***

I was gonna be responsible, I swear it. I was gonna stop babbling in the journal, and call the nice lady in Beaver Dam who just might have a job for me, but I seem to have lost her number.

OK, I thought, I can work with this. Bookstore Patti loves me. I can call her and explain, It's the funniest darn thing, ha ha, but I've lost Whatshername's number. Isn't that a hoot? Of course, we both know I'm still totally a responsible and dedicated sort, and really, the best possible kid for the job. So, just slide me that number, Patti, and then we'll both just forget this whole unpleasantness where I almost looked kinda like a drooling moron even happened.

I have no idea what the woman in Beaver Dam is named. It might be Kathleen. It could just as easily be Karen, or possibly Katherine. I'm pretty sure she wasn't named Gizmo or Frankie, but I'm not even totally sure I want to commit to that. Anything's possible.

Still, not a problem. I'll just pull up the ol' resume, see the name I addressed it to, call Patti and ask for a specific number, instead of "Uh, you know, that woman you said I should call", and still get out of the morning with most of my dignity intact. You know, except for the part where I actually call Ol' Whoosis, and grovel for a job.

My resume is currently on a disk. I knew exactly where the disk was. Things were looking up.

I dropped the disk. It shattered into a million pieces. OK, three pieces. But I don't know how to put it back together. I've never even seen a dissected floppy before. I had no idea such things were even possible. You know, they're disks. They grow on diskberry trees, or something.

I stared at the little pile of disk fragments in uncomprehending horror. Disk...with only chance for New Life...broken?!?!?? Aiiiiiiiiee!

There is in fact a God, and He is fucking with me.

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