Whitening Strips of Dick the Whale

It’s gut wrenching, losing a follower. I know that it means little to nothing, and that it’s healthy, because who wants a negative Nancy hanging around. But still, it tugs at your heartstrings, stopping you dead in the middle of a spiel sometimes to look inwards, at yourself, comparing and despairing, trying to figure out who it might have been that jumped ship and how you can best receive severance.

Clearly they weren’t a fan of the rapid fire posts last night which described in a hazy roundabout way the conversation Musette and I had before leaving the apartment for Schmig juice. Maybe they don’t like the word ‘schmig’, which is understandable. I’m not a fan myself, but you’ve got to call things what they are. I can’t call you just whatever I feel, and if we’re familiar with each other, I should be able to call you by a nickname, or a familiar name. I’m not just going to call you ‘boy’ or ‘girl’. And this thing is more than just an electronic cigarette. We’ve named it. It’s the embodiment of an addiction. And now Musette has one of her own, Baby Schmig.

I’m going into a three day stretch of work. I’m sure many of you have longer stretches that you’re embarking on, but I’m feeling very unmotivated to get up out of my chair. It was tough getting here even. I’m not sure exactly how many times I snoozed my alarm, but it was around ten times. I’ve got better things to do. My boss can suck it. I doubt I’ll tell him that. Freedom is on the tip of my tongue, but I keep hitting snooze.


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