Spitball Army

I have a non-working status; I feel terminated; as an employee, I can’t be found; they tell me that I’m invalid; for some reason, no polygon exists.

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Everybody is on liberty and the place is pretty empty.

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I’m not sure why it happens, but every morning when I come to work, the computer has changed my password. I think it’s broken.

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Card is titled: “Victorian Room, Palmer House, Chicago.”

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This post is “borrowed” from Laser’s Edge Leftovers, where I am documenting – much too strong a word for it, actually – the history of my former business from the items I find around the house.

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I’m afraid I missed writing yesterday but I have a long sad story to tell about it.

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Card is titled: “Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Old Mail Post. 6-A. U.S. Post Office, Hyde Park, N.Y. 7B-H934.”

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The pomegranate ones are the first to go, followed by cherry, raspberry, grape and orange. You can keep the chocolate and banana ones, says Ed.

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I suppose Dad told you that I was now in the Printing business. Big Deal!!

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I. The old men sit on the porch, smoking, joking, drinking. A jar of peppers sits beside them. They dangle a jalapeno toward us, menacingly. II. My jalapeno memory is stoked by the sweet smell of its flesh. I refuse, unfooled. Not Carlos: he doesn’t feel pain, and takes the challenge.

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