judecorp | There are 1000 things about me I want only you to know.

The minutes can't possibly pass slowly enough this afternoon. I don't know what it is, exactly. Perhaps it is the wonderful, sunny weather that tantalizes me from the other side of the windows. Perhaps it is the yummy seafood chowdah I partook of at lunchtime. Perhaps it is simply Friday antsiness. A combination thereof? More likely.

I need to get out of here. None of my clients have shown up today. It's a good thing I don't schedule much on Fridays because I have meetings and try to catch up on phone calls and paperwork. Otherwise, I would be completely and totally bummed out about losing so much productivity. Productivity is the bane of your existence if you work in direct social services.

Last night, I ate like a pig at Buca de Beppo with Ryan. Before that, we stopped at the Char Bar to catch up with Jennie and Theresa. Tonight is another little drinking binge and then I need to get ready for the weekend. The Girl^TM and I are headed to Pittsburgh to see rainy, with a side stop to catch up with

lorimelton and

ralphmelton. Nice.

~//~

The firey leaves are swirling in the wind at this moment. I know this even though I have no means of seeing such splendor. Locked in my glassless office, I am a captive of my own sensory depravity. Bland white walls. Bland green carpet. Bland institutional bookshelf. Ancient 386 computer. In this stale space, I've tried to input my own color, my own exuberance. Little smurf figurines. Pictures of people that I love. Little rainbow flag. Toys.

Still, the bits of life I've delicately placed in this draining domicile are counterproductive - filling me with a yearning to leave rather than a welcome to stay. What good is a picture of a person I'd rather be conversing with, holding? What good is a beautiful day when everyone is stuck inside?

Yesterday afternoon, some of my clients were beginning a pick-up football game in the grass beside the shelter. I was invited, but had to decline due to appointments. Why aren't they playing today? The weather is more conducive to such pursuits, but my real reason is my own desire to move my body, to have some fun. Where are the piano players, the singers, the domino players? I need a distraction from my distractions.

I need a distraction from my mind, my wandering thoughts, Donnie Darko-esque in their reaching, their opalescence. Of what good can this mental energy come? A question that sounds as awkward as my own racing thoughts. Of. What. Good? My mouth cannot form such oddities, words leaving my fingertips in a Kerouackian hashish staccato. Everyone is writing a novel, because it's November, because it's contagious. Everyone is writing a novel, hoping to be the next Great American. Everyone is writing a novel, and I can't even velcro coherence to my thoughts.

Of what good?