It's entirely too late for this

I've just been informed that my attempts to reproduce a preppy lockjaw accent make me sound like Margaret Dumont.

Also, working Fridays is like dental surgery without the laughs. I got yelled at for "not being willing to help" when the guy on the pay phone wanted to know what number called his cell phone (wich he didn't have with him) about four days prior. Incidentally, he had no idea who his cell provider is.

Message to catamorphism: We got your Greyhound thing in the mail, so yes, you'll be able to make it out of town on Monday. We also have squalor, and in some quantity; we'll try to deal with it as much as possible, but it's not exactly going to be white-gloves levels of clean. Consider this an official disclaimer.

I think I'm going to go find out what my bedroom ceiling looks like through my eyelids. G'night!