Our working relationship has devolved to the point that we're like a dysfunctional couple who just can't say goodbye. He's got his new girl, and that's fine. She's prim and perky and keeps things so neat that you know she worries about the sheet-stain during sex. He gives me random things to take care of and absolutely no support, while I have taken to working at a pace so slow that if I were driving glaciers would be honking at me. I don't even type anymore, I just hold my finger near the keyboard and wait for tectonic movement to depress the keys. This needs to end. I need my freedom, he needs someone who's willing to answer the phone before the eighteenth ring, and the Writer's Guild West needs a less draconian registration website. "Ju put in spaces in your phone-number. Application DENIED! You learn to do it right next time, writer boy, or you no do it at all."
There's this bizarre semi-tension hanging in the air between us and it's really not worth the $12 an hour, which in New York City is almost enough so that if you put it in a panhandler's cup he won't spit at you. "Singles? I'm homeless, not Pakistani! PTUAH!" I can't break it off with him because the future reference hangs over my head like a prenup and he seems to be willing to deal with the tension, probably because he's as scared of the new girl as I am. She seems like the type who might snap eventually, coming into his office with scissors and a blank look on her face. "I keep cleaning, you keep making a mess. There's only one solution to this. Only one, permanent solution." I'm just hoping to get out of there before the carnage starts.
Meanwhile my writing goes neglected. One doesn't call oneself a writer and not write, it's just not proper. Gary the sheep fucker doesn't have this problem, he's serious about his occupation and god damn it he fucks sheep every day, not just when it's convenient. "I'm sorry, I can't come into the office today. Certified Public Accounting runs secondary to fucking sheep. Fucking sheep is what I do, it's who I am. There's a reason the kids don't call me Gary the CPA, and part of that is because you don't find me with my pants around my ankles standing over a stack of W-2s. I saves that for the sheep."
He told me that he might not need me tomorrow so I'm hoping to get something done then. Hopefully when he realizes that he's paying me good money to work so slowly that I'm not going to finish the filing until the Cretaceous period rolls back around he'll let me go. It's time for me to fly, like a canary let loose of its cage. I just gotta stay clear of coal mines and I should be golden.