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.

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