Monday, August 28, 2006

We All Live Alone.




The sun is hidden somewhere beneath the thick layer of clouds. One is not easily distinguishable from the next, they are one big blanket laid across the sky. The trees outside my window are shaking. I am looking forward to this shift in seasons. I will be glad to see the leaves change color once again, crisp and crinkle and then litter the ground and gutters. Time is always passing. It is always creeping up behind me and blowing softly onto the back of my neck.

I've been so many people these two days. I've been witness to beauties so sincere, talents so natural. And somewhere in the silence of all the days which have sped past, I've thought things and learned things and I've stood back, slowly taking small steps, and I've seen these things and wondered in what way they will serve me. I've wondered if I will wake up in another country, speaking another language and live for the things I believe in instead of trying to find room for those things in between all this work.

I was lost last night between the brilliant collaboration of my first love and my current love. They know each other so separately, so individually. They are so whole outside of what they know. It always serves to remind me of who I was and I wonder if I am really any different. How deeply am I mired in the past and how aware am I of the future?

Each one of us lives inside ourselves, peering out from behind open eyes. We all live alone.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

So Few People Understand.



I would also like to leave everyone but my art, and that one who makes my art with me, behind. I would also like to be who I was before, when all that mattered was what was written. When all that mattered was who he was, was who Fernando was. When all that mattered was who those people whom we made were. It is a different thing to make people. So few people understand. If only I could know someone who had made someone, who had made someone who knew something, who had made someone who intended to know someone even if it was supremely hard for them to understand someone.

To make someone is to be responsible for someone, is to be able to excuse this person, to
be able to know what motivates this person, what makes him/her who he/she is. I would like to know who George Barnes is; I would like to know that George Barnes is someone specific, is someone who has been somewhere. But, he is so difficult, he is so complicated. I want to write about other people who are more there, who are more forward.

I would like to write about a certain Slipster. I would like to write about many people. But, I get lost in all the subjectivity. I wish I could be more distant. I wish I could be more like he who gives not a shit. I wish, sometimes, I could give nothing and get just that back. But, also, I am clearly a liar. I want nothing more than to know people, than to know that people know me. But, mostly, I care about words and about people living the words they make. And that is why the Subservient Worker, the Waiter Rant, Fernando Pessoa and all the rest are so important, because they are words. How I live to be words.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Circumstance Lives Alongside Fate.




This blog has gone untended for over a week. Perhaps because I believed that no one was concerned and no one was checking or perhaps because I was caught up in other people's blogs and didn't dictate the time I needed for my own.

This day was spent psychoanalyzing different people's responses to a "personality test" given to me by my Dad quite some time ago. The taker of the test is essentially on a "journey". This journey is his/her own journey in which anything they believe is possible is the case. This is the basic premise. So, you inform the subject of this fact and then you take them on a journey. They must decide, first, at a fork in the road, between a sunny meadow and a wooded field. This decision, based on the way they come to their conclusion, is symbolic of the choice between the known and the unknown, the mysterious and the apparant. Many people I've given the test to have chosen the woods. I did. Everyone I've known to chose the meadow has been someone generally afraid of what they do not understand or someone who just wants the warm, clear things. They don't mind that all they can see is right there in front of them. They prefer it that way.

Next, the subject comes across a key. This key and their reaction to it is a symbol of the subject's general attitude toward knowledge. People either immediately take it, (it's obviously theirs if it's in their woods) or they think it's the key to someone else's house and want to leave it for the owner to find it. The people who take it generally have ornate, old, skeleton keys. I knew a Gemini who drew a picture of his key. He was very concerned that I understand what his key looked like, exactly.

So, the subject with or without his key continues on his/her way. He or she comes across a vase. This vase is suppose to be symbolic of the person's sexuality. People always have severe reactions to the vase even if they don't react severely to anything else in the whole test. People who are unsure of their sexual orientation or who are keeping it a secret almost always break the vase. I knew another Gemini who found his vase broken and he didn't know who had broken it but he knew it wasn't him. This was rather distressing. He wanted to know what this said about him and I didn't want to talk about it because it was rather obvious that he had something serious he was hiding, even from himself. Me? I didn't know what a vase was doing in my forest. To some people the vase is extremely important. It dictates the whole rest of their journey. To some people the vase is kind of nice but they don't want to be burdened by it. To others the vase is something they might consider coming back for but since they don't know where they're headed they don't pick it up, they hide it and intend to come back later to unearth their vase. A particularly chilly fellow for whom I work said that his vase was an urn. This caused me great distress. An URN!

The subject moves on, with a vase or without, with a key or without, and comes across a body of water. The subject is asked to describe this body of water. This body of water is supposed to symbolize their experience dealing with relationships and what relationships mean to them in general. Many people have a small but vibrant stream that they either walk across, jump over, or walk through. Many people also have a large lake which they either walk around, jump into, or perhaps boat across. More rarely someone will have a murky marsh, a puddle, a pond, or an ocean. The puddle and the ocean being the most extreme examples. Both of whom I have given this test to. The subject who had an ocean also had, and I swear to God, dead horseshoe crabs along her beach. They stank the place up, she said. When asked how she would go about traversing this ocean she said, "I would build a raft out of sticks. I don't know how to do that but I would do it." A RAFT to traverse the OCEAN. She could have chosen ANYTHING. A boat, a fucking dolphin, anything. A raft made of sticks. Christ. Most people who have no idea what to do or how to behave in a relationship just walk around their body of water, whatever it may be. These people will NEVER jump in. It won't even strike them momentarily. One fellow I heard of, through a reliable resource, said that he walked across his lake because it was frozen. He is fellow who will not have a girlfriend, scared to death of committment. Another fellow whom I work with said that he walked around his lake because the trees were too thick around it to get through. He is a rather distant person, very hard to know. Shocking.

Lastly, the subject is brought to a wall. This wall is very high; the subject cannot see over it and as far as they can see on both sides it continues. They know only this: that if they choose to go over the wall they may never return to the other side. This wall is a symbol for death and the occult. The unknown in general but mostly death. Some people are unwilling to believe that once they have gone over they can never come back. Some people peek over to see if they want to. Some people do not even CONSIDER for one solitary second the thought of going over the wall. Some people would rather return the way they came. The distressing fellow for whom I work used his urn/vase to peek over the wall, climbed over and then said he didn't care about the urn/vase or whether he could get it back because, of course, he had the key. Another beautiful girl who is a very close friend mine did not go over the wall, she instantly turned around and went back to her body of water in order to "catch frogs". This is a girl who very much wants babies. Shocking.

But, it's all in the way they take it. It's all in how much they're willing to give up, in how willing they are to conform to this world and to believe that anything they want can be. And that's why the test is so accurate. Because, just the act of taking it says enough about you and when it is layered with these Freudian symbols it makes it all the more multi-dimensional. Some people just won't believe that whatever they want is true, they want to ask you all the time because they perceive you to be in the "know" since you're the one "giving" the test. And some people just pick up that it's their world. In the exact same way that some people are willing to take complete and utter responsibility for their own lives and others want to be told what to do and think that circumstance is the only dictator. They don't understand that THEY themselves are RESPONSIBLE for the circumstances. They say, Oh I just did this because that's what it looked like. If it looked like something else I would have done it differently. They don't understand that it looks like that because they made it that way.

What does your body of water look like?

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Wanting for Words.




This life moves in fragments, in rhythms, in the sounds of footsteps in sand, in the buzz of streetlamps and insects. I try to follow it down that crooked pathway but I cannot look up, only at my own two feet. I inhale words in heavy breaths, in gulps. I swallow them voraciously, letting them coat my insides with their calming cadences. I lose myself to watching lips as they let words loose, as they dance off them and at the eyes that react inside skulls.

I find, in the way the clouds move across the sky-changing- the image of what I wish I was, moving shifting, scattering, leaving the place I once was forever behind me. In footsteps I search for history, for evidence. I ride the tail of yesterday trying to catch a hold of tomorrow but it's always too fast for me. There are so many things to happen yet and they all live on the edge of everything which has already happened, hinting. What if we aren't what we live but what we dream?

I'm often someone else in dreams, wondering whose head I'm in and what I'm doing there. I'm writing, "Eyes of a Blue Dog" on the floors of dream houses in lipstick- waiting for myself to understand what it means. I'm spending a Season in Hell, illuminated. I'm living inside a disquietude which I cannot quell. I'm asking myself, "Who are you?" I'm asking someone else, "Who is he?" I'm asking no one, "Who am I?"

I'm waiting, wandering through these moments wanting for the words to wrap themselves around me. Sometimes, I can find them hiding beneath the layer of hours lost to work, waiting to see the ends of their own sentences.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Slow Down, Fast Train. Take Me With You.




I try to balance on this thin line between the personal and the impersonal, the general and the specific. I try to write sentences which mean something more to someone than, "Oh, she felt this and that way these days," Because, really, who cares how I feel? I try to make this into literature because I am having such a hard time making much else into literature. Each day that passes, unwritten, into the long and growing line of days behind me, is a day lost to all the things that could have been but never were. I am constantly writing about how terrible it is to not write. I am constantly pouring over all the time I spend not writing, even while I'm in the process of trying to make something memorable, or at least something that I am proud of. But, it seems possible that it is just as useless to spend words on what it means to not spend words on anything. It seems possible that I am wasting just as much time as if I wasn't writing at all.

Rimbaud raced and rambled through my head today. His soft face stared at me from behind my eyes and I closed them over and over again to see those deep, dark eyes looking out at me.

"Once, if my memory serves me well, my life was a banquet where every heart revealed itself, where every wine flowed.

One evening I took Beauty in my arms - and I thought her bitter - and I insulted her.

I steeled myself against justice."


In the Great Hall it is said that one can live only in thoughts, but why would one want to? Fernando Pessoa says that he can live a million lives in thought so why would he want to do anything else? I, whoever this "I" is, try to dig a life out of the ashes of moments which constantly rush by me. I try to catch the seconds as they speed across each minute and hold them steady for just long enough to know them. But, I also push them forward, let them fall, wish they were passed and done with. I'd like to hold them in my palms, press them out from the tips of my fingers and make them mean something solid. And, sometimes, even when I do, I finish what I'd made and I forget I ever made anything. Sometimes I feel that the only time I am doing what ought to be done is when I am furiously fingering a keyboard, fleshing out a story, making something come alive from nothing. We all want to make something come alive, don't we? We are just so often afraid to see what it is that comes from inside us. We must leap into ourselves with wide open eyes but we can't see what we've done with anyone's eyes but our own.

And I want to follow myself into each moment, into each vibrant sunset, and push myself along with words. I want to add something significant to all the things which have been said before and I wonder if these brief vignettes are anything more than late night boredom manifested in far too many words.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

The Coals Went So Wild As They Swallowed The Rest.




This evening sped by in a clumsy dance of door banging, plates crashing and screached Spanish insults. I stumbled my way through it, pretending it was happening to someone else. I thought about letters written and letters not written. I had intended to write back to someone but I woke up too late. I had so many dreams spinning about in my skull and wasn't finished with any one of them so I kept going back to sleep, over and over again. The next thing I knew it was three o'clock and I barely had time to write them down before having to jump up and leave.

It's hard to write about a day during which nothing really happened. I am currently digging through the scattered remnants of a tired mind, trying to find a solid thought to pull across the page. I am having difficulty discerning what should be said and what should be left to silence.

I see people as they pass me. They are the vague representations of what I spend everyday trying to attain in words. They are very quickly doing all the things it takes them pages and pages, hours and hours to do when I write them down in words. Often, I think of people in words, in the brief but bright recognization that always takes place somewhere in our stories. I think of that moment when they might realize who they are and react accordingly. I would like to write myself in fiction one day but I believe that takes far more practice than my few years have had.

A friend recently asked, "Why must everything be born out of so much pain?" And I feel like somewhere, deep down in the darkness of my belly, I know the answer. But, just now I can't find it. Maybe tomorrow.

I do know that we all struggle to find the things that pull us out of the pain of knowing that your life is limited. I suppose the fact of the infinite possibilities capable of unfolding is just as limiting though. But, it depends on who you are. There are those of us who skip through life, unknowing and not wanting to know, because they are afraid that knowing will cause them heartache. I prefer to know and to try to deal with the pain that living sometimes causes. Part of what is so beautiful about humanity is the depth of people's ability to feel emotions. I want to stand out on the deck of a boat, the wind blowing through my hair, the fish jumping up around me. I want to stand on the beach and look out onto the sea and think of all the places, perhaps, where a young man could be. I want to jump back out on the rooftops, look out over the town. Think about the strange things circulating 'round. It ain't easy.

Thursday, August 10, 2006

A Bad Dream Is Like The Past, Just Like A Bad Dream.





This is all a dream but it is also just the remnants of the dream I wish I might have had. I dreamed many a deep and intricate thing last night and I said it all to myself, quietly. Letting it seep out in serious sentences. There were so many things falling from the sky. Those things were things we all knew but couldn't explain. They were parts of museums, things I'd assumed to be dinosaurs. There were dinosaurs, dangers. There were things which fell from the sky and scared me, things which I didn't understand, which I couldn't explain. And I was going to fix things; I was going to make them what they ought to have been.

There is a dialect; the city has a language. The city speaks it's language and those who listen write about the language that the city speaks. They write what the city would have written if it were something else, something more real than a place. I know that places waver, they shrug themselves off sometimes, as if they aren't really as real as they are. It's just the same with people, always pretending to be things more solid, more structured, then they actually have the ability to be.

Carnivale is over and it is absurd. People are left to dangle and dance around and you, you know that they will never be anyone, that their lives are finished just because someone has finished writing them. But, I suppose that insane degree of incompleteness makes you want to finish what's been started even more. It doesn't make you want to say, "Oh, he is who he is." And we spent all night being asked who he is. And really, I suppose, the question is, do we know? Do we know who he is just because we know what he does?

Do we seek to find something that is lost to the intricacies of storytelling? Must we just fill in the middle and not think about the end? The end is so much what it's meant to be. How do we know that people will understand that their ends are often predictable? Megan predicted it. She said just so much was so. And Slippy has been reading it; does that make it real? Perhaps I ought to be someone I'm not? Perhaps I ought to be a character. If only I had a huge hall to strut about in. If only I could be someone, someone not myself. But I suppose I have been just that. I suppose I have been playing the game.

If only I could live all the things I know are being lived by others. I suppose it might be enough to know that I have made something, that I have also helped someone make something, that all I do is worth something. I suppose it is true that the words quiver in my eyesight, they sink into my belly and become the most beautiful of breaths. I do think the things that I think I ought to think when I wake up and see the things I have seen.

I hear about psychic dreams and I wonder if my dreams directly dictate what my day will be. These dreams of last night have fallen gracefully into another's arms and have become something I didn't even know they would be. Only because of the fact that I am aware of them. I suppose I am terribly dictated by the way someone else creates who they are based vaguely, and only slightly so, on who I am. But, can I? I suppose I don't know, yet. I must wait for what echoes through the Great Hall; I must wait for what falls from the fingers of he who speaks, he who says what is true. Or, perhaps, I will just wait for anything.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Everything's Impossible, Till It Ain't. (Perhaps I've Made It So)



Today was a day on the roof. I ran around, danced, stretched, did gymnastics, took some photographs. The beatnick barber bought us champagne. The sky changed and shifted. The day dimmed and darkened. We've watched Carnivale and it too darkened, unfolded. I sat and wondered. I sat and watched. She's the omega. She's the end. It must be Lodes. Appalonia threw the record. How long has she known? They all know the pieces. We don't know what he knows.

I'm covered in roof dirt, my knees and elbows and the soles of my feet. I have to wake up early tomorrow, to wander about and dance and hand things off to others, things they barely want but pretend to. Geoff wondered if I'd been reading his blog, The Great Hall. I laughed. Of course, I have. Endlessly. Searching. Wondering how mine is different. If I am who I am or if I am someone else. Wondering if, perhaps, I ought to be someone else. Or if I should be who I am. But, why would I be someone else, when the point of this whole endeavor is to understand, based on my own words, who I am. It's strange when Copper Top tells me what to say and what not to say. As if his song is not saying something. As if the fact of it being written is not saying directly that it is for knowing. As if there's such a large difference if I make a vague reference.
He says I've said his name before. Like anyone knows what this is. Like anyone pays attention.

Carnivale is so entirely Twin Peaks. Or what Twin Peaks could have been. Or Carnivale is almost what Twin Peaks just nearly was. Management is a prophet. Scutter is a prophet. They're all avitars. He and Ben are the same thing. Ben's the prince and he's the Usher. It's from a made up Apocrapha.

There used to be a slew of secrets I'd hold inside me. I keep them there still. Wondering who might wish for the answers. Wondering when they might fall from their roofs, when they might plummet from their unthinkable heights. Is this a journal I keep or is it a joke? Am I myself or I am another? Am I another version of myself or do I just make up all the versions of myself to suit the sky in the show I'm watching. The sky is the same I saw this evening through the lens of my camera, my face is the same I saw through the lens of my camera.

My roof, the sky, the trees. I shall wander the words which ring through the Great Hall. I shall let them ring in my ears. Ricardo Reis. Fernando Pessoa. One and the same. I shall separate them in my dreams. They are such distinct people.

The past is the past. Just like a bad dream.

Monday, August 07, 2006

Perhaps I Will Make It So.




I walked in circles 'round this city today. Up and down hills and sidewalks. Everything always looks the same. The same buildings, the same streetsigns, the same sorts of people scattered about the streets. It felt like rain all day. The humidity bubbled and boiled and the air was so still, waiting to be shaken. It was one of those days that just lulls on and then lands flat on its back. It felt momentarily uplifting when the sky finally broke and the rain poured down in storms. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief the first time I heard the thunder crack.

I've been waiting for something to write about but not much has really happened. I am only writing now so as not to chew my nails, as I have finally decided, once and for all, that this is the end of neurotic nail gnawing. We drank Bandol Rose and watched Carnivale. I fear that it will end with far too many unanswered questions. I had previously thought that Rose didn't match Carnivale but was proven wrong this evening. It suits it rather well. Rose would be really good with Amelie too. I wish I knew how to put an accent on the 'e' so that it was clear I'm not talking about a person.

There have been many sudden and strongly felt changes at work. There will be a new manager when I go in tomorrow and I wonder what she will be like. It will be interesting at least, momentarily, to know someone new. But they are always sucked into that scary world of pseudo-authority. Either that or they refuse to be empty and nasty and so instead they leave. It's so odd to be expected to treat people as though they aren't human beings, as though they don't matter at all.

While I was out walking around Juan Copper Top, my lovely boyfriend, wrote a rather humorous but still sad song about my former friend Jack Benny. It was a good song based on a poem written about me by this Benny. They are both about laundry for some reason. I'm not sure why. I love it when I come home to see that something productive has been created. And with Juan I am always immensely pleased with what he produces. I am lucky to be involved with such a brilliant and silly songwriter. What a beautiful Copper Top he is.

But, alas, this day should have been more than it was. It should have built and peaked and lived so long and far outside of itself. I meant for it to be that way. Perhaps tomorrow something will spill out, some important breakthrough will occur. Perhaps I will make it so.

Saturday, August 05, 2006

The Forced Smile I Bear





I know that what I want lurks between sentences. I know that it lurks there when the sentences don't and it begs me to pull the sentences from between my teeth so that I can know what I want and feel that I am attaining it. I am in constant fear of the youth that drives me and of how quickly it seems to be slipping away, dragging me along with it and I don't understand where these thoughts are coming from. How can I be so young and feel so stifled, so stiff? My bones crack and creak when I stretch and my hips shift when I sway. I see people and speak to them but the distance is an ever glowing orb between us and I'm always saying something that is so frequently misunderstood.

I feel that perhaps I don't understand things with such giddy excitement any longer and I miss those days when everything happened in unison with another. I know that I wake up now and all the things I might have thought, all the things I might have been forced to articulate, if I was alone, are lost to the feeling of flesh against my skin. I'm always slipping into the ever comforting embrace of skin on skin and I wish I could write my dreams down with someone holding me against his chest. I fear that the comfort of another with whom no art is made is an escapist sort of comfort.

I am not comfortable these days and I feel my life sliding around beneath me, around the forced smile I must always bear. This will not do. This distance. What will do is words. Words are the only thing that will do and they must be made really and entirely. I've lost so much time to this din beneath all the words I didn't say. It's time to make what's been said heard and to make what hasn't been said, art.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

"I Try To Wear A Wicked Grin."




A Letter to a Friend. The above friend, specifically.

I remember the last time you were here the three of us walked down Key Highway on the wrong side of the road. The stone sidewalk was small and not even really a sidewalk. One of us always had to step out into the street and I tried to stay on that skinny stretch of stones, slipping every once in a while. We moved swiftly and you spoke eagerly. I like that memory. It's much like a movie. It reminds me of Jules and Jim in a way. Or perhaps Band of Outsiders. Sometimes things are so distinct in my recollection of them that they exists with the same weight as something I saw expressed in a film. I guess that makes perfect sense though. The best movies make you feel like they aren't movies. But, I find it intriguing that the majority of my memories of you fit in this category in my subconscious where brief but lovely things linger and repeat. When I was driving into Death Valley with Julian so many summers ago, the road twisted in sharp circles. The car got hotter and hotter and at one point we were overlooking this deep gorge. It was a bit frightening because there were no barriers and it was just barely a road. But, as we turned the corner to overlook the gorge I looked out the window and the most beautiful bird flew up out of the depths beneath me. It was framed so perfectly within the confines of the window from which I viewed it. It was the most perfectly photographic I've ever seen. And I remember it like a moving photograph much like I remember interactions with you. They live in the same place. I guess that's how a lot of people remember their youth. As brief, bright passing images.

Each day I arise from sleep searching my brain for all the dreams I lost overnight. I am left with vague feelings and inside my groggy skull there lives someone so different than the person I know I will inevitably wake up to become. All the moments of my day add up and linger behind me and now, as a result of this blog-keeping, I remain in constant search of things to say. I see people in the same way I used to, as characters, as bubbling, bobbing presences whom I may grab ahold of and make them words. People are far more real once they're words. Once they can be described steadily and distinctly and put down on the page. I've been reading people's blogs, my friend Andre's and WaiterRant, to be specific and they exist so fully there, on the glowing screen. People are what they do to such a degree that I try not to think about what I spend the majority of my time doing, which is serving rich people dinner.

You speak of the things that you cultivate, the reflections and shadows you push yourself through and I know your search is honest and genuine. You speak of justifying your life to yourself and I understand you so wholly and so completely that I feel your sentences reverberate in my chest. I often think about these words which pass between us and I think of other letters between people which have been studied and published. Your words shine so brightly through the monotony of employment. They're always new and telling. I can't wait until Rob's songs will reflect again, anew. I've only heard them too much. I am waiting for a new one.

I've been involved in an endlessly absurd argument about subjectivity, yet again, as I always
am. This argument hurled at me through clenched teeth, "Art is whatever you think it is." Yes, well life is whatever you think it is too but that doesn't mean that there isn't an objective reality happening around you. Your ability to perceive that reality and your ability to understand that art, like everything, functions within a specific structure, that structure having been created by history, context, society and personal subjectivity. You can dream that you have a completely unique experience, that whatever you want to believe is true, but art is making your subjective experience visible to others through a medium and that medium exists within certain frames of reference. And there are only so many possible experiences any one person can have.

Yes, my dear Geoff, all of what you say is true. Men's minds fool them often but it is completely possible to be aware of the way in which your mind is fooling you. If you write what you think and think about what you feel, you won't have anything to hide from. It is only the days during which you don't express something honest to yourself that your mind can fool you. That's why I've been writing these long days into short experiences. I can only know that I've lived if I make words out of the things I've seen.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Happiness cools my sweat.

Today was hot and muggy and perspiration dripped between my breasts all day. I casually wandered around the dining room bringing people their lunches at a leisurely pace, not really terribly concerned about much. The SmellyOld's came in again, like always, twenty minutes before we close and sat there for 40 minutes after we close. They are quite scary indeed. Mr. SmellyOld is a therapist or a psychiatrist; I try not to listen when he talks. He has the most condescening tone of anyone I've ever met in all my life. He's always lecturing his wife who must have had 30 face lifts in the last 2 years. And she sits there, her bright pink lips stretched tightly across her face, smiling and asking questions in her high, forced voice. She's a nice lady. I like her far more than I like him. But only because she talks less. I've seen him come in with a pile of poetry and read her poems out loud and then quiz her on them, I swear. There's a rumor around the Bistro that you know they've been screwing when they share the same water glass. I believe it's true but I try not to think about it.

The Moldy's came in too. She's rather frightening. They MUST sit in the window so that they can see the beautiful view of the parking lot. And if they don't get their window seat you're sure to get chewed out no matter who you are. Although, she's calmed down quite a bit lately there are some rather funny notes about her on Open Table. I love those notes. It's so funny to read some long rant about someone while they're on the phone with you. Especially when they specify the exact absurdly entitled desires that it tells you they will in their customer notes.

I had a fine morning, I guess. Things moved quickly and I left promptly when my shift was over. I saw Mr. Heuman going to the bank and spoke to him for a bit. I've been looking forward to Megan's birthday party which is tonight. I bought her a book of Russian Prison Tattoos and some weird little fuzzy rabbits smoking cigarettes. I wrapped it in wrapping paper with bacon printed on it. I think I'm a good gift giver. Megan is downstairs waiting for me.