Apparently there is a fire in the basement of my office building right now. A boring mopey coworker just said (read in monotone-i-am-boring-and-mope-around tone) "for real. there is a fire in the basement."
Please somebody say something fast. I don't want these monotone words, and lame laugh to be stuck in my head, last thing before I bite the dust on my terribly eventful, 26 years of adventure, boredom, discovery, and gluttony. God. Speak to me now.
Back to reality. I might have to stop typing and get outta here. So I guess there is a fire, and if we don't get out - oh wait - there was an announcement.
Everything is cool in the building. Elevators are back up and running.
Office that I work with: the problem with our emergency service guy is that YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND HIM. He has a very strong accent, that is difficult to decipher amongst all the static background reverb.
So basically if I do bite it in this building I am going out hearing mopey/boring person translating everything static/strong accent person says. Tonight I will prepare an emergency "music to go out to" CD and store that and a CD player in my desk.
I wonder what music would be on that CD!?!? Oh gee, yet another hot topic to discuss over drinks at a bar!!
I am going to live. Close call. Mom - in the event where there is a body to deal with, please have it shipped back to my homeland. I do not want to stay here. No offense with here, I just know that this is not where I want to end up rotting. Too many things are rotting here. I do not want to be one of them. Also, there is nothing to really retrieve here, I mean, I still sleep on a cot. Well, I guess you can have all my clothes. Joshua and Geo can fight over my CD collection and stereo. The Toole family can have their furniture back - (Laurie gets the telly-she paid for half). James can have the food in the icebox. Mona can have all of my jewelry (she gave it all to me in the first place.) As for my journals? 1987-1990 goes to Derek Ruckel, 1990-1994 - goes to Aaron McCubbins & Sascha Peterson, 1995-1998 goes to Daniel Thompson, 1998-2000 goes to Pete O'Connell, and in 2000 I decided to cease keeping a journal because me whining about boys was getting a little redundant...
I think I just wrote a makeshift/pseudo - Will. ? I meant everything I typed.
I wish real Wills were like high school Wills. Like, I would like to will someone my laugh, and my team spirit, and my ability to swim the 100 free in 1 minute 45 seconds. But that has all changed now. I guess my newfound abilities are making observations, reading bedtime stories to robin, cooking turkeys and hens, knitting extra long rectangles, and rummaging through thrift/antique stores....
I wonder what is more dangerous. Flying across the Atlantic once a month, or working in a Manhattan skyscraper Monday through Friday??