Thursday, March 13, 2008
My husband and I now work at the same facility. He's a property manager. I am not sure what I do, but I've been at it for a year. He has been a property manager for four days.

It's weird. We talk to each other like automatrons at work. 'Hello how are you doing.' 'I am fine and you.' Like we don't know how we are doing. Like he didn't just see me wandering around the bedroom in the old bra and mismatched socks. Like I didn't just yell for him to either eat the lunch I pack for him or go and buy some other food, dammit!

In other news: I hate parking structures. Last night, I drove around one for fifteen minutes. Each time I circled, I wound up at the ticket gate because I missed the five-foot-wide ramp to the next level. I would roll down the window and explain I need to park. The parking guy would look confused before he told me to 'hop the curb and swing left to go back into the structure.' It happened three times. Don't you think he would remember the woman who needed to park?

And wouldn't he want to reach through the window and scratch out her very stupid eyes?

And also: my cat has pushed me off the bed three nights in a row. Does this give me allowance to eat her for dinner?
Written by FRITZ
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Name: Fritz

Location: Detroit Rock City!
Where the weak are killed and eaten

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    What I Live By:
    We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one. -T.S. Eliot "Little Gidding"

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