning, wearing a mumu in her house slippers with a scarf around her head, not bothered in the least by it.  These are the same people, mind you, whom she would fret about seeing a spill-stain on her new jacket on Friday, because the coffee cup had a leak.  The rationalization totally escapes me.  But I still wanna be able to do it.

I’m jealous how they can fall asleep anywhere, at any time.

…It takes me forever to fall asleep.  I can lay there for hours with my head just ticking away…thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…on a nonstop repeat.  Generally I only get about five hours in a night…sometimes six. But Seniors can fall asleep within fifteen seconds, whether they’re in a doctor’s office, the DMV, a football stadium, or even standing in line waiting for check-out. ( I’ve seen it.) Such power, and talent. I wanna be able to do that.

I’m jealous how nothing in life embarrasses them.

They can just fart in public.  Just fart.  Just like that.  What the hell do they care what you think about it?  Also they spend whole lunches together talking about things like their personal diseases and anatomy parts that don’t work…raising the stakes on one another like they’re betting their incapacities, medical procedures and ills, in a game of poker. “I SEE your psoriasis, and raise you an enema!” Or they’ll glory in how good their bowel movements are…grading them on a scale of awesomeness against seventy years.  “This one time, in ’47, I had just the greatest BM ever!” ” I had one in ’63 that completely changed my whole life, practically…!”

I’m jealous of their temper tantrums.

…Like small children, they seem to get a special “pass” for this.  Crotchety old men are like an American institution.  And everyone who has ever worked in any service industry, has been railed at at least once, by a sixty-five pound, blue-haired, ninety-year-old woman with a smokers rasp.  They are totally allowed to be giant dicks to anyone at any time, and we just sorta go along with it.  Why?  Because.  It’s in the constitution or something.

I’m jealous of their money management strategies.

People think Seniors aren’t up with the times, don’t understand the concepts of things like “inflation” and “alternate percentages.”  Please.  These people have lived through five wars, four economic depressions, countless droughts, fires, Tsunamis, hurricanes, Medicare, and the end of the world at least ten times.  They know what’s going on.  And they know how to make every fucking buck they’ve got, count. Can you blame them?! They are in a position of knowing from experience that it’s only a matter of time before shit hits the fan again.  So while we dance around with grins slobbered on our faces, buying rounds for everyone and using dollar bills for toilet paper in the high-times, they’re counting out fifty-cent tips for the asshole who forgot to refill their coffee cup at Dennys. Why? They understand the economy better than you think.  They’ve had to reinvent it the the last sixty times.

I’m jealous of their knowledge.

…These people know everything about everything. They’re better than the internet.  Go ahead. Test them:
 
Question: “Who was that one person in that movie, with whatserface, with all that rain?”

Answer: “Gene Kelly.”

Question: “How many terms was FDR in office?”

Answer: “Elected four times, died in last term, April 12,1945.  Was sixty-three.  Just a damn kid.”

Question: “How do you get out stains?”

Answer: “Dish detergent for oil, club soda for red wine, white vinegar for tomato-bases, add some salt for perspiration. Ink stain: with rubbing alcohol, isopropyl for grass and paint.”

Question: “What’s the difference between a B17 Bomber and a B29?”

Answer: “About twelve tons in payload, 70 MPH, 25 feet in length, and 1,250 miles in range. I know cuz I flew both of ’em.”

Question: “Why Velveeta cheese and SPAM?”

Answer: “No expiration date. Ever.  I think I still have some cans from 1956 if you wanna snack?”

Question: “Greatest invention of all time?”

Answer: “Sex.”

…And I am jealous how they can sit and appreciate things.

Old men will forever populate benches facing out into oceans of abyss. Little old ladies will never cease congregating in tea socials to gossip and munch in good company, like a park full of pigeons.  Grandparents will eat their grandbabies with their eyes and see the resemblance of every ancestor you have ever had in them.

…A spot of wine with a view.

…A summer sunset…

…Perching on a porch swing, just watching the people passing by. 

Taking a Sunday drive at leisure as the commuters honk and ride their bumpers the whole time. 

…They’ve perfected establishing a single snapshot of a moment…like they’re filling the rest of their photo albums up to take with them to whatever comes after all of this “living on earth” stuff.

I think we forget to do that. 

…I think it’d be good to learn it earlier in life.

I think someday I’ll get there.

…And I’ll watch the world just passing by and think:

“Sometimes I’m jealous of young people…”

…Which is about when, one of ’em will do something really stupid

And I’ll shake my head and smile to myself.

“Scratch that.”

~D

Dame Wars

7 Aug

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First of all, I work with dudes.  On purpose.

…I have had many a previous position wherein I have been planted in a cubical farm-from-hell with what feels like 150 clucking hens undertaking more day-to-day dramas than Telemundo. Basic fact is (whether you like it or not) the fellas are all upstairs in private offices, leaving a barrage of women and interns manning the open floors, swarming the place like flies. I don’t like office politics.  I don’t give a shit who is having an affair with whom, where you went on vacation or your particular marital difficulties.  I am not interested in swapping recipes at the water cooler, or flirting with the copy guy.  I do not want to socialize and B.S. the day away…I just want to show up, do my job and get the hell outta here.

That is all.

I have a life to live and it ain’t “here.”

…Now, I realize that for many, their day-to-day job is actually their “career” and main social hub of existence…that they prize it, invest in it and want to make it grow via networking, schmoozing, back stabbing, ladder climbing, et al.  I understand.  And I do not blame them for it…it is what they have and need and want, so: yay for them.  However, I also understand that being in that kind of environment, makes me want to punch people in the face.  It reminds me of High School, with its vicious little clicks and popularity contests…with it’s constant political scheming, power-plays and melodrama. (Far more in fact, than I’ve been privy to in most of the theatre’s I’ve been in.) So I quite simply do not work in those kind of places. Because I prefer my drama ON stage…not OFF.

…Which is why my current day-job is full of “gigalos”  who work “away.”  Because, by and large, I find that contractors of this type are only interested in doing what I do: their jobs.  And when it’s done, they go home.  End of story.  What with the type of Boss I work under (of course) there are some obvious  “hitches” in my ultimate scheme of “leave me to my work and all is well” perfection…but one cannot have everything.  This too: I accept.

…What really chaps my hide, makes me wanna reach for a Midol gun and start shooting it like pepper spray, though…is the occasional run of “Wife” interference.  This almost always occurs after paychecks arrive, and the Gigalos scoot back to the corners while their Pimps show up to play.

Strong women.(I get it.)  Who take no bullshit. (I’m right there.)  Showing up on my turf, wanting to get into a scratching-fight. (I will win.)

I just don’t play well with other dames…is (I think) what it ultimately comes down to.

“Where is this thing?!” 

“Why is that less?!”

“Why not this bonus?!”

“Where is that pay?!”

…With the Gigalos, I have them trained to write down their questions, and pop ’em in my in box where I can get to them and research when able. Once I have prepared the info and go over it with them, they nod, take the proof and walk away.  There’s no “hysterics”…no “wild threats” against all of humanity.  Even if they’re pissed, they “deal” with it, and we move on. With the Wife-Pimps it never works out this way. They will burst through my office door, whether I’m on the phone or not, automatically barraging with demands and updates.

…Which, (have me met?) just doesn’t fly with me.

First of all, they are not my contractors.  Second, “get the hell out of my office, and wait your ass in the lobby, thank you.”  Thirdly, there is 99.9% of the time,  a perfectly good reason for every “error” they think they find, and 96% of it is because the Gigalos missed the deadline, or didn’t document their shit.  The rest of the percentage has to do with Corporate.  Because I only pass on payroll records, I don’t do final edits and cut the actual checks. And I can prove these things, because I keep more records, than the average Attorney’s office.

…You’d think, (after the first few hysterical run-ins), the Wife-Pimps would understand this.  But they don’t.  It is always someone else’s fault that they don’t have their Gigalo’s full paycheck in hand.  The Gigalos certainly aren’t gonna take the hit, so they pass it onto me.

…And Mama don’t play that.

By 9:20 this morning I had a particular favorite Wife-Pimp, standing in my doorway (she’s finally been trained to stay “outside”), flipping out about a job sheet for yesterday.  Regardless of how I explained the specifics of the month-end process and it’s direct influence on said order, she was having none of it.  The paper looked different.  What did it mean?  She wanted the other page…the one I couldn’t get.  She didn’t care “why!” And she wasn’t leaving till she got it!

Needless to say, there were “words.” 

…She is no longer in my office and was given no paper, so I will leave you to determine just how this particular run-in ended.

…What I do know is that the hyper-ridiculousness of said situation (before I’d even had my first cup of coffee) slammed me right back to six years ago…where magnified by twenty other “such persons,” I was in a misery most foul…emotionally wretching at the thought of having to go into work every day and face that specific atmosphere. 

It sorta made me glad to be here right now, truth be told. Which is kind of a horrible realization.

It could, in fact, be “worse.”

Terrifying.

…So when the next Gigalo entered my office with an, “I don’t understand.” And I said, “Because, that’s just how it is.” And he said, “Okay,” and walked out…? I sorta just wanted to kiss him.

…And he’s a three-hundred pound, walrus look-alike, who smells perpetually of fish and stale sweat.

That’s how glad I was to be here right now.

Man.  I need a vacation.

~D

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