Crunch Time

"Crunch time crunch time." In my days at Wells Fargo as a home mortgage refi temp (oh, how those months have sunk into the black hole of willfully-forgotten memories, thank gawd), around three pm every Friday people were running around the maze of cubicles clutching credit reports singing "crunch time, crunch time!", their fat, polyestered thighs whispering as they chugged along.

Here at the Press though, late afternoon on a Friday resounds with a different mantra: "beer o'clock! beer o'clock!" The joy of it!

It's gorgeous out. I went next door and got a cup of coffee to get me through these final hours. The baristas and I chatted amiably about the sun and my explodingdog t-shirt.

Soon now, very soon, my legs will unfold from underneath this desk, where they've sat, moribund, like a pair of vesitigial appendages somehow left over from the times when my ancestors might have used them to propel their bodies from freshly-killed wildebeast to sanctity of nearest cave. Soon though they'll be pumping the pedals of my bike as I make my way south through the clogged streets. My thighs shall burn deliciously! After that, a run. I must atone for the box of girl scout cookies, which I have ravaged mercilessly all afternoon. I love you all!