Don't Say It's A Comeback

No, I'm not dead yet. I have been buried with work, saddled with a loser case (it's like that incompetent mess of an asshole summer associate that your firm is forced to hire because he's the son of a major client--except in case form), and riddled with the afflictions you'd find on a fifty-year-old Jersey mobster sustained by a daily diet of hoagies and garlic knots (peptic ulcer, waking up in the middle of the night hyperventilating, shortness of breath, did I mention the friggin' bleeding peptic ulcer).

Once I deal with this loser case, I think I might take the rest of the year off and just friggin' relax until I can get my blood pressure down and stop having those task dreams (you know the dreams, where your mind decides to focus on one thought or task--if I press the green button I will sleep, if I finish this memo I will sleep--so you press the green button in your dream or you try to type of this memo and your mind goes round and round and round). I'm beginning to feel like the Nameless Narrator of Fight Club with all the sleep trouble I am having. I am Marty Stark's bleeding stomach. I am Marty Stark's migraine headache. I am Marty Stark's diminished lung capacity. Sheesh. At least I've lost some weight.