I spent last night recovering with spicy chicken sammiches and white wine. Two great tastes that don't go great together.

I'm not sure what I was recoving from. I worked mornings Monday through Thursday, and sometimes my manager said something, and I did my best to smile and be affabile. That was probably it. I don't smile, I grin. Smiling is a lot of work.

Did I mention that a few years ago I used to spend a few minutes each day practicing smiling in a mirror? You know, real smiles, wif teef and stuff. It never really caught on. My "teeth smile" is remarkably similar to my war face.

So, when the manager said something, it was really getting to be a lot of effort. I'm trying to make a good impression, you know. Eventually, I figured out a good routine.

Manager says something, I go to the back room to pick up more ice or wash dishes or peel bananas. On the way back, I punch the fridge a few times. Makes me feel ver' aggressive and edgy. Let's start a fight club.

I miss working at camp, spending my days playing around with bows and shooting at coworkers. It's not even a proper sort of hot in Atlanta, and the cockroaches are way too big.

So that's why I was recovering.

I've turned on all the indirect lights in my apartment, but things still feel sinister. If the rain lets up a bit, I might go run in circles.

You may be interested in this and this. They fit my mood.