19 August 2002 - 1:30 p.m. So here I am. I have a spot of white paint on my green shirt (actually, there's paint on all my shirts, but this is now.) Two slices of pepperoni pizza occupy a white tray-box on my desk--OK, one now. Two thirds of a twenty ounce bottle of Diet Coke waits patiently to inspire burping in me. Tabasco sauce seeps into the remaining pizza slice. I can smell it--like vinegar and fire. I hear the sounds of voices around me. They are muffled by carpet and cubicle walls. Sparks of fake insanity flare up occasionally for dramatic or funny effect--whispered screams and head-shaking. We are rollerblading on Wednesday if the temperature is favorable. Sandy will fall on her ass. Again. I have a small bump on my gums near one of my molars. An abscess? I hope not. Last month, Melissa turned to me and said, "what would happen if hamsters could sing?" Not, "imagine if. . ." or, "wouldn't it be funny if. . ." but "what would happen if. . ." I would argue that the consequences of the singing of hamsters has not been considered very often. I swear to god, our hamster's name is Nuculer Punkin-- like "nuclear pumpkin" but intentionally pronounced wrong. I once heard the head of the NRC say nuculer. I almost cried. Bob Ross painted the sky today, but not the trees. The trees came from an HO scale train set. I really want a new car. I should do some work. (0) Comments?