tangledupinblue

When your mother sends back all your invitations
And your father to your sister he explains
That you're tired of yourself and all of your creations
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all of the flower ladies want back what they have lent you
And the smell of their roses does not remain
And all of your children start to resent you
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all the clowns that you have commissioned
Have died in battle or in vain
And you're sick of all this repetition
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

When all of your advisers heave their plastic
At your feet to convince you of your pain
Trying to prove that your conclusions should be more drastic
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

Now when all the bandits that you turned your other cheek to
All lay down their bandanas and complain
And you want somebody you don't have to speak to
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?
Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?

~~~daily dylan~~~~

I've sold out. I'm not at the ballpark. I'm missing the Mets home opener. To be fair, I haven't completely sold out. I did leave the office to work from home and watch the game on television. I miss the student life. I used to sweat bagging classes a lot, but fundamentally, you shouldn't stress over at as you are paying them to teach you. It's a whole different deal when you are getting paid to do the showing up.

But still, I was not feeling it, after working so goddamn hard this weekend, and especially after learning that it really was work that did not need to be done under such time sensitivity -- but hurry up and wait situations happen all the time in litigation departments. It's just the nature of the beast. Still much rather be doing this than being a transactional lawyers. If I wanted to do deals I would have just been an investment banker and made twice the money. But the company sucks. I know, lawyer slinging shit, right? Well, hell we are allowed. We take more crap than any other profession, but when y'all get busted in a bar fight at 5am with an ounce of the kind bud, who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters? Fuck no, you call Blue Trash and my litigious brethren.

I've noticed that my journal entries are either incredibly mundane or so reflect being overwhelmed by mortality and questions of divinity that they have all the eloquence of the wide-eyed child looking at the night sky trying to formulate the question of what comes AFTER the end of the heavens. So I imagine none of them are especially good reading. Sorry about that folks. If its any consolation, writing them helps me get a handle on the saddle bronc ride of my soul, so thanks for reading and commenting. I'm more interesting in person I promise -- if uglier -- so I'll buy you all beers at the dive bar of your choice when you all wander into Manhattan.

This is Trash, Esq.

edited to say I am all day with the cock up for beating the Braves. 10 - 6, Mets. No Floyd, no Piazza, no Reyes, no fucking problem.