It's not my death this time, just my cat's. And of course, there's the obligatory pile of poo again. These sketches of doom are getting mighty epic now that he's switched to the wide screen format of a steno pad. Who even uses those anymore? It should help me in my search to discover the identity of my secret admirer, though the quality of the artwork might suggest it's just some over-educated five-year-old and not one of my co-workers at all, in which case I might be the one arrested when all of this is said and done.
What I don't understand is, why am I eating in such a low-rent restaurant with a view of the freeway and vermin? Yes, I may work in a cubicle in a bullpen with no corner office in sight, but I still treat myself right when I go out. And I never dine alone, even if I have to pay for it.
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