The fourteen boxes of dinosaurs.

In the back room, a handful of us unboxed the 150 remote control dinosaurs. "Who we giving these to?" "Not sure yet but who wouldn't want 150 one foot dinosaurs with rubber skin at their disposal?" "True...Can we have a dinosaur race before we give them away?" "You're always a few steps behind, aren't you Stanley?" *She looks at you for an extra second (while you force a grin) as to tell you she understands what you're going through* She gives you a giant stack of "AA" batteries and whispers "The race is in ten minutes."...During supervision she gives you quotes about romance and swooning, talks about grace, meanders as a good supervisor would on intimacy and living in the moment and not questioning things. A few clients called to cancel today so I spent most of the day doing paperwork, some stats, some objective randoms. Squirrel talked about her and her secret lover. This sprained finger won't seem to go away...Where is the cord to my shaver?...Where is Charlie's battery charger?...What is going on with all the dead bananas in my fridge?..."Observe the symptom set"...Jake left the most tender voicemail on my phone this morning. I have to make sure I spend some time on Sox's couch so she can run through her crazy astrology shit and explain to me a few things. Reprieve: The waves between reality and non-reality. Random dinosaurs and tripods that magically get pulled out of bags (and why does this fuckin bag strap suck so bad? Only Charlie could understand that rant). The sound of skateboard wheels. The sight of the side of your face as you find your way to the bathroom. Imogen Heap's "Closing in"...Sometimes you don't need to write the song when someone wrote it for you already. Sidestreet: A pringle, a cartwheel, some sanity, a suburb, the right to be wrong, and the realization (via members) that saying "it is what it is" is conceding your right to be right...I'm on a yoga mat and oddly its not a smokescreen of any sorts. That in itself is fairly endearing. I'm looking at the little girl at the bakery and will surely ask her mom in jest "Is she going to be the type of girl whom the baker doesn't let near the bread?" The mom'll just look at me, see right through me, and go about her business knowing I'm gonna ask her again the next time I see her.