Why try? I know why
The feeling inside me says it's time I was gone
Clear head, new life ahead
I want to be king now not just one more pawn

Fly by night, away from here
Change my life again
Fly by night, goodbye my dear
My ship isn't coming and I just can't pretend

Moon rise, thoughtful eyes
Staring back at me from the window beside
No fright or hindsight
Leaving behind that empty feeling inside

Fly by night, away from here
Change my life again
Fly by night, goodbye my dear
My ship isn't coming and I just can't pretend

Start a new chapter
Find what I'm after
It's changing every day
The change of a season
Is enough of a reason
To want to get away

Quiet and pensive
My thoughts apprehensive
The hours drift away
Leaving my homeland
Playing a lone hand
My life begins today

Fly by night, away from here
Change my life again
Fly by night, goodbye my dear
My ship isn't coming and I just can't pretend
My ship isn't coming and I just can't pretend
My ship isn't coming and I just can't pretend

                                                                                                                -----Rush

Last week on one of those bizarre acts of inspiration and boredom, I wrote a homage (rip-off) to "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" for my office. Linda, the office manager, announced that, as all the co-workers are about to drop off like flies, it would be nice for one last minor hurrah in the form of a group lunch. We're all ordering Chinese food. And somehow this inspired me to write this little ditty.

Anyway, Matt commented on it, and he ended his quote by quoting Semisonci's one hit blunder, "Closing Time". I liked that song. In 1998. At the time it was quite fitting, what with me graduating college and surffering through the whole Christine/KJ fallout. But that was 1998.

Even so, the sentiment is a good one, and hence the title of this post.

Saturday's party went extremely well. About 20+ people came and went and I didn't talk to most of them for half as long as I should have. Very strange saying goodbye to people, seeing how I won't be seeing the majority of them for quite some time. And longer.

Still. The party was a success and everyone had a good time and I have WAY to much food left over. In fact, food seems to be one of the dilemmas I face now that I'm about to start packing up things. No idea what to do, although I think it involves buying a cheap cooler to survive the trip to Maple Shade.

Meanwhile I've got about fifty boxes to play with. I need more bubble wrap; I'll have to steal that from my office tomorrow. Tomorrow is my last day of work.

You have to understand, the best way for me to deal with this is not to deal with this. I packed up the bookshelf, as you can see above. That was yesterday. Didn't pack anything up tonight. Tomorrow I think I'll attack the bookshelf in my bedroom. Then I begin the insanity march Friday morning. How hard can it be?

I still haven't set up my phone. I think I'll call tomorrow. And now that I think about it, I haven't done a thing to talk to my current offices complex about dropping off the keys to this place. Given their habit of not being around, I wonder if I'll be able to get in touch with them in time.

I'm leaving. I leave in four days. Yesterday Kate came with me to a diner and we realized this would be the last time we'll see each other for several weeks. Considering we've hung out almost once a week for the last four months, that's going to be odd. It was like when Lauren left my party and I realized it would be the last time I'd be seeing her for who knows how long.

The guys weren't a problem. Dunae was Duane. I walked him and his girlfriend to their car. His schedule is so hectic we only see each other now every couple of months so it's not like what's to come will be that different. Miller I'll be seeing about the same . . . ditto for Ryan and Dave . . . saying goodbye to Sean will definitely be odd.

I have to figure out how to get this computer ready to go. And how to throw out my old computer which is still hanging around. I don't want to move two computers. Then again, I can dump the old computer in the storage block so I might as well . . . it's not like I'm going to be the one doing the lifting.

The best thing to do is to do it. And not to think about it. It's very bad to think about this things, it tends to drive me a little crazy, and God knows I'm crazy enough so who needs the added stress? I can't wait to attack this room and box everything up. One apartment in two days is a piece of cake.

Yeah. This entry isn't fooling me, and I don't think it's fooling you, either.

Time to go.

Blame The V. I was reading a thread and they were referencing Grant Morrison's final storyline from his run on JLA, and I was wondering if the V was right or if they were just fanboying it. So I dug out six comics I haven't read since they were first bought four years ago.

Oh. My God.

Maggedon, a doomday device created by the Gods of the universe before us, is activated and threatens to destory our universe. By merely approaching the universe it stimulates agression in every person on earth. The nations of the world begin global conflict. Meanwhile, Lex Luthor teams up with some villains and blows up the Justice League.

This is a comicbook. Morrison loves Big Ideas, he spills them out on every page like water. His "serious" stuff like Invisibles is trippy for trippy's sake; his superhero work is filtered for the masses but he can't resist playing with the rubes. How can you not love a writer who comes up with ideas like this:

• Promethus, a villain whos reflexes are programmed into his nervous system via CD, is taken down when Batman rewrites the disk so it contains the motor reflexes of Stephen Hawking.
  
• Orion, a war god, constantly screams out bombasitc lines like: "THE BLOOD RED GAME OF GODS HAS BEGUN!"
  
• Oracle, webmaster and IT specialist for the superhero-set, her computer network smashed, uses the technology of old Gods to telepathically link her digital network into everyone's heads.
  
• Superman attempts to confront Mageddon directly. Defeated, Batman has to telepathically pep-talk Supes out of suicidal despair. He ends his speech by declaring: "Save them, Superman, or God help me I'll hound you throught the afterlife until you beg for mercy!"
  
• Zauriel, an angel, confronts the Hosts of Heaven and demands they descend to Earth and help stave off global destruction. Angels appear before the leaders of the world and prevent them from launching their nuclear weapons.
  
• In order to cancel Mageddon's ability to cause humanity to war with itself, the JLA temporarily enables every human on earth to have super powers. Six billion people attack a deity's doomsday device.

It's beyond over the top. It's hokey and silly and you buy every moment of it because it does what every superhero book is supposed to do: it gives you mad and glorious ideas and makes believe you can fly.

While talking abouthow to decorate my new apartment, I presented Kate with the biggest of my conundrums: what the hell am I going to do with nineteen long boxes of comicsbooks? Kate's suggestion: Take them out of the boxesd and put them on shelves. Line them up, spine facing out. Then decorate the shelves with some artwork, or chachkies for aethetics sake and to draw the eye away from the rows of pamphlets and staples.

I checked the measurements: A comicbook long box is approximately 28 inches long. The book shelf in my bedroom is about 29 inches wide. I have three bookcases with seven shelves and I can fit my entire collection onto them.

I can't wait. I can't wait to put these damn comics out of the box, free up six cubic feet of space, finally, finally have my collection easily accessible so I can pull out gems like this JLA storyline and read them without having to move a hundred pounds of comics books first.

Mad and glorious indeed.

For about two months now, Sam's been making cryptic references to Gomez. She kept asking me if I heard of them and when I was going to listen to them. I began thinking it was really some strange cult that she got sucked into. When Sam and I got together a week or two ago for a long overdue hang-out, she brought over a CD of Gomez's music.

It's hard to explain this band. They're an indie band from England, and they have one of the most eclectic sounds I've ever heard. There's blues and soul, rock, grunge, brass and bluegrass all rolled into one. There's three lead singers, harmonies that are direct descendants of the Beach Boys, but there isn't anything directly derivative about their sound. Unlike The Killers, who are so retro you almost can't tell the difference, Gomez has managed to define their own sound, cobbled together from almost every band-based genre you could think of. They love textures, weaving sounds and layers together for the love of the ability to do so.

They've actually been around since 1998 and there's about five or six studio albums plus a variety of B-sides [One of them, "Gomez in a Bucket (A Seadside Town Made of Icecream, Slowly Melting)" is this trippy ten minute collage of what I can only describe as possible TV theme music.] You may have actually heard of them without realizing it: a few years back their cover of the Beatles "Getting Better" was featured in a TV commerical campaign for Phillips electronics.

The thing I like about this band is that they're a band worth sitting down and only listening to. I don't mean that you can simply put them in the CD player as background noise, I mean sitting down with your eyes closed and the volume up and just focusing in on the music, taking it all in to appreciate the layers it has. there's things worth discovering with each listen, and it's been some time sicne I've found a band that could do that.

Meanwhile, I've become fairly obsessed with Gilmore Girls. I didn't intended to. You have to understand, I've always had a hunch I'd enjoy this show. But It aired opposite Buffy the Vampire Slayer and there was never any chance I'd leave the Buffster for another show. (Though given how crappy the last two years were, I probably should have.

Anyway, last year, with Buffy no more, I managed to dial into a couple of episodes and was immediately smitten with it. The ABC Family Channel has started showing re-runs during the week and an introductory marathon a few weekneds back suckered me in for good.

The dialogue is absolutely crackling. If you enjoyed the Whedonesque banter of Buffy then you'll have no trouble listening to the pop-culture-referencing Palladino-speak of Gilmore Girls. The acting is well done, and there's perfect mix of comedy and drama. There's an incredibly human quality to the show.

I usually keep my diet of TV watching on the geek side; cult-favorite type shows with strong fanboy appeal (Buffy, X-Files, etc.) and it's rare that I become genuinely interested in a show that's comparatively mundane. There's nothing grandiose to the show like Buffy'smetaphoric mission-statment, or the hyper-reality of Sorkin's West Wing. While Gilmore Girls has its quota of requisite oddballs, the heart of the show concerns the relationship of three generations of women, and the writers are experts and making each one equally flawed and fantastic.It's a guilty pleasure with heart and soul and a touch of class.

Sean got me the second season DVD for Hannukah. Im already half-way through it. And, of course, there's no way I could have the second season without picking up the first season, so now my biggest dilemma is whether or not to continue watching the second season or put that on hold to get things in their proper chronological order.

What is it that makes me draw these obsessive attraction to these things? Why did I grab not one but three Gomez albums when I had just heard snippets of a handful of songs? Why did I buy a whole season of Gilmore Girls for a show I've just started to watch? I'm sure part of it has to do with the vestiges of my collector mentality, but even that only applies to specific items. And though the appeal is self evident, what is it that causes that spark in the first place? What makes that attraction in the first place? How much is genuine and how much is marketing?

It's not that I distrust this enjoyment . . . certainly a tad skeptical, but not distrustful. But I'm babbling at length about this band and this TV show and neither matter in the great scheme of things. It's a matter of conditioning. I've bitched about my long hours at work. This week one of the sales reps from Fiberconn came up to the office and he expressed amazement how people in my office would work to 5:30 and act as if it was a terrible thing. At Fiberconn, people normally work until 6:00 or later, starting at 8:00 just like my office. 12 hour days or longer are part of his normal routine for him.

So I have to ask: what's the measuring stick? Do I work late or does he? What creates the mentality that defines this as "late"? It has to do with your surroundings and your enviornment. Enviornment A fosters one point of view, enviornment B fosters the other. So, bringing this round to point: what was it about my enviornment that produced in me the attractions to Gilmore and Gomez?

I have two weeks left to live.

Seriously. I have two weeks left to live. In Bloomfield. (Oh, like you didn't see that coming.) Two weeks from now, at this time of 8:41 post-meridian, I will be in Maple Shade, unpacking boxes and probably still putting together various items of furniture.

I have furniture. Not the pruple couch, an upset that caught all the pundits by surprise. As planned I spent the afternoon checking out various furniture stores in my new area. Since Kate couldn't make it Mike kindly--and foolishly--volunteered his services. It got tense for a while. I was making light of much of the situation because, as I said (using a phrase I'm becoming more and more fond of), I have the style and fashion sense of mold on fungus. Nothing really held my interest, especially as I was 90% comitted to the couch of purple fame. However, late in the day, as the sun was dropping fast (but not as fast as me and Mike's energy level's), we soldered into Mealey's furniture, the last stop on our whirlwind tour of furniture stores.

An lo and behold but not only did I spot a couch--well, actually, it's a loveseat--that not only caught my eye but also felt comfy, but also dining room chairs. And, in a decision that would caught O. Henry off-guard, but I found a chest of drawers. Yeah, not a dresser, a chest.

What can I say, I didn't want to be predictable. I would also like to point out that this is the second time "shopping" with Mike worked out this way. When I went apartment shopping with him and Erin, Stoney Run was out last-resort-stop. This is either a testament to the power of unexpected finds or further proof I only act when I've no other options.

Anyway, the furniture is bought, and if Mealey's had a decent website (knock, knock; "Hi, my name is Opportunity, I'd like to come in, please") I might have been able to show you pictures of my purchases. Alas, Mealey's site is not up to snuff and so you'll just have to wait until Dec 27 when everything arrives at my place and I can take pictures of it all. But just so you know: the couch's color is standstone.

But getting back to point: Two weeks and counting. How's that for a reality check? I have to pack soon. I've been blissfully ignoring that aspect. And with my party this Saturday I get to hold off for a few more days while I pretend to be using my spare time for the party. But we all know it'll be all last-minute work for me. I figure I'll start packing a week from tomorrow, with Friday and Saturday being the heavy days. I packed up my Clifton apartment in one day and a few hours; I won't need a full week to pack up here. Three days, tops.

I've spent five years in this place. It's second nature to me, instinctual. Everything is here, has been for . . . way too long. I think of me, now, at 29 and I think of me, then, at 24. Not enough has changed. And it needs to. I don't like that the me at 24 is so similar to the me at 29. That I stare at the same walls, go to the same stores, the same roads.

Anyway. Two weeks left. Still plenty to do. I was just staring at an Ikea catalogue that serendipitously found its way to our apartment. I think all this furniture shopping has forever spoiled me on Ikea. I mean, they have some interesting ideas but, over all, they got some ugly furniture. There's incidentals I'd like to buy from them--bathroom stuff, and I'm certain most, if not all, of my bookshelves will be bought from them. But looking at their wall units and bedroom decor . . . I know Ikea has their niche, but I think I'm no longer part of it.

Still, there's more things to do: PSE&G is activated but I have to get my phone and cable ready. I have a meeting tomorrow with my financial advisor to discuss my investments and how to handle any banking changes that may occur (it seems there's some Bank of America's in my area after all, so I might keep my accounts with them; still not sure yet.) And of course there's the small matter of coordinating with Sean so that my exedous doesn't leave him too inconvienenced.

Two weeks. Where did the time go? When did two weeks become a short amount of time? I still remember when something two weeks away seemed interminable. Now it's barely a moment.

Bah. I'm getting out of here before I get mauldin again.

I'm seriously burnt out.

I'm seriously burnt out and yet I'm making my third blog entry in, what, three hours? so there's an odd sort of reasoning at work here . . . but I think the operative word is "work". Blogging isn't work. Or at least these particular entries aren't work. If they are--or were--work, then I wouldn't be making them.

The point is: I'm fucking burnt. It's occured to me that, with exceptions here and there, I've been working ten hour days. Now this may be nothing to some people. Miller works crazy long hours, and he's on call even when he's home. But to me, working ten hours a day is pretty damn exhausting. And with the office closing and the whole "transition" of production from Totowa to Reynosa . . . work is fucking rough.

And I have so much to do. I'm supposed to working (there's that word again) on my mother's hannukah gift: I've actually begun restoring the old photos she gave me back in . . . I dunno, late Spring or something. I say "begun" because that's as far as I got. I worked on them for three or four hours on Tuesday and haven't touched them since. I was supposed to work on them tonight except the idea of having to spend any amount of energy on anything remotely requiring concentration (yes, writing these blog entries takes no concentration whatsoever. this explains why these entries are littered with digressions, and also, I believe, speaks quite poignantly to the true value of this blog. But I digress.()

The point is, I've barely done any job searching this month. A couple resume's sent out last week. Nothing since. Because, to be totally honest, as increasingly apprehensive as I am becomming about my impending umemployment, I am so very much looking forward to not working. The stress, the choas, the constant full-speed running of my job is just draining me. Now I know why Mike was doing drugs--I've got a fifth of his responsibilities and the beer Sean has in the fridge keeps looking more and more appealing.

I've got two weeks left. Today, actually, was the official two week mark, as two weeks from today, December 23, is my last day. Tomorrow is Pete's last day. And the more I think about his situation the more terrible I feel. I know I have a long road ahead in looking for another job. But, really, evenwith the new apartment, the risks are minimal for me. What's the worst that happens? I put my belongings in storage and I move back to my folks for a few months until I find a job. But Pete--he's got a mortgage for a house he bought just last year, he's got a kid in college and a daughter in grade school, and his wife doesn't work. And the company he's worked for for 12 years is kicking him to the curb with barely a by-your-leave.

I know some of the reasons why this is happening, and I do understand why. I get the advantage of knowing that had I not planned my own exit, I'd be one of the people to help turn off the lights for the last time. Anyone with half a brain who sees the situation has to ask: why is the guy who is with the company for two and a half years preferred to the guy who has been there for 12? There's a harsh reality in that answer. Pete knows it; which is why the personal realtionship we've had has deteriorated steadily since April. And he knows it's why he's one of the first to leave.

It isn't fair; I'll be the first to admit it. But corporations aren't fair. Business isn't fair. I know my glass ceiling when it comes to the corproate world. I know that as I get older (provided I'm still nine-to-fiving it when I'm in my 40's and not living the high life as a self-employed web designer) that there'll be some kid ten or twenty years younger than me who'll come into the picture and leave me in the dust. It's the nature of the beast.

Jesus, this entry has taken a bizarre turn. What the hell am I even talking about?

I dunno. i have to find a decent way to release some stress, because I can't seem to decompress properly. Watching TV doesn't do it . . . focusing on "work" nly stresses me out more. I should re-think my furshining budget, save some money for an exercise bike or walking machine. I have a feeling something like that would be extremely beneficial for me in the coming months.

On the bright side (depending), my furniture search is going quite well. Last night Kate and I went looking around at things and I think I've found a couch. It's this one. Yes, it's purple.

My parents seem dismayed by this. My parents also seem to think that I cannot dcecorate my apartment. Which, admittedly, is true because I have the style and fashion of mildew on fungus. However, I am blessed with many people (many female people) who are blessed with actual style and fashion sense, and it's rather annoying that my trust in them is being questioned.

Yes, it's a purple couch. it's a nice purple couch. And it's quite comfy. KLate and I tried many a couches in three furniture stores and though one or two were softer, none had the right balance of "soft-yet-firm" that I liked. And the style works for me and the color is cool. So while the rain on my parade is not appreciated, it is endured.

Now, mind you, I haven't bought anything yet. Kate and I went to Seaman's, Levitz, and a place called Futurama which was not very "rama" given their selection. Seaman's had the best selection of items that struck my fancy. I also saw some table lamps, standing lamps, and a dresser that I liked. But nothing's bought yet. I'm still going to Maple Shade on Saturday for more shopping in case anything else strikes my fancy. But right now I definitely have serious contenders for the majority of my furniture needs.

By the by, let me ask you something: Does furniture prohibt you from getting laid? I know one or two of you who read this blog probably have sex, so let me ask you: Have you ever been about to do the nasty with a girl (or, in case only my female readers actively get some: if you're about to do the nasty with a guy . . . and now that I think about it, in case there's any gay readers, these options apply to you as well.... where was I?)

Oh yeah: If you were about to have sex with someone, has the mood ever been shattered because they didn't like your furniture? And I don't mean did the fact that your apartment is a dump turn them off, I don't mean that your furniture was all falling apart and had insects crawling in and out of it. I mean if you had a neat, relatively stylish domicile, did someone refuse to have sex with you because they didn't like the style or type of furniture you had.

The reason I ask is that my father called me up at the office today and we were bullshitting about this and that, and he mentioned that, to impress the women, it would be better if I had a chest of drawers rather than a dresser. He said that in his experience, women found chests more masculine than dressers. And at first I thought this welcome enough advice, but then I thought about it some more, and I honestly can't understand why.

I mean, I would think I'd have to worry far more about the 6,000 comicbooks being a turn off more than the fact that my clothes are in a dresser rather than a chest. Perhaps I was wrong. Which is quite the relief because I was really sweating what I was doing to do with all of them.

But, really, if a women is going to be turned off because of the style of furniture I choose--if any woman would be that way--is that really a woman I'm going to want to be with? "Oh, Craig, you're everything I've ever wanted, but because you store your clothing in something less than four feet tall, it could never work between us."

I dunno, though. I mean, the last person I had sex with was crazier than I am. Furniture never entered the picture--but perhaps that was because there wasn't time. Maybe if Alex and I kept up our relationship, eventually she'd ditch me for someone with a sexy armoire. Perhaps it was really Ikea's fault that Patti and I didn't last and everything else was just a smokescreen.

So I ask you, people who have sex more than I (which, I think, covers 90% of the population): is my father right? Will I be doomed to celibacy over my choice of bedroom furniture? Kate!! Why didn't you tell me!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Now don't get me wrong. I understand the need for a nice apartment. I knwo that where I live now is just begging for some Queer Eye help. So having a nice looking apartment is a concern, and it is important to me that everything go well together and present an atmosphere of (relative) maturity.

But come on; ook at me. I am not a conventional kinda guy. I'm weird. My thought process is just slightly off from conventional standards. And let's face it: the girl that I will be with will also be slightly off from conventional standards. Do you really think one piece of furniture will be a make or break deal for her? (Though, on the flip-side: she could be so weird that furniture really does turn her on. What would you call that? A furnimaniac?)

I realize that the type of decor my apartment will have will reflect on me, and people will form opinions about me based on that. But to the extent that was insinuated just seems a little . . . ridiculous, don't you think?

Sorry for the lack of update yesterday. I was too busy fuming over my car accident.

Yeah, it's deja vu all over again. Not quite a year, but it IS Hannukah so fuck you very much, Mr. Maccabee. (Or is it Macabee? Eh. Call 'em 'Mac" and he'll be the first Irish Jewin history.)

I was driving northbound on 208. A busy road normally during rush hour, but this time was heavier than usual. I was in the middle lane, I just pulled over. The car ahead of me stopped. I stopped. The car beind me didn't.

My first thought was "I just totalled another car". Fortunately it's car from the case. Unlike last year's junkyard delight, this was just, literally, a fender bender. My reader fendor was hit, there's some scratched paint near the center of it, and it's loosened on the right hand side. Not blatantly hanging low, but it is loose, and my guess is the more I drive around the looser it will get. Nice to know I can look forward to a car repair as an early 2005 expense.

The guy was apologetic. He admitted it was his fault right off the batr, said the same to the police officer when he came to write up the accident. I got a tad annoyed with the way he kept saying how bad the highway is during rush hour because, really, if you knew it to be a rough road, perhaps you should have paid a bit more attention while driving on it. But beyond that--and the fact that, you know, he hit and damaged my car--he guy was all right.

My biggest worry was that, with two accidents in less than a year, I'd be dropped from my insurance carrier. But Brenda spoke to a friend of hers who's in the business and they said that as neither accident was my fauly because my company won't have to pay out (it won't; I registered the report with them but I'll be using the other guy's insurance to pay for repairs; and as he admitted it was his fault I doubt my insurance will pay out if the guy tries to claim damages through my company.) so I'm pretty certain that I won't be dropped. I can look forward to yet another lovely price hike in my rates (and after looking forward to a rate decrease because of my move), and I can kiss the idea of switching carriers for yet another year . . . but if that's the worst of it, I can live with it. All I needed was to have to spend the holidays looking for another new car.

Yeah, so, needless to say, I'm not a happy camper of late. I wonder though. If my 2004 started early with my first accident, does this one officially close out the year early?

I have officially taken rentership of Apartment 50-B in the Village of Stoney Run.

This is cool for many reasons:

1) I can now say, with total honesty, that I live in the Village. (Well, OK, not that Village. But close enough. Be seeing you.)

2) My apartment rocks. You should know this by the previous entry's dazzling display of photojournalism. And I got chicks to help me decorate, so it will look even better with stuff.

3) Did I mention the Dishwasher? I think I shall name her Little Bertha. I would've named her Big Bertha only, in all honestly, she's not that big. I suppose some may find my unclean love of Little Bertha disturbing . . . society often scorns people who love their appliances. But I have no worries; she is a dishwasher after all, she will make my unclean love perfectly clean, with a fresh lemony scent.

4) It's mine, and mine alone. Now, let's be fair; Sean has been a great roommate, I doubt you could ask for a better one. (Well, having Nicole Kidman for a roommate would probably be very cool. But I doubt she'd be willing to watch TV and enjoy make crass comments at all the hot TV actresses. Then again, you never know.)

My point is: Sean has never given me any reason to not want him as a roommate. But, still, there comes a time when you just have to have a place of your own to do with as you will. To run around naked, to host Satanic rituals, plan the overthrow of democratic governments, host the weekly meeting of the Union of White Slavers; you know, all the little things that, for some reason, would get on Sean's nerves.

It's very odd having two apartments. I feel almost wealthy: "Ah, yes, well, the Brookdale home is nice but we'll be at our Winter Home in time for Christmas." But, even with the apartment completely empty, it felt good to be there. It felt comfortable. It felt very strange taking ownership of a place that I won't see again for another week and a half, but that will change soon enough.

Yesterday I counted out the fact that I had only 17 more working days. Technically speaking, with weekends and holidays my time in Bloomfield is a mere 25 days. It's going to fly by. I was worried at first that it would be a very slow month; I look ahead at the upcomming weeks and I see a lot of tiring work ahead of me; not just at the office but just in terms of getting things ready.

And the odd thing is, even when I move, I'll still be up in this area; Christine's Birthday is the 27th. And the computer table will not be dismantled until after my move, so I will have to come back here to take care of that, not to mention drop off the keys and officially lock this place up.

As a happy coincidence, I got a call from a placement agency yesterday. They saw my resume online and invited me in. Let me tell you how great that feels--to have someone find my resume (not handed to them for review) and decide, without any prompting, that I'd be someone who has the experience and abilities they know they can sell to their clients. (On the flip side, I could've been one of 7,000 people who they did the same to, but I'll take my breaks where I can get them.) So on top of getting the apartment, I got all dressed up and suited for an interview with Accountemps. I can't say I'm overly optimistic about it. As their name implies, they mainly deal with accounting companies and the like. But, for what it is, I'll run with it.

I want to move into my apartment now. You might have noticed: I'm not big on the whole waiting thing. Just pack up my stuff tonight and move on down; let me go to sleep in Maple Shade; no more Bloomfield. Away Essex County! We've had our fun and now our time is done. . . .

Am I a sentimental sap, or what?

Eh. There'll be time enough for nostalgia. I lost one of my warehouse people today. Not so much lost as I know what happened to him. He quit. Can't say I blame him--I hired him two months ago; I doubt I'd have much loyalty either. Feels a bit embarassing, though, considering it was my choice to hire him. I knew he wasn't going to stick around once word of the falling axe was announced. I just wish I could've used him through this week; now were one short for the physical inventory and our other warehouse guy is already swamped. Watch him quit, too.

Oh, and our TV is back. Dunno how it happened; Neither Sean nor I were home all day but when I got home this evening the cable was working. I celebrated by watching TV for about four hours straight. That's a trully sad thing, I must say. I just wish I didn't miss yesterday's episode of Gilmore Girls.

Ah well. It's getting late and I want to fire off one or two resume's before calling it a night.