The 90% rule, is that this is the rule. Ok?

It’s the absolute rule, and it stands for all cases.

Well, it is until it’s questioned atleast. But then, it’s still the rule.

But if you ask again, and then ask why it’s a rule. And go on to explain how it shouldn’t apply under these circumstances, to you, and your case specifically, it’s still the rule, for everyone. Well, for everyone but you. They are after all very unique circumstances, that make this specific rule: harsh, unfair, unreasonable, inconsiderate, thoughtless and wildly obtuse if used in application to your case. The very mechanism itself of the rule shouldn’t be used in such cases. Well, it should, infact cases that went before should perhaps be re-trialed. Is there a way for me to contact everyone that has mistakenly abided by this rule? What if they knew that this rule was not always in effect. And given more detail, the rule would not have applied to their case. Infact the purpose of the ruling was entirely supposed to be for cases unlike most of those it’s ruled over, held to account, applied to and been utilised for. Thankyou for reminding me of this rule.

All I’ve read recently, two books about naughty boys.
I had a good night of sleep, last night.
Which has stabilised my mood.
Robbie from work asked to bump our meeting, he’s running late in the city doing work.
“The lawyers are taking their sweet time you know,” is what he said.
I said, “That’s fine. I have back to back meetings until 2.00pm, so I’ll see you then,” flatly into the screen.
I noticed that my skin was looking a little red, young, without the beard.
Baby, angry and full of vanity.
I’ve got a detective novel in the wings. For better or worse. More naughty boys.

She drove through the rain to arrive in time for the lunch appointment. The road was slippery and traffic slow. Upon arrival it became apartment that there had been a miscommunication. He had brought beans for lunch, while she had not brought anything. He walked with her through the rain to his car and shared his umbrella. From there they drove back to his place where he prepared a modest meal pulled together from leftovers. She was happy and content. They made love on the couch. And then he returned to the office, 30 minutes late and wearing a different pair of shoes.

It is so long since I tried my hand.

Is it right to say, now, that we’re more thumb than ever?

Is it a try?

The best thing I can do for you is get that ‘no’ in writing for you.

My symptoms; glands up, kidneys sore, aches, pains, ingrown hairs, freckles, yellow teeth, a shortness of breath and a tight chest. It’s an uninspired balance. There is no risk, no danger. Only gradual decline.

“I want to retire early, work hard, I own two houses,” he said and then tried to get on with the mowing.

“Oh all right,” said the neighbour, going back to her business.

Today I finished In the name of the Rose – it was a battle, with some treasures well earned and many more overlooked or unnoticed on the slow turning page.

Flying from Hobart to Canberra, to Adelaide to LAX. Crashing in the hotel with mates. Many beers, jet lag – let’s jag.

Run down, but the back of the work is broken. So how about feel it. Ride, rest, relax.

I ride past a colourful house, and some metal rusted figures. Too quick to pass us by. No time to take a snap. Oh well, so much time. I suppose I’ll commit it to memory.

Care for the Eastern Sierra.

Radical inclusion.

I’m sitting in Chieflys – supposing the word ‘chief’ is a reference the many old Prime Ministers that came before them. Not sure about the rest. I’m sat down.

Table for…

One.

One, ok this way please.

It all starts with a continental breakfast, perhaps it’s complimentary. Perhaps not. I get a coffee and a pineapple juice. Thinking of the exploitation required to get this piping hot cup of stimulation into the unbranded matte black cup. The pineapple juice is a treat, it makes me think of swingers. Keys in the bowl, everyone. I sip at the tall tumbler and the sugar hits. My bleary eyes give way to a sharp delight. Both hands full with vessels of liquid. One hot and bitter, one cold and sweet. I return my table for one. The continental breakfast has arrived, same as yesterday. A miniature croissant, warm in the middle, crusty on the outside. A tiny yoghurt in a glass tub – with coulis and honey. There is also a minute bowl of mixed fruit, chopped into roughly bite-sized chunks. Pineapple(again) and varied kinds of melon. There’s a Jam “BEERENBERG” – perhaps the exact same as the day before. I don’t usually add condiments to my croissants. I didn’t yesterday, I won’t today. But I smile to think that this cafe only has one tiny tub of Jam. Handed to the Prime Minister for his microissants each morning and tactfully declined. From early Edmund Barton to Lyons, Page, Menzies, the missing Holt and much beloved Hawke, Keating and even little Johnny turned it down to continue it’s sweet preserved life. I try the lid, it’s secure. By god, I’m right. Although the packet looks half empty. I’m aware that packaging is usually surrounds the goods by more than half, but perhaps in this case one of the more greedy politicians had a taste and then arranged for a new lid? I wouldn’t put it past on of the more recent chiefs – SCANDAL. I’ll pass on the temptation of Jam for now. Pay it forward. I’m unknowing as to whether or not Albo has been in recently. I guess I could pocket the Jam and try to deliver it to him. He’d likely be confused, perhaps even annoyed – knowing that he’d have to return the Jam to Chieflys. They’d check the contents, any less than half and he’d be strung up. The media would have a field day. I can imagine the front page. PM takes the jam out of everyone’s donut. My second breakfast arrives. The “Prime Monister’s Breakfast”. Eggs “my way”, bacon, potato rösti, one pathetic slice of tomato. How can the eggs be my way? I thought the PM would have a set way. The jam and I sit in silent confession. The coffee goes cold. The pineapple juice returns to room temperature. I worry about the health impacts of too much red meat. Put it all away. And my mind slips into gear for the day ahead. Salt muscles. Pepper digestion. Sweet, savoury, balance, contentment. I leave the Jam, for the next chief to consider. To be tempted by. Until tomorrow, at least.

[2:44 pm] We use words we know to describe things we don’t.

We might well be living in a simulation. A world designed by another. We might well be playing The Sims, in a simulation, designing things that are not our own. I am sympathetic. It’s a bit awkward. We will be ok. But give me some sugar first.

The most disgusting thing. I sat down, with a large colourful mug of hot chocolate. I’d put honey and sugar in, to make it sweeter than usual. I was cold. Cold and tired. I though that the sugar might keep me awake, while the milk might give me a stomach ache. My feet were freezing. Perhaps she shirtless day in the garden had caught up with me. Or maybe it was something to do with the painfully large serve of kale I’d eaten. It smelled of marijuana somewhat, as I chopped it up and threw it into the pot with oil and onion earlier. I threw a blanket over my knees, and forced myself to relax. The pain in my chest had moved to my head, a gentle throbbing. A feeling of anticipation, cold feet and a wonderful book to read, if only I had the drive. I sat back, read a page and then went to sip the ho-cho. To my surprise, dismay and momentary disgust I wiped the skin off the top of the steaming milky beverage. A dark layer skin, phlegm-like and sour came away and stuck to my chin. The grossness of it all struck me in such a way – I worried that my only respite would be bed. I resolved to warm my hands and never become a cannibal. Sickened and slightly unsure if I’d be ok in the short term.

What kind of boss are you? The big boss? A little boss? Some kind of middle boss? And how about your feet. Do you wear shoes? I hope so. And what about the ends – yes I’m talking about your toes. Because as we all know, they tell us all we know. If they’re not, perhaps we’ll trod, but goodness me a lightning rod should someone step on those.

Mrs Masters pulled out the top drawer as far as it would go and then some. It came off the sliders, bumped over the internal stops and came crashing to the floor. Banging loudly and spilling office supplies everywhere, the stringy black and grey bun could be seen by the other teachers bobbing up and down as she picked up pens and rulers and paper clips fussily. In the surprise and fuss that followed, Mrs Masters entirely forgot that she was looking for the red letter opener.