"maybe you should take two" he chuckled

That man told me I should eat two donuts instead of one.
How kind of you, Sir, to so eloquently highlight my frame to the general audience.

Ignorance lets far too many insults fall to the wayside.

Had it been more obvious and more maliciously done. Perhaps you might have felt that little Old Fashioned donut with chocolate frosting smack the smooth side of your smile.
One and a half donuts, and one small, well dressed humiliation slipping off your lips to rouse a few lightly sleeping demons from their sleep. Too skinny. Of course.

Wronged? Not at all, really. I have nothing to harbor but a bad impression, and a renewed sense of a low numbered scale.

There is an ache in my throat.
I thinking I’m coming down with something.
I think something’s coming down with me!
On the surface today was good. But what does that matter, really?
Surfaces are makeup, cupboard doors, counter tops, epidermis, mints instead of toothpaste, plastic surgery over DNA. Good luck, surfaces, good luck.
I keep you around because I can’t very well walk around naked, can I?
I’m fine, I don’t feel pretty or witty or wise, but fine.
I am well fortified. I could pick a color of me today, it would be. . . .
off-chartrues, of course.
Whenever I’m little out of tune for the day, I either journal with far too many words with no destination, or my thoughts come out in the above form. I guess maybe it’s a surface, too. Surfaces have their place. I guess on top of everything else, of course.
Give me giggles and give me rum
Today is done today is done
Give me husband and give me a house
Make him no drunkard, no cheater, no louse
I am a beggar for happiness, please
Just give me your grass and your earth and your trees
I’ve got no legs, so give me those too
I’ve been leaning on everything now I’m leaning on you!
I suppose you’ve got something I suppose you’re hot stuff
I suppose your pockets are just sagging with love
Well I am a beggar and I pick-pocket too
I’ve got nothing to lean on, now I’m leaning on you.
How silly. I just wrote that, I think because my dad used to always recite poems to us with that rhythm so I can never get it out of my head. I hope I don’t get sick. I need to go to work. I’ve been workin’ for my riches.

Seven Twelve.
Its after work.
Three more hours before:
a. going to bed
b. putting it off
Will tuna fish and crackers be dinner? Probably. With no mayonaisse, and out of the can by fork.
Day three and I love my job. I love my job like a love playing hide and seek, driving go carts, listening to good music, candy bars for fifty cents and coffee for free. Real.
"Really?"
Yes.

Its anarchy, and its sanctioned.

We work, but project by project, and the next project isn't ready for us, so we coast it out. And when we are not practicing anarchy, I find the work really satisfying. Its a great deal.