Here is the not so funny part: right about now, I�m anxious and in a mood and I can name about six people I could stand, however irrationally, to strangle. Number one on the list is a certain overeducated Chinatown-dwelling bon vivant who thinks his name doesn�t rhyme with anything, because he has just thrown a wet black fleece blanket on a certain aspect of tomorrow�s trip. I�m tempted to lose his cell phone number, but isn�t that arrogant of me, the implication that being deprived of my company = punishment? In order to punish myself for being so arrogant, I should, I should� I should what? The other unfunny part happened this afternoon, when as a finale to getting back in touch with all the temp agencies and sending them the newest version of my resume along with ingratiating and whorish e-mail explaining that I was looking forward to re-entering the glamorous world of corporate water-carrying as early as December first, one of the agency reps had me come to her office and fill out paperwork all over again since it had been so long since I�d registered. So to Bellevue it was, and while I was sitting in the reception area balancing the forms on my briefcase on my lap because times are apparently so tough a work surface has become a luxury item, a woman walked in and told the receptionist that she happened to be driving by and thought she might stop in to see if there was any work for her. "I did work for you once," she said, "but it was about a year ago and nobody�s called me since and I wanted to make sure you still had my phone number." The recep. tried to dissemble in a jolly manner for a few moments, oho let me check maybe we just have lost that number, but her heart wasn�t in it and soon she gave up and calmly told the woman, Sorry, there�s no work, we just haven�t had any assignments come in this year that would be a good match for your skills, we don�t have many assignments at all coming in these days. The woman was fortyish, Hispanic with good and careful English, flowered shirt and a long braid down her back. She had more dignity than I would have. She said, Well, I thank you for your time, and I hope you�ll continue to keep me in mind because I�m still not working and I�d like to be, I want you to know I�d work very hard for you and would appreciate any opportunity. Then she left. So you can see how today I kind of hate myself and want to die. It�s so depressing even being in the offices of temp agencies, they�ve sold the furniture and cancelled the water-cooler contract and sealed off the conference rooms and what used to be the offices of all the reps they�ve had to let go, and the receptionist�s computer is making an ominous buzzing noise, there�s no more IT staff and bit rot is taking it over like a fungus. The receptionist, who�s probably making ten an hour, would prefer not to have to look you in the eyes. I was offered a contract last week that I turned down � I wasn�t sure for a little while whether I�d mention this here � working in one of the shithole southern suburbs in the middle of an acres-vast office park, proofreading managers� write-ups of bad employees for, sit down, twelve an hour. The listing had all sorts of requirements like 5+ years technical writing, knowledge of help [I thought this meant help files but I guess not], supervisory experience, excellent communication skills, project management incl. prioritization, executive reports � so I thought, OK why not. But no. I don�t go to shithole southern suburbs � oh, where as a contractor I would have had to pay for my own parking � for twelve dollars an hour to work jobs that would corrode my soul. And who the fuck are these managers that they can�t even write, in plain English, Bob was five minutes late for the second time this week. We talked about the importance of punctuality, he was docked an hour�s personal time, and he understands that he is being written up? Whoever they are, I bet they�re making a lot more than twelve dollars an hour. Here�s the thing, though � the company advertised for someone as above, someone like me, and I turned it down, but someone else didn�t, and the job is being done by a person with the qualifications that were specified. For twelve dollars an hour. I sent off my application to those editing courses today. My pretty transcript says A A A A A, my letter is an exemplar of the way I�m supposed to be learning how to write in the classes I have to fake in the letter like it would be such a tremendous learning opportunity to be allowed to take. Dear Registrar, Please. I would like to become worthy of consideration for jobs that pay *thirteen* dollars an hour. When I saw Mrs. Roboto on Saturday morning and she mentioned my previous entry, telling me matter-of-factly that she would not permit me to move to Miami because she would miss me if I did, oh my god my eyes welled up, I felt so abject and so grateful all in the same moment, I meant it more than she knew when I hugged her goodbye, but honestly there�s a part of me that�s hoping I get turned down for the classes, F F F F F you, because of the way in which, this has happened so fast but no less decisively, I�ve assigned it meaning beyond itself: if I don�t get in, all bets are off and maybe I will end up going to Germany.

Changing the subject! On Sunday we hung out with some friends of Steve�s, one of whom was Seven Year Wendy�s best friend on top of which he is an odd and inscrutable guy to me in general, when people are talking it is never the same things that he and I find amusing so of course I am even more prone to paranoia and I tend to think that what he�s amused by is the concept of me, compared to Seven Year Wendy such a loser, so unvivacious and dull and without professional prospects and who uses her brainspace keeping up with things like sex tapes of hotel heiresses instead of making scientific discoveries, curing cancer and all. But we were at his house and he had been working on a Sunday crossword and I finished it but for two cells � "acts up"? � including, sit down, correcting some mistakes he�d made. A A A A A!

Why do I care? I do not know.

I have to go to New York tomorrow. This week will be over in four days. I think I can make it that long. Maybe.

I can�t concentrate. I�m only writing to kill time, sorry. I want some drugs.

(Jim, is that you I see reading? Hello, hello!)