I get home and I peel off my filthy armor and just leave it on the living room floor in a stinking heap. Crawling into the bath tub, I soak my battered body in scalding water for the better part of an hour. I’m going to look like a prizefighter in the morning. I can practically feel the bruises bubbling their way up through my flesh to the surface.
Too confused and angry to focus, I seek the comfort of cable television. I am an American, after all.Laying there, slowly working on a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream, I look at the TV without actually watching it while I work the night’s events around in my head.
Did I really hit Dr. Quark in the balls? Was that a smart thing to do?
I’m wondering if I should actually show up at the meeting tomorrow with the super-assholes who run the company, or if I should just change my name and get out of town.