We were both dressed to the nines, sitting on the edge of that picnic table. There were dinosaur sprinkles and everything. The whole shabang.

We even danced in the kitchen, he dipped me.

When I took that Christmas tree air freshener from the store, he covered for me, and we flew away when they pursued.

We make a regular old Bonnie and Clyde, I tell ya, and I'll love him forever, down to the last freckle.

But it's not you, and it's not right.

Sometimes I feel like the moon.

I'm a hole again.

I know people on the outside, on the other side.

As fate, or, what is more likely some scheming devils would have it, the building of management was burnt down some time ago.

I had everything crossed against that, too.
Upon arriving I fought the urge to cry, and as per usual turned it instead into that awkward silence.

There's a small square blue tin that houses a fist full of Mgmt's ashes,

Just in case.

and for now, at least, it will be kept hidden behind the books and the faces of reason.

If staff decides to rebuild on a new location, if anything at all changes:
Have your people call my people, we'll do lunch.

Radio: deactivated

I'm searching the air waves for that station, ready to tune to it. Every once in a while I'll pick up a trace of that familiar voice from the 11 o'clock news, but just as quickly it vanishes again.

I do wish the station would pick some regular broadcast hours, you know.
It'd make tuning in and turning up the volume a heck of a lot easier.

I expect soon to be marching into the offices myself and giving the manager a good talking to.

Hopefully they'll be there to listen, and I won't chicken out and leave a note and contact number with the secretary again.

For now I've got my Private Radio.

Do do doodoo do.

You're SUCH a little girl.

Life story:

CHILL THE FUCK OUT. Throw shit off that cliff.