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9:41 p.m. - May 13, 2003
I have hours to kill. Entertain me?
They didn't hold the plane for me, the inconsiderate bankrupt bastards. Recall my avowed determination not to ever take a first flight out again? I depart tomorrow at 6:01 a.m., so it goes without saying I truly lack gravitas when it counts.

Home tonight, because I'm obviously not en route to Dallas and where else could I be?

Note to self: Find new chauffeur.

Second note: Do not cut hair too close to scalp before a trip by plane; I had to point out my dimple at both security stations because - well, because they're idiots.

I'm in a foulish mood.

If you're home, give me a shout, eh? Why is it that the people I want to talk to live in other time zones?

I'm in a foulish-anxious mood. I now have 8 more hours of worries coming my way; worries I won't succeed, worries I'll fail, worries the projector won't operate and since I'm relying on powerpoint I'll look like the dufus who couldn't, direct from Silicon Valley. What if I don't impress, what if they don't like me? What if they feel they overpaid and got little in return? Damn it. I know I'll do fine; I always do, right? Now, if only I could add the cost of mental preparation and worry to the training/presentor's fee . . .


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