I’ve got this…middleaged Indian regular customer at work. He’s a regular. Everytime he comes up to the counter he traps me in conversation. He tells me that he thinks I’d be great in a sales career, and I, of course, snidely laugh at him everytime. (You can’t be nice to these people, you know?) A week ago he told me that he has a company and that I could make LOTS OF MONEY. I asked him doing what. He said he couldn’t tell me and handed me a business card.

[…] International Network
Sohel […] […]
President
[###-###-####] voicemail
[###-###-####] cell

I asked are you in the mob? He laughed and said no. I told him that I didn’t believe him. He asked for my number and told me he would tell me all about his business one of these days. I shrugged and gave it to him (I could use another job). He then told me that he could not discuss it over the phone and that we would have to go out to dinner sometime. I looked at him as though he was insane and told him that he’s totally in the mafia, and was about to demand my number back but he walked away too quickly. The other day he called me up and tried to get me to work for him, “computer sales work” he says. $60,000 a year. I demanded more details. He said he could not give them out over the phone. Is the line tapped?, I asked while glancing about our balcony. I told him that I didn’t need another job, and that I had no idea what I would do with such money. Suit yourself, he said. Mafia, I replied. Dirty money. Oddly, this guy called the same morning the Mormons did.

People are so weird.

It looks like Karin’s brother’s neck and back are not broken, but are somewhat reparable. The doctors tell him, what with the height of the fall and all, that he ought to end up like Superman.

My posthuman lit class started today. It is exhausting. We watched Metropolis, it was awesomely heavyhanded.