God, I’m bored. God, I am bored. And then God makes a box of Travel Scrabble appear in my hands, just like in The Young Ones. I ask Famine if he’s up for a game but he says no, and tells me to throw the box on the giant pile with the others. That’s what comes of a childhood filled with basic cable instead of book-learning or out-of-doors activities.

Someone is firing a laser pointer through the window of the conference room behind me and onto my monitor. Omigod guys quit it!

Do you ever get the feeling that every new person you meet is somehow familiar, at least physically? Sure you do, that’s why I don’t have comments on this site. It’s like: Oh yeah, you’re like that friend of John’s from college. And you’re like my old boss. And you’re like the bass player for Queens of the Stone Age. And you’re like Gabrielle Union. And you’re like that swimmer. And you’re like the little brother on that one show.

So the question is: Do I assume I know who the person is, really deep down inside where it counts, just because they seem oddly familiar to me on the surface? The answer: Of course. I slot everyone into their little pre-labeled boxes and even if you think you’re going to bust right out of there, you’re only going to fall right into the neighboring box which is labeled “Thinks They Can’t Be Labeled But Totally Can.” Which is a super-full box, I should add.

OK that’s not true. I’m so bad!!!!!! Actually I just have two boxes, one labeled “People Who Can Provide A Service” and one labeled “I’m Sorry, Was Anyone Talking To You Ever?”

Speaking of deep down inside, I remember when getting kicked in the balls was known as getting kicked “where it counts.” I’m going to write that on the papyrus scroll I keep in my motorcycle boot. My harrowing memoir of drug addiction and sweet anhedonia is almost complete.