I've gone out to find myself...

It's 12:05 and I've been clicking this mouse and tapping this keyboard faster than a young Ray Charles going through smack withdrawl. To say it's been busy would be an understatement, but I just took a break to grab some lunch and to feed my dog's little addiction.

You see, I've become a biscuit peddler and he has turned into a crack whore. I don't know what the hell they put in those things, but he's taken to following me around and making these odd actions like he's trying to tell me something. If I ignore him, he persists until I, stupid human, understand that he wants another biscuit, or else go somewhere that he can't follow, like back to my office. It started with two a day, one in the morning, and one later at night, but now he walks around making these moist lippy noises and eyeballing me like a gargoyle until I cave.

It's unsettling.

But even more unsettling than that is this past phone exchange.

I got a call from Coop a few moments ago:

"Where the fuck are you?"

"umm... home."

"Okay, 'cause, I just saw your fucking doppelganger walking down the street."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I'm on my way to the shop and passed this guy walking down the streets of Hellam and thought that's fucking Bob. I was going to go turn around and pick you up."

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment more than you know, but nope. I'm right here. At least I think I am."

Then Coop had to hang up because he was headed into work.

I hear my dog at the top of the stairs licking his lips again for another smack biscuit, but if you happen to see me out anywhere, be sure and tell me that I said hello and send my best.