she don't eat meat but she sure likes the bone

Spring, a high level seminar involving food safety. I played the paranoid, the one who went out of my way to purchase locally butchered small farm meat, and described what goes on in packing plants to a disbelieving yet educated room. Both the dirty kill process and the likelihood of mass contamination due to volume. The reaction was very hello, Chicken Little. Hey, enjoy your side of listeria with that sandwich.

Three days left in this rotation, three days before I can return to my more comfortable office. About 72 working hours to the long weekend, about 48 hours to moving. Eight months and 72 days left in the city, nine months left at this job. One obsession with quantifying time, though not counting it down as much.

I am not as melancholy as this reads. I think Bad Religion tickets are on the horizon, hopefully not sold out, giving me a chance to sharpen my black eyeliner/wit. The third guy I dated, ever, lived in this old apartment that became my model for good places to live. We would listen to Bad Religion and mack like fiends. I think he has a PhD and a wife now.

And you send me no reply,
Where is the love you feel,
That you give me in the daytime?
Yes these are loaded questions,
Sent to you late at night,
But baby I still need answers,
That I'll take to heart at sunrise.
When I send you drunk e-mail,
And you send me no reply,
Where is the love you feel,
That you give me in the daytime?
Chock-full of typos I know,
Language and grammar die,
Questions that must be asked though,
I won't have the heart at sunrise.
When I send you drunk e-mail,
Why do you not reply?

Small Sins. Drunk Emails.

Poets of our generation, possible candidates to write my biography. I'm writing this feeling Friday but living Tuesday.