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Dear Boss,

Please stop walking by my desk while pointedly looking at my computer screen. I promise you, I am only browsing the internet, doing google searches for "d" list celebrities and old grammar school bullies about 45 percent of the time. The other 55 percent of the time I am likely in the bathroom or snackroom, perhaps checking my mail or bustling about, trying to look busy so you will stay away from me.

Love,
Industrious Old Me

here's an interesting excerpt from the book "a million little pieces" by james frey, which i purchased as a yuletide treat for my mother, but instead am trying to cram in whilst taking care not to bend the binding before i have to wrap 'er up and endow.

oh yeah it's a book about addiction. our hero, 23-year-old author james, is in a drug treatment and recovery center. he fell down a fire escape and his mouth and face serverely battered. he is undergoing oral surgery, including a double -root canal, with no type of narcotic assistance, because he's in this treatment center. none. just him and two massive straps to hold him still.

"the drill is back on and it is working through the fragment of my left front tooth. It is moving through a thinner, more fragile section of bone, so it works quickly. It shoots the grit, makes the hole, penetrates. At the point of penetration, a current shoots through my body that is not pain, or even close to pain, but something infinitely greater.

Everything goes white and I cannot breathe. I clench my eyes and I bite down on my existing teeth and I think my jaw might be breaking and I squeeze my hands and I dig my fingers through the hard rubber surface of the tennis balls and my fingernails crack and my fingernails break and my fingernails start to bleed and I curl my toes and they fucking hurt and I flex the muscles in my legs and they fucking hurt and my torso tightens and my stomach muscles feel as if they're going to collapse and my ribs feel as if they're caving in on themselves and it fucking hurts and my balls are shrinking and the shrinking fucking hurts and my dick is hard because my blood hurts and my blood wants to escape and is seeking exit through my dick and my dick fucking hurts and my arms are straining against the thick blue nylon straps and the thick blue nylon straps are cutting my flesh and it fucking hurts and my face is on fire and the veins in my neck want to explode and my brain is white and it is melting and it fucking hurts. There is a drill in my mouth. My brain is white and it feels as if it's fucking melting. I cannot breathe. Agony."

perhaps this is my reason to resolve a switch to PBR lite.