Work...

...sucks.

I mean, it really, really sucks.



I'm afraid the shelf on my desk is going to break under the weight of all the crap I need to refer to while writing my current article. The magazine it's for has obsessive -- make that anal -- readers, and the slightest misstatement or error will provoke an avalanche of angry mail from people whose lives are consumed by knowing all there is to know about the subject.

Me, I'm a hired gun, a freelance who has not devoted every waking moment since Age Three learning the complete, down-to-the-last detail history of same. I know enough to grind out a good yarn; if there's something I don't know, I leave it out. And that won't satisfy this crowd.

I'm not in the mood, anyway. Haven't been for too damn long.

In fact, to hell with it. I'm going out for a nice long drive, in the hopes that'll clear my head.

The article, and the hideous mess formerly known as a "desk," will be waiting for me when I return. And when it's done, there will be another, and another....

Sheesh.