2002-03-26 || 8:46 a.m.

|| would you consider that overtime? ||

not that this is an open call to come check out my crotch, but. i work on the second floor in front of this low window, see? overlooking a rather busy intersection? and the way my desk is set up, thanks to ergonomics and left-handiness and the like, i face the window. or rather, i face the monitor, which faces the room like a good monitor should, and the rest of me faces the window. so. conceivably, with blinds open, my hey-nonny-nonnies are. conceivably. on view. but it's not like i could sell ad space on the croth of me knickers, it's more like i'll bend over to adjust the strap on my shoes and feel something like those ladies who stand in the windows in the red light district of amsterdam. just a little bit. perhaps i should learn some good dance moves. perhaps i should install a pole and strobe lights.

and. i think. i am. hungover. on a tuesday! jenny, no! what are you doing? who would suspect the word 'canasta,' an otherwise lovely word, a word that sparks visions of lovely game nights and sit down dinners in wee houses in berkeley, actually translates into not 'basket,' no, but into 'red wine and reefer'? it feels like there are pirates in me tum. and they are mean rum swillin pirates. who are vicious in their efforts to contend with the sea of red wine currently pitching their dread ship to and fro.

oh golly.

there are people standing at the intersection below. gotta go shimmy.

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