Today Gerald called out sick so he could get a doctor to check out his nose. It was still kind of purple and made a whistling sound when he breathed through it.

When I got to the remote lot, no one seemed to notice the rear of the garbage car had been smashed beyond repair. People had even been so courteous as to throw their trash in the newly opened trunk rather than resting it on the car where it could blow away.

At work everyone was asking me about Gerald. My desk is in front of the fax machine, so a lot of people like to talk to me after their fax goes through so they can continue not doing their job.

I normally don't mind, although there are times when I think I should have pigeon wire installed on the walls of my cube to keep people from leaning on them.

Reynaldo came by around lunch to tell me Marcia said she had a good time, and wanted us to come to a party at their place this coming weekend. He asked about Gerald, and said it looked like it was broken when we left the bar.

Then he told a story about seeing some guy riding a bike get whaled in the face with a softball.

When I got home from work, one of the bodybuilders on the first floor was checking his mail as I walked in. He asked if someone was doing work at our place, as he heard banging all afternoon.

I got upstairs and Matt was out, Gerald was spread out on the couch with some "tasty" painkillers (his words) he had gotten at the doctor, and the crate of steak knives had made its way from the closet to the middle of my room. It looked like Matt had tried to open it earlier that day.

I was kind of pissed he had left the crate like that, but I had spent the weekend squeezing past it to get out of my room and figured climbing over it to get into bed was the more desirable of two shitty arrangements.

I can't wait for him to sell that slushy machine.