. . .

I twiddle my thumbs at you

You people are intentionally avoiding me. This would explain the hitmen who've been following me around taking potshots at me. Luckily, I can avoid potshots. I have successfully avoided too many drug-induced anythingses to be fazed. Or faxed. I cannot be faxed. This has been proven.

Uhm?

(That was a questioning noise, deep down in my throat, as seen in much popular literature. I'm just trying to make you feel insecure about your masculinity, with minimal success. It would help if you were all male. Males become insecure about their masculinity easily and quickly. Not I, of course. As has also been proven, I am not a male. I am an alchoholic. But you're not supposed to know about that yet.)

Today (yesterday / Wednesday / whatever) was oddly productive. Opened bank account. (Bought comic book and ice cream.) Had phone interview. Set up inperson interview for tomorrow / today / Thursday / the day after the one that I am currently experiencing. I say currently, meaning current to my writing and not your reading, which will presumably be on a different day, as most of you read this sorta thing at work, and it isn't worktimenow. It is, however, always possible you're still at work as I type this, frantically checking your email for the daily MeMessage. In which case, we can avoid all time travel references alltogether, which just isn't as interesting, so for the purposes of that I will assume you're reading this message from 1932.

Probably via laudenum-induced visions, too.

How you respond is a mystery I will have to look into. I may have to consult the Pope. Now that he's apologized, I feel he's much more approachable than I used to think he was. I'll call him Popy-boy. Or maybe Bob. Everyone enjoys being called Bob. Do you mind if I call you all Bob?

Inspiration... fading... must... send email... before energy... runs out... entirely...