My bookshelf sits in the dining room

But the dining room has been converted into a home office for Calligraphy studio.

Here lies the spot where I contracted a wart from work. Of course, I don't usually give hands jobs to people. The fact that the urine from one of the homeless customers was contaminated is yet to be investigated. Actually, my doctors appointment was a set up to see how many traffic infringements I might break. First, the letter from my doctor gives me the address to an imaging office across town, the receptionist sounds like she needs a picker upper because I never did get clear where in the heel the office was located. Only reason I figured out where it was is because I'd asked if they had parking. Yes.

When I got there, I couldn't match the parking structure with the address, called from my car to ask receptionist desk how I could access the parking lot. When she told me the name of the street it's accessible from, I knew that street was way across town.

But the dot. Man... what the fuck? I was there for a neck injury from a cop's knee. I think it's broken actually. The funny thing is, I wouldn't have encountered the cop whose knee, and full weight of his doughnut swollen gut, was digging into my neck because I would comply with his inquiries, if I hadn't encountered the homeless customers trying to get some reading done with his filthy dick.

I don't remember being analyzed during my doctors "imaging" of my neck. I put it there. Got a shit load of bills and I missed capping my felt tip marker and jabbed myself in the exact spot where the wart appeared from the hand job at work which has probably been eliminated from known job duties involved in day to day responsibilities. But that just means I don't give hand jobs, so if I sign fake traffic violations, I'm gonna charge your mother's ovaries for my time.