2001-08-10 - 7:02 p.m.

Christ.

Working nonstop. I feel like James Taylor exploding with lysergic acid; (I'm oh so happy and won't you hold my hand friend and sing acoustic songs with me) being compelled to flash a few synthetic smiles.

Honestly. I have to display my falsified fucking grin even on the way to the bathroom, to prove my unabashed professionalism.

So there we are, stuck behind our societally contrived personas and our muddled laughs and one-sided conversation and disinterested notions and destructive self-preservation that typifies the work place.

let this dream end.