In my head: Old skool MC Solaar, courtesy of the mysterious birthday gift-giver.
In my face: Bizarre error messages from the most cantankerous laser printer I’ve ever used. It’s like a grumpy 200-pound tamagotchi on the edge of my desk.
In my head: Tiny voices telling me to shout at passing strangers; to bitch slap coworkers as we’re having afternoon coffee; to drop my pants and piss in the middle of Esplanade Mall; to put the make on unsuspecting blue-collar workers; to rip off my shirt and do cartwheels in the street… Sounds like the early stages of Tourette Syndrome, no? But despite my childhood rage attacks, I think this current mania is probably attributable to my preemptive dread of Decadence…
Calgon?!
Still no answer.
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