The outside world is a cold, dark place. It’s questionable what keeps the lights on. After staying ahead of the clippers for three quarters, we were overtaken and sent into a loss. It was the first time the playoffs had come home in over five years.

I almost, and certainly could have, cum to Kim Kardashian’s sex tape but for a loud fart, which may have been a bong rip, and which erupted right before she told Ray J to cum on her face. It was part of a soundtrack that shouldn’t have existed other than to devalue Kim. It definitely sucked my orgasm back into myself, and I had to cum to a video of two of my favorite twins competing against each other at shoving different size dildos into themselves.  

My boss has me bring twenty boxes of poetry, which he got from the old Serendipity Books, into the store so that an employee who once had my job can triage them. This former employee now runs the literature department of our state’s humanities council. He writes poetry and will be performing at an event that we have scheduled for this weekend. We had another event scheduled at a local restaurant, but they dropped the ball on publicity, and so my boss canceled the event with them, and brought it back to the shop, where it was originally scheduled to be held.

It feels like a defeat, but I know that I did more than was expected of me. I’m hoping that my boss sees that and that he doesn’t ask himself what I’m possibly good for. Should cuts need to be made, I hope that I survive. My team is losing. My city is stagnating. I have found a home within inertia. I’d say sorry but for that I don’t say that anymore. I don’t even have a computer, and I’m hanging on by a thread. Little packets of moments come through the twitter feed: chunks of time.

I’m in charge of copy. We’ve got to have the event live on our site. The littlest little thing can throw everything over the edge. Baby with the bathwater. Watch for brown paper. Watch for bubble wrap. Check your recyclables. There are diamonds in the rough. 

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