the safe is locked. i shut the latch, spun the dial, grabbed the handle, and dragged it halfway across the office. just to be sure, you know. although i'll probably leave it swinging open tomorrow. who knows.

pictures have been added below. the viewing public may now experience the beauty and the fear of my various cranial hair follicles.

there is nothing quite so disconcerting as seeing two police officers stationed outside your office door.

despite these wise words of experience [re: paragraph seven], i shall speak of my crappy day. for starters, i have to figure out how to clean up a customer account balance that has been disputed since before i finished my undergrad classes. then i prepare my daily bank deposit, a process that i usually finish around 9:30 or so. due to circumstances beyond my control [a diplomatic way of saying EVERYONE ELSE'S MISTAKES], i finish just a smidge after 12:15. throughout the day i receive phone calls about projects not anywhere near an mdog Urgent Status Level and as i hang up each call i am internally screaming BACK THE FUCK OFF ALREADY. also throughout the day my officemate and i receive piecemeal bits of Rather Important Financial Information, which means hours of us going back through already entered data to correct problems caused by us not having this Rather Important Financial Information at THE BEGINNING OF THE MONTH, WHICH IS WHEN WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN GIVEN SAID INFORMATION. the entire day is mostly spent with me sitting at my desk muttering various obscenities, chant-like, and with great force. i'm missing a lot of details here but just know that everything pretty much sucked. and then... bliss. time to go home.


OH, BUT WAIT: IT DOESN'T STOP THERE.


at 6:15 i get a call from the police department, saying i need to come in to my office right now. well, actually they called at 6:10 but i didn't recognize the number, so i didn't answer. i promptly forgot about checking voicemail, and received another call at 6:20 while i was in the bathroom: this time, my boss, calling from home. sonofabitch. what's this all about? so he tells me i need to go in to my office right now because they found our safe open and need someone to come in and verify its contents, or they will in fact be taking the contents with THEM if no one can do the verificationizeness. apparently there have been some office break-ins in the area lately, so they're being very cautious. however, my boss and i both know full well that i probably just didn't shut the safe correctly. sonofabitch. where were you all the other night when one of our offices really WAS broken into, TELL ME THAT, WHY DON'T YOU? i call the police, letting them know i'll be there in ten minutes, and they relay that there are two officers stationed outside my door. nice. ironically, i speed to my office to meet the officers, suffer slight disconcertion at having police in my office, count the cash, yep yep, it's all there, thanks for everything, blah blah blah. none of this is as bad as knowing that my boss thinks i'm an idiot. sonofabitch.


and the unexpected denouement of this day comes at a local hot dog joint, a short stop on my way home from this debacle. the only one in line, i order my butterscotch milkshake. as i wait, the high school or possibly-college-undergrad with long dusty blonde hair eyes me with... suspicion? intrigue? mind control? finally, she speaks.

"do you color your hair, or is it natural?"


now, i'm highly accustomed to questions like "how do you get your hair to do that?" and "is it hard to style?" but at this question, i'm slightly taken aback. armed with brown eyes, a fairly dark complexion, and moderately untamed eyebrows, questions about hair color are in far shorter supply than those regarding finishing style. factor in my utter lack of desire to EVER do anything with my hair, color-wise, and it's a wonder i didn't tumble over in shock.

i compute the question and recover. "oh, no! totally natural."


she nods, thoughtful. "it's pretty. i like it."

most descriptors i receive regarding my hair are things like "cute," "funky," "cool," etc. which i generally interpret as meaning "something i would never have the balls to do, but really awesome in theory even though it sortof makes you look like either a boy or a lesbian."

"pretty," however, is a new one for me. i like it.

in case anyone wondered, one thing that is worse than having to do long division is HAVING TO WATCH SOMEONE DO LONG DIVISION.

i wish i was being hypothetical.
don't ask.

i don't actually mind doing long division. converting decimals. reducing fractions. it appeals to my orderly nature. but watching someone doing such things, in a much  s l  o   w    e     r  manner than my synapses compute, was quite possibly the most displeasurable thing i have ever had to do. at first it felt like my skin was melting off, ever so slowly, into an impatient puddle of fleshy mush. i wanted to claw my eyes out horror movie style, and near the end my internal organs began fighting each other over who would voluntarily shut down first and begin putting all systems out of our collective misery.

i need a nap.