Two things:

1) I'm going to start categorizing my posts so that people who link from other stockdog related sites to this one can click on a category and only have to see posts related to that topic and not my other weirder shit that some of you hate.  It's because I care so much.  Too much actually.  It keeps me up at night.  Fretting. 

2) My bosses boss has spent the entire morning in my cubicle seeking advice on who to rent his vacant apartment to: A newly released felon meth-addict or a freshly convicted sex offender. 

"What would you do?" he asked.  Indeed.

Craig seeks my advice on all sorts of improbable stuff.  Or he used to.  Child-rearing, love, marriage, divorce, sex, cooking….He's a veritable Pilgram to the Deep Well of Wrong Answers. 

He has actually been mad at me since I made him the butt of one too many font-related jokes a month or more ago.  I publicly accused him of confusing topography with typography.  Technology with something lab monkeys can bang out given a few IBM Selectrics and an afternoon full of monkey mix and heavy bond paper…  Anyway, I've been free to work without interruption until today, my busiest day in maybe a year, when he showed up with pretzels and a fresh problem I shouldn't be trusted to solve were I a sensitive practical type who believed in the deep down goodness of humanity, the capacity for people to change, and that owning a rental is not the worst thing a person could do to himself outside of marrying someone who frequents Pay Day Loan establishments. (He last fine choice.)  (Sadly, mine as well.)

"What would I do?" I repeated.

"Yeah.  The meth-addict says she can only pay me $350 a month and half the deposit. The sex offender has the full amount, but he can't legally cross the street and not violate the terms of his parole."

"What would I do…" I reflected, actually typing an email and sending it to the wrong recipients…twice…

"Hmmmmm"

"You aren't listening to me, are you?" Craig asked, sounding annoyed. 

My fingers paused in their typing of the wrong things.

"No. I don't like pretzels."

3) I don't have advice that anyone should take on anything.  Really.  I'll offer it up, with the right beverage or snack incentive. I may even sound fully convinced of the legitimacy of my stance…but I am so full of shit as to almost be my own colon.    I did the man a favor.  

He'll be back with cookies.

I hate the number 2. 

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