Burning tired seeps from behind my retinal chasm. A caustic mixture of sleep deprivation saline solution drains from my tear ducts. I should, by most human standards, shove my dragging butt into the sheets. Insomnia engines are being stoked with potent coal.

Tis day uno of senor spancisco's emancipacion. They have declared me a free man. I walk the streets without a master. Got my forty acres, got my mule. Ready for this?

Some etherial doppler wave tickles my concious fontanelle. The preceding potential buzz of the alarm clock is enough to jostle me awake. As is the case often, I toss aside some bad brain, and focus my vision on a sanguine bright LCD display. As is the case often, I have stirred my body well before it is needed. As is the case always, even brief moments of thought doubts on whether or not I can return to the pillows, forces me off the mattress.

Postively purple Kool-Aid pleased that the weather is reporting a marching in of frosty climes. Makes my nipples hard. Snuggly comfy shirt breaks out my closet. Keep on comin on autumnal seasonings. I cheer and clap the five day forecast.

Still attacked the streets much later than normal. Exit interview ain't till nine thoighty in da moanin. I may enjoy treating myself badly due to some weird brain twist, but even I know when to ease up off the clock. I buffered an extra two hours in there, of which I only partially utilised one hour and a half worth.

The point of this droning, is that the struggle increases in fierceness when flagging down a jobby job commute taxi at eight in the soup sucking a.m. than it does at six thirty in the toad blowing a.m., see?

I will dust my own spats here for a sec. One of my more admirable qualities is learning my lessons well and quickly adapting to the new information. Extremely early in my Gotham tenure I studied the best tactics to fishing the rare available cabs from a rush hour stream. Patience and persistence of owning a corner are key. A flustered chick gives up on the battle, directly across the street from me. Literally two minutes later my ride breezes past her vacated post, and pops the locks for me.

Homie kills the music like a snapshot. Gives me the "cool brother" thumbs up, peddles the metal, and recranks the stereo.

Jazz coolie cat, jamming Frank. Mister Sinatra. And my man is getting down. Serious boogie behind the steering wheel. Voracious air snaps. It is an understatement to say this man is down with the chairman of the board. Happily I dug on his appreciation glee. Readily handle Rat Pack in the morning. Better than corn flakes.

Discover my desktop has been harvested for parts. It seems certain people I have worked with for multiple years now don't like me cause I am always right. A heavy stone to push up the hill. It ain't easy always being right. So these children, unable to retaliate with their own rightness, enact revenge on my work space when I'm not there. Treasures of crumpled used napkins, random office supplies, and esoteric garbage like a discarded boxing glove have been placed on my desk to seek my annoyance. And, on this, the last chance to unleash playground taunts, my machine has been cracked. Incredibly stoked that I am saying goodbye to them, on a forever like basis.

Computer will not even boot up. Part of me believes they have blocked my account already in preparation for my termination. Not so. Good old login works at another functioning station. Hop on the email and surf from there.

Time for the exit interview.

My HR partner is quite the curve package. Dangerously perfect height, constant parade of tantalising strappy footwear, pasta fed ass that sings to me when in motion. Delicious Italian creature. Her chest goes flush when successful flirtation occurs. She's got a serious dominatrix shadow following her around. Her irises tell rumors of an edgy party I want to be invited to. I tried emitting as much primitive subcell mating aromas as possible to spark her wick. I don't shit where I eat, but seeing as it was my last day and all, I was marking her as prey.

She didn't help either. The cynic spanky has pretty much degraded her flexing foot rubbing my calf while discussing severance as accidental, regardless of how long it lasted. Otherwise the phone number she gave me of her "personal line" was more than business. And that would send me into a monster monkey slap session ending with empty yambag cramps.

Fuck around on the net for a couple hours. Peeping the BBC, ESPN and my stats.

Saint Davistine arrives for his exit interview. Discusses the legal ramifications of the severance letter he is about to sign for his final money with his wife. We fax our last overtime sheets off to Colorado. Discuss the doom of the corporation with passing survivors. Saint Davistine suggests we begin the plowing early.

Set up personal apothecary shop in the cushioned corner of a booth in Twins. Irish pub around the corner from the office. Drain a few Stoli mixtures. Head back for our farewell soiree on the open air balcony.

Been with the company for over three years. I find it absolutely brilliantly exquisite that people didn't know who I was till my goodbye party. Honest prophets. I was delighted and cracked up in their face, vodka fumes cooking their beards.

Had quite enough of the compacted trash dispensing from people's faces. Made the mad dash for the exit. Slid the harnesses on and eased on out of there. If I had a hat, I would have Mary Tyler Moore'ed that sweet mother into the air. Fully expecting onlookers to begin singing "You're Gonna Make It Afterall". The air was the crispist. The freedom was reality. Bounced down the sidewalk like I swindled the crown jewels.

Wrestled with the Midtown sheep for another rare available taxi. Another open cab door sidles up like he was waiting for me to reach the pavement. Homie is blasting the Doobie Brothers and loving it like country ham and gravy.

Excellent.