I don't have a very good memory. Let's see if I can remember yesterday. That wasn't too long ago.

I was up in the early hours of the morning, and came on here for a while. I think I wrote to Margaret and Dee. Maybe that's when I did my Beatles post. Then I went back to bed. Woke up just in time to get ready for work, after 7. I have an internal alarm clock. I never need an alarm. I think that was the day that I got alarmed about finances and wrote an email to my college daughter that I can't afford to pay for a trip to Las Vegas for her, because I can't pay for a pot to piss in. She booked it, and I hope she got money to pay for it because I sure don't.

Okay, move the clock forward to 830 am, and I'm at work on a Friday morning. The traffic was minimal so it only took 20 minutes to drive to work. Other companies are closed on Good Friday, so there weren't a lot of cars on the road or in the parking lot.

I got an email from a woman named Mary, asking when I'd get to her client's work. I wrote back to her that I wouldn't get to it for months. Not the answer she was expecting, maybe, but a truthful one. Better than ignoring her or lying to her. Screw it anyway, there is no reason on earth for me to get to it before June or July, with all the pressing matters I have.

Got another email from some client who I never heard of, who I apparently inherited from one of the people who quit. They also wanted to know when I'd get to their work. I never heard of them, have no idea what their work is, and have no intention of finding out in the foreseeable future. I didn't reply to that one. Fuck em. When their deadlines approach, they'll be on some list or other, and I'll look at it then.

So I started in on the sandwich my wife packed for me. There was baloney on dark brown bread, and there was jelly all over it. I didn't finish it. Some of it ended in the garbage. Then I went for the sliced turkey and the lettuce and the little plastic cup of jello.

I think I'm doing a really good job of remembering yesterday.

There's this big case I've been working on. When I worked on it last year I remember it had me nervous, because it's an important client and a big job. The client contact is a stupid bitch. Well, this year I had to tell her that her company's W-2s were wrong, a lot of the stuff she sent me was wrong, and she can't just give people back money now to make it right, because 2007 is over, and you can't give people money in 2008 to pretend you didn't take it from them in 2007. And she said why not? And I said cause you can't do that. We're getting along a bit better now. I had to put her in her place a few times cause she is just so damn complaining and demanding and bitchy. And I don't take that shit from anyone. She's the kind of stupid shit who delays things herself and then demands to know why you delayed it. She makes a lot of money too. Like $80,000 a year. Not bad for an absolute idiot. More than me.

So this year, yesterday, I put the finishing touches on that case and put it in for review. The place I work for is very conscientious about having peer review. No matter how good you think you are, somebody with a fresh pair of eyes is probably going to spot something to fix.

Then I saw this file that has been sitting on a chair in my room. I had put it aside weeks ago because a bigger fire emerged. Yesterday I had the luxury of picking it up again to see where the hell it was and what the hell I needed to do to get it off my chair and out the door. I was surprised to see that it was almost completely finished, and it only took less than a half hour to put the finishing touches on it and put it in for review. One less file kicking around my room.

Then I figured okay, I'll get to the tricky mess that Steve gave me a few days ago. IRS asked a bunch of tough questions about work that my predecessor did, someone who quit. This is a God awful mess, particularly to me, since I didn't do the work myself and yet I have to explain it to IRS. They had a page full of questions. I attacked one of them. IRS wants to know how the benefits for 6 people were calculated. I have no fucking idea, okay? It's complicated as hell. You take some formula or other, then you add in the frozen benefit, whatever that is, and believe me it's a mess, then you subtract out the subtractable benefit, whatever the hell that is, then you do a little dance like Woody Allen did when he was cloning a nose, and presto, you hopefully arrive at the number that Judy reported to them last year. Fat chance.

I knew my only chance was to find a worksheet that Judy may have done, coming up with those specific numbers. Because there is no way in hell I'll be able to recreate it from scratch. So I searched through papers in files. I found a scrawled in pencil worksheet that had all kinds of incomprehensible things all over it, and it actually had the numbers IRS is looking for, on two of the six people. That made me so happy that I had a sexual orgasm at my desk, making some little desk embryos.

I can't explain what Judy did. The numbers and words are right in front of me, scrawled all over that paper, and I'll just give IRS the paper and see what they make of it. Whatever the hell she did, there it is, have fun.

Then I found a typed up page with numbers all over it, concerning about 8 people, and 1 of the 8 is also on IRS's list, so I made a copy of that, and now I'm done with 3 of the people IRS is questioning. I realized that I have no clue how the other 3 were done. Which might seem a bit depressing. But I was saturated, and it was almost time to go home, and next week is another week, and problems have a way of getting solved, so fuck it.

Keep in mind that when I say I found a piece of paper with fucking numbers all over it, that leaves out all the time I spent looking at hundreds of pieces of paper that don't have shit on them.

It also leaves out lunch hour, which I spent in my car, reading my old National Geographic magazine about pre-Roman Italians, Samnites and Umbrians. Then I got some sleep. I wake up in time to return to work. Still getting over the flu.

One valuable lesson I learned from having intestinal flu for a few weeks now. If you think you have to go to the bathroom, I strongly suggest you don't delay, because things happen fast. I walk slow and cool, but that is not the preferred method of walking when you have intestinal flu and something is rumbling. Move your bloomin' arse, as they say in Mary Poppins.

There's this new guy at work who stubbornly insists that his name is Brian, though he looks like a Kevin to me. He's tall and Irish looking, maybe early 30s. Yesterday I popped in to his office and asked him how he's doing. He replaced Deirdre, who put in a lot of OT and weekends, which is why she quit. So I figure that Kevin must be behind the 8 ball unless he's also putting in lots of OT. He said he's doing okay, but staying til 530 every day. I don't know when he comes in, but I assume it's before 3. I told him that you can only do one thing at a time, and as for the rest, fuck it. Whatever is number two on your priority list is just out of sight out of mind. Then I told him about the email where I told Mary that I wouldn't get to her shit for months. He had a kind of holy shit reaction to that. It's not the kind of thing one normally tells a client.

Hey, Mary, your shit? I aint getting to that for months. Fuck it. I wish you'd take your client to some other company, for real, just go away. Don't leave upset, honeybun. Just leave. Take your goony goo case with you. Sayonara. I'll miss you when you're gone. The things we'd say if we were at liberty to say what we're thinking.

It's 430, time to go. Drive home. I say that every time I get home without a traffic ticket or damage to the car is a victory. I pass four cop cars on every trip home, and that is only 20 minutes of driving. Cops are like mosquitoes where I live. Protect and serve, my ass. All they're serving is the town treasury, giving away every ticket they can. Traitors. Fuckin cops. At least I have the comfort of knowing that most of them hate being on traffic duty. Which means at least they are semi-human. Some of em.

Once home, time to eat. Wife bought White Castle. A few tiny burgers, a chicken or a fish (how to tell the difference is beyond me), some fries and onion rings. That was okay. After I have White Castle, I think okay, I don't need to do that for another four months.

I played a baseball game. All time White Sox lost again, to some other team. The all time Chicago White Sox really suck. That is the single worst franchise in baseball history. Once you get past The Big Hurt, Frank Thomas, you're pretty well done. When the best center fielder your team ever had, in over 100 years, is Chet Lemon, you have a problem. When your right fielder isn't Babe Ruth, or Hank Aaron, or Mel Ott, or Roberto Clemente, it's Harold Baines, you aren't scaring anybody.

Then I came on here and reminisced about baseball teams of the 50s. And I wrote back to people who wrote to me, and looked at some of the My Users posts, and subscribed to whoever just subscribed to me, and noticed that I am up for an award for making people laugh on here. Good. Better than being remembered for pissing everyone off, which I do too. I'm great at pissing off pretty much everyone, and it's a good thing that they all pretty much ignore me when I'm on a soapbox.

How many people you know cut Uncle Sam a new asshole every other Tuesday, and also believe in God and ghosts, while disbelieving in organized religion? Hey, that's me, what can I say. I think America absolutely sucks, our religions are all fiction, and the theory of evolution is taken way too far when it is used to explain the origin of species, because it is apparent that "Intelligent Design" is the way to go, and God does in fact exist, all reports to the contrary notwithstanding.

Basically, I believe that pretty much everything we were ever told is wrong. Hey, don't sweat it. I'd rather make you laugh.

Then I watched the movie Truman, which seems like a pretty good allegory of our own lives. You think Jim Carrey as Truman is the only one in a staged environment and star of his own reality show? Nope. You are too. You are Truman. Same deal. Your life is the exact same as Truman's and you have your own viewers now and then too. Reality is unreal. The only truth is in heaven. Earth is a stage prop. Your physical body is a stage prop. We are spirits in the material world. Our true home is heaven. Earth is the school of hard knocks. That idiot you see in the mirror is not you.