Dragged Kicking and Screaming...

...back into the blog world. No thanks to BQ Broiler's (ahem, and that is a reminder of the "dossier" my dear) latest post about my very own learning experiences in the corporate--excuse me, publishing--world. It's difficult to describe the shock the system experiences when one has to cast off the Jansport and exchange those pastoral daydreams of wearing a tunic while composing verse in an orchard, with a shield of stubbornness and indifference--tools both necessary when engaged in the daily shit face-off in the communal office pot. The breast-pump room (aka dairy farm) that is now situated behind my desk might have been a little disturbing to me at first, but I'm already slipping into the routine: Yesterday, a woman approached me and politely asked, "I'm so sorry to disturb you, but is this the new pump room?" Fabricating a smile with effort that compelled my butt cheeks to tauten, I replied, "Why yes, yes it is."