YOU ARE NUMBER 6

I decided to get a sore throat this week. It has nothing to do with the teenage tool head I sat next to on a flight last Sunday. The one that kept coughing into my trilling novel about IF George Steinbeck was a fudge packer canner or not. He wore V-neck sweaters! No straight man wears cashmere V-necks!


Well. With random, uncalled for outburst about Steinbeck, you’d think I was in bed. Nope. I’m sitting at my desk at work. I’m sitting here waiting for a project to launch with the government agency that is completely divided on how the project should work. “So… you don’t know how you want this project to work? You’re not sure about funding? You and your superior officers are still split on how to launch such a project? And you want everyone to fly in on the nineteenth to launch this program.”

*Pounds head against walnut veneer desk.*

Well. There you go. Welcome back from vacation. If you need me I’ll be here like a prisoner. And the next military guy who calls me up and says that their “Superior Officer wants something unnecessary and unfounded” I’m going to scream “WHO DOES NUMBER 2 WORK FOR!”

Too much of an obscure reference? Sorry, it’s the Targetquil talking.