Foreign investors are visiting the office tomorrow, and the boss is more than a little anxious about it. Actually, he always seems a little anxious, but more so now. Anyway, he wants everyone to be on their best behavior and dressed business casual. (Ugh. One day won't kill me.) He's especially concerned about the state of the office—he wants it to be as spotless and professional-looking as possible.

The thing is, my desk is usually covered by stacks of gay pr0n boxes. Not exactly professional. I asked him if he'd like for my desk to be clean when they arrive. Good Question, he replied. (Yay for good questions!) (Call me a suck-up if you will—and it's a loaded term in this business—but it's reassuring to keep on the boss's when you're as afraid of losing a job as I am.) He thought for a moment and said No, Go Ahead And Have Them On Your Desk. Have Lots. They Know It's What We Do, So Let's Stick Their Nose In It!

Have I mentioned that I love my job?

Except for the twinks. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the twinks.

2:08pm

Today is the sixth anniversary of the Columbine shootings, so I hope you'll all wearing your trenchcoats. I wonder if c0g still has the one with the red paint splatter.

Today marks the fifth business day I've worked at the gay pr0n company. In addition to the office key, I've also been given the code to the alarm, an important detail without which the usefulness of the keys is greatly reduced. That must mean they like and trust me, right? Right.

sometime after midnight

While slut is certainly a nice word, I think I like slattern better. Yes, definitely. I want to be a slattern.

One of the nice things about living in the sex-positive culture of San Francisco is that slut need not be taken as a pejorative. If someone called me a queer or a freak I wouldn't be insulted, even if it came from Maddy's brother-in-law, who would clearly mean it in the most hurtful way possible. Mind you, I would have a bit more difficulty with the word fag, since it implies that I'm a boy. If I was male-identified, there wouldn't be a problem.

In any event, the word doesn't really fit. Like poet, many people I respect and admire call themselves sluts, but I have yet to earn the right to it. Granted, I've been called a poet many more times than I've been called a slut. Give me time, I guess.

The Nice Lady didn't raise any objections to my activities this past week. But I guess she wouldn't.

There's been so much to tell, of ships and sealing wax and scratched feet, and so little opportunity to tell it. The PC has been moved to Unimatrix Zero, so until my new comptuer is put together, my online access at home will be spotty For as much as I've been home lately, which is very little, thus accounting for the Cozycave being a minor disaster area in spite of being much emptier than before.

I'm seeing The Nice Lady this afternoon, for the first time since the severance.

I like it here. I hope they keep me. I liked the last place, too, but this feels more suited to my personality. I've always wanted to work in the sex industry, and processing orders for stiffy pills doesn't count, though I had to tell myself otherwise at the time.

I'm starting out as an independent contractor. Of course. That's how these things operate. Sure, fine, okay. The money which would otherwise be withheld will sure (ahem) come in handy right about now. Taxes are next year. I'll deal with it then.

The request for me to start working today arrived shortly after I'd finished taking the final carload of Maddy's possessions from the Cozycave to Unimatrix Zero. For better timing, one could not ask. Friday through Monday were all about the moving. As was the majority of last week, but it feels like we did little else from Friday onward. If anyone thinks I've had it easy because Maddy is the one who moved out, they should take a look inside her apartment at all the things which I either carried, or in the case of furniture, helped to carry. Damn near everything, to be precise.

The bed and cats were moved on Saturday, so that was Maddy's first night in her new home. Per her request, I spent the night there, and again on Sunday. Monday was my first solo night at the Cozycave. It was sans bed, of course, but an eggcrate and blankets did the job nicely. The only problem was the accumulation of fuzz, dust bunnies and cat sand on the ground where the bed once was. Collette's letting me borrow her mega-vacuum cleaner this evening to compensate.

the potential for failure is extreme.