Stepping out of the house, I knew there was

Stepping out of the house, I knew there was something I was forgetting. I checked my pants. Present. I checked my chin for stubble. Absent. I wipe my nose and checked the back

of my neck in the mirror, looking for the tattoo I faintly remembered agreeing to late last night. Nothing. I bent down to tie my shoes, certain I had thought of everything, when

I realized what I had forgotten: I had left Sara passed out in the backseat of my Datsun. I rushed outside, mentally cursing myself for forgetting the only girl to ever

call me Susan. Susan was really my sister's name, but I had secretly coveted that name. Edward was too conservative, but as Susan I could

be anyone I want to be. I could drink tea, whiskey, lemonade, or margaritas. I could fuck all the guys I want, and no one could say anything just because my name is Susan. I could

not stop this feeling of grandiosity from ruining my interview. The HR person asked, "Do you have any questions for us?" So I lit a cigarette, inside the break room and said,

window. I twirled my Errol Flynn mustache, drew my rapier and proceeded to go to accounts receivable. The security approached me with crossbows drawn. I flung myself from the

llama-driven stagecoach, my vaudeville mustache curling gaily. "Have at thee, knaves of accounts receivable!" and I macheted the lot of them with my foil. Tailless cur. Heroicly

I hacked my way through cubicles,shredded paperwork to ribbons, lept to the top of my stagecoach & rode into the sunset. "We've lost him." The Bureausurgeon unplugged the neurotap.