The retail train slowed down for a bend in the tracks and that's when I jumped off. I ran into Dave Lewis this morning at just the right time for him to tell me that I should quit my job. So I did, sending my resignation via hand-markered note packed in a box of straw, delivered to my former place of employment by a bike messenger in Hell's Angels drag. "Take this job and, I don't know; 'Shove it' sounds kind of harsh. Whatevs," the note said. "Give whatever's in my locker to Lieutenant Leprechaun. Holla." I can only imagine them looking speechless into the messenger's WWII pilot goggles before he turned and wheelied out of there. Must have been priceless. Badracula!
I'm sitting my new workplace; work that doesn't pay, but whatever. We're listening to the old Fugazi stuff and everything feels just fucking right, except that the Hit It Or Quit It office could use a more ergonomic floor for me to work on. But evs, dude.