I should never have felt so proud of getting my cards done. It was inevitable that karma would sneak up and fuck me in the ass.

Pride goeth, blah, fucking blah, so I ended up losing my cell phone at a mall and running around getting it canceled and getting a new sim card and shit. That, of course, after back tracking around said mall for a pointless search that turned up nada.

I had a schedule. I had plans goddamnit. Why must the gods be smoting gods?

Among the Christmas joy and falderol and lights and irritating songs, I had a cool thing crop up via the place of work. Someone of the emeritus variety associated with the school down the road is hanging in some office space writing a book, on a Mac, which is where I come in handy. I’ve been providing ad hoc sort of tech support, hand holding when documents have acted up. (As is required by Microsoft Word regardless of OS.)

Anywho, the guy needs some formatting help and proposed I help for a price, given his usual student helper is under the weather. Alright, I say, ‘cuz your jammed up, but I can’t commit long term, all account of the book idea I have my own bad self.

We meet more formally to discuss what needs to be done for him. We go through that, he slides his notes aside and says something like, “I got some stuff published, yo, so let’s talk about your book idea, and maybe I can give you some advice.”

Awesome. Cool info, good insight, really encouraging when I tell him a couple of the stories I want to flesh out in the department of Pat and Dee-Rob, the adventures. I let him know the title and why. He’s either wickedly polite, or honestly interested.

Light editing and some mano to mano writing talk, makes me all tingly inside.

The punchline is for those who knew and loved Pat, or realized a little bit of the leit motif of our relationship. The book the guy is writing, it’s on GUILT.

Rimshot.