acceptance 2: swedish boogaloo

Three weeknight shows, extended hours at work, Saturday work, and guitar lessons culminated into a perfect storm of a week marked by sleep deprivation, headaches, a ringing in the ears, loss of appetite, and the occasional hallucinatory episode consisting mostly of thinking I see Ben Vereen sleeping in my backseat.

Are you still bitchin' about your damn job? I'm not going to keep reading this blog if you're going to offer little more than self pity and impotent rage. I could listen to NPR if I wanted that shit.

I am afraid I must. It is the only thing keeping me sane at the moment.

Things could be worse. You could be as destitute as Ben Vereen and reduced to sleeping in the backseats of unlocked cars.

Remember when he was Webster's uncle?

Of course. Do you remember the episode in which he tried to take Webster from Ma'am and George? That was some fucked-up shit.

I grew up hating Ben Vereen because of that very episode.

Fuck that guy.

What's with the language? Have you forgotten that this site is directed towards children.

It makes you feel better.

Indeed it does. However, the most therapeutic for me now is this zen-like state of not giving a shit whatsoever as to the outcome of this current project. I have resolved that I will show up and go through the motions and hope for a demotion of sorts while I seek other employment.

I think that there is presently another factor a bit more therapeutic than your newfound apathy. Either you tell them, or I will.

You assume that someone at some point will read this.

Tell them what's on the Stack-O-Matic.

Carol King is still there, and I have added Band on the Run and Pleased to Meet Me.

and...

Abba.

"There's no regret. If I had to do the same again I would, my friend, Fernando.

There was something in the air that night. The stars were bright, Fernando."

At least the few who read this will be spared from hearing our duet.

And seeing the handpuppet.