The Ghost of Jeremy Jacobs
"I'm sometimes jealous of the old man."
"The one who bumped his head?"
"Who else?" It had been raining, and we'd been singing about the old man who bumped his head for the last hour, stuck in a Sisyphean loop, obsessing about the weather. "I'm just... I can't get the ending, triumphant lines about not being able to get up in the morning out of my head."
"You know I don't like that line. I always thought it was a subtle hint that he'd died, as a result of that bump on the head." She had bags under her eyes, not that I'd tell her that. The truth hurts, and it hurts all parties involved when there's a lack of sleep in the mix. And those eyes above the bags seemed to beg for the sweet escape of a bump on the head into oblivion.
From upstairs came the siren wail of: "It's raaaaaaaaining. It's poooooooooooooooouring!" And her sad eyes dove floorward while I trudged up to continue my engagement at the bedside stage. One night only, but one whole night.
Wednesday! We're on time! Well, by our new schedule of mostly publishing on Wednesday, we are.
On our old schedule, in which we publish on Mondays, we're behind. Again. And on our other old schedule, in which we'd publish on Sunday night, well, we're late on that one, too. We're more in-line with our really old schedule, in which we'd publish pretty near whenever we got around to it, and no one read it, because the web had barely been invented, and the only people using the web used it to look up a) porn, b) games with names like "Happyweed", and c) ... actually, that's it.
So that schedule probably faced less pressure than today, where we have quite literally BILLIONS of readers each week (where by BILLIONS we mean two to five, depending on the search terms in a given issue).
Anyway. The pressure. It's given our cleaning guy the bends, from the looks of the office these days.
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