Laramie, I am so out of here, I can’t even tell you. You are, as of five minutes from now — when I’ll be walking out the front door — completely and totally on your own. Don’t call my cell phone because I won’t answer. Don’t leave voicemail because I’ll delete it. Don’t send me email because I won’t read it. Don’t send me snailmail because I’ll burn it. I’m through with you people. Period. You’ve been the biggest pain in the ass site I’ve ever had to deal with and I can’t say just how happy I am to be shut of you.

…and as I was writing the above, the GM came in and badgered me for five minutes about “How do I divide this $237 bill evenly between these seven advertisers?” and then kept bitching about how it wouldn’t divide evenly dollar-wise the way the software handles it. I seriously almost punched him in the forehead just to shut him up.

So, yeah, I’m outta here. Ladies and gentlemen, the Elvis tattoo has left the building! For good!

Oh. My. God.

I’m working on my laptop — actively typing, so it’s not like it looks like I’m just screwing around (although I was — I was entering a comment on Jim’s journal) — when the DJ on the country station comes in.

John: Hey Chuck, are you a fisherman?

Me: Uh… Not so much, no.

John: Oh. Well, come look at some pictures I brought in of a trip I took with my dad last year.

Me: Ooooookay…

And he proceeds to show me three frigging packets of pictures, photo by photo, with a long involved description of each one. I saw:

• A trout
• Another trout
• His goofy looking kids

• A trout

• A skinny trout

• A fat trout

• His goofy kids again

• His dad

• More trout

• John holding a trout

• A trout

• A fishing pole

• Someone’s foot

• A lake

• A pile of rocks by a lake

• A trout

• A fly

• A trout

• A trout next to a net

• Etc.

Oh my God, I can’t wait to get out of here.