I always find my dog Ed's post-kenneling depressions to be contagious. Pouting in her bed, she looks at me with sad, accusing brown eyes. "I had friends," they spit contemptuously at me. "I had sex. Why won't you just die, already?"
The little report card they give her doesn't exactly help me feel loved. Perpetually unchecked are "I had fun, but I missed you" and "I didn't eat much." Not my dog. Nuh-uh. "I had fun!" it says. "I loved my roommate! I loved my food!"
The trip I didn't much enjoy continues to bleed me dry. Forget the $200 Motown concert jack. That was chump change. Certain items seemed to sprint right out of my hotel room. My iPod, for instance. My binoculars. Super Bowl programs. The $50 triple-infused Gurka cigar Dirt gave me, just in case the Steelers won. My credit card. All mysteriously vanished. My dirty underwear and empty pizza boxes, thankfully, were all accounted for. I returned home to a charming double-whammy: In a story too long, torturous and dull to share, PayPal is stealing $2700 from me. (If I'm lying, they can sue me. Cocksuckers.) Winds caused $6000 damage to my beach stairs, which, yep, isn't covered by insurance. I'm really ready for some good news.
Oh. Yeah. And I'm back on Microsoft's campus today. Hide the knives.