2003-12-23 - 10:15 a.m.

Soulless Chocolate Husks.

T-Minus 9 hours, 14 minutes until no more This Year Work. As I speak, I am closing several dockets. Accounting for time I’ve been astute enough to keep. Making what I can’t account for up as I go, which is most of it. Drinking my second of 4 daily Starcrack coffees (you should see the size of the fucking mugs, though – seriously doc..2 or 3 *ahem-verybig-ahem* cups a day is all!) anointed with Client Supplied Brandy. What the fuck, right? Fucking Xmas.

This morning one of the artists I send work to sent, in return, an upside-down, pure dark chocolate, handmade top hat, filled with truffles. How fucking cool is that. If the Big Guy din’t take the camera to Hawaii with him, I’d show you, it’s that fucking cool. Even has a white chocolate ribbon around it.

So I took a BIGASSED chomp out of the brim and with my Bic pen, carefully sucked the Blackberry-Chocolate and Cognac-Mousse from several round ones, tidily replaced the brown husks in their paper wrappers and put the hat out for the seagulls to start. I’m still waiting for one of my filthy Mini-Onions to “EEEEWWWW”.

“Pound of flesh,” my neophytes. A pound of perky, pink flesh is the tole to learn from a Master. And if ya thinks I’m just being arrogant, fuck you – I get paid nicely for teaching 3 hour, ahem, MASTER CLASSES in Photoshop.

Still trying to convince the Company to put “Master” on my business card. Or “Head Muckey-Muck”. “Weapons Master” would be cool, but then again, “King Dong” would be the fucking best.

Now I’m sitting here laughing, covered in chocolate shavings. The Djinn found the first soulless truffle, squeeled, opened my door and threw the other half in the direction of my head. She’s a girl. Throws like a girl. Hits window, 7 feet up. Slams door in utter lack of composure and respect.

This job can be fucking great at times.

4 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.