They say you can never go Home...

Soldiers of Sparta were allowed to return home after lost battles, only if carried dead upon their shields. I'm convinced this is a more practical and time-saving way to go about it.

Sunday, February 13, 2005


I begin a new job tomorrow at large and fairly prominent biotech company. I’ll be a chemist. I’ll be wearing different clothing, waking up at required times, and commuting with the rest of Tampa through Malfunction Junction. I bought new shoes for the lab, painstakingly ensuring that they would not, like my previous pair, leave scuff marks on the floor to such a degree that the custodian makes thinly-veiled threats in Spanish to ram a broom up my ass if I didn’t buy some decent shoes that didn’t come from Payless.

I like to think that if there is a custodian at this new place and I am lucky enough to become friends with them, like I was with Juan back in CA, then I’ll be starting on the right foot. Pun not intended. (I bought my shoes at Dillards this time, Juan. You’d be proud of me.)

I also had to buy a few new pairs of pants, which also brought back memories of my good buddy Bruce, who, because of a sartorial preference for khakis, decided to call me “Fancy pants.”

Apparently, I’ve lost a decent amount of weight these past weeks, to the point that nothing fits very well, which means that the hard work I’ve put in at the gym is actually costing me money. I found three pairs of pants at the Banana outlet for $9.95 which didn't make my ass look all that bad. I bought three identical pairs, and felt afterwards only slightly epicene.

While some beginnings here seem new and fresh and uncomplicated, my endings, so to speak, have remained somewhat indistinct and brush-bordered. Not the fusiform demarcations which I had hoped for.

Nonetheless, moving on, and hopefully, upwards.