DAY 5 OF 6 — SUSPICIOUSLY FUCKING NORMAL
Tuesday, September 1, 2026
September arrived.
After July and August spent what felt like two consecutive months kicking my trash can down a staircase, September walked into the room, surveyed the wreckage, noticed the raccoon crouched behind a clipboard, glanced toward the burning cactus on the horizon—
🌵🔥
—and apparently decided:
Nah. I'm good.
Thank you.
Seriously.
Because after everything lately, I wasn't looking for another adventure.
I wasn't looking for another important lesson about perseverance.
I wasn't looking for another medical side quest.
I wasn't looking for another exciting opportunity to demonstrate the indomitable nature of the human spirit.
I wanted:
ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOTHING.
Jerry: “Nothing?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Jerry: “No compelling narrative?”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “Character development?”
Me: “Uber.”
Jerry: “Dramatic climax?”
Me: “I go home.”
Jerry: “So you're requesting—”
Me: “A filler episode.”
Exactly.
Give the raccoon his fucking filler episode.
THE GRIEVANCE BOX HAS RESPAWNED
First, an update from yesterday.
The grievance box is back.
That's it.
That's all I know.
Yesterday, the grievance sheets were where they belonged, but the actual grievance box had apparently been removed from the wall and disappeared into whatever pocket dimension Haus Morgenrot uses to store common sense, matching socks, and the missing twenty minutes from dinner.
Today?
There it fucking was.
Back where it belonged.
No explanation.
No culprit.
No ceremony.
No security footage of somebody carrying it through Haus Morgenrot like the Ark of the Covenant.
It simply...
respawned.
Jerry: “Where was it?”
Me: “Don't know.”
Jerry: “Who returned it?”
Me: “Don't know.”
Jerry: “Why was it removed?”
Me: “Don't know.”
Jerry: “Could this be connected to yesterday's—”
Me: “Put the fucking red string away.”
Because:
BORING TECH DOES NOT WRITE FAN FICTION.
What do I actually know?
Day 4: grievance box apparently gone.
Day 5: grievance box back.
Everything between those two facts belongs to the Haus Morgenrot Department of Unexplained Fuckery.
September?
Don't get excited.
This does not count as an event.
I specifically requested nothing.
THE RACCOON HAS NO PRODUCTIVITY QUOTA
By around 1:15 PM, I took my fifteen-minute break and realized something beautiful.
I had been remarkably nonproductive.
Which was fucking wonderful.
I still needed to finish room inspection before second shift really got moving, but otherwise?
Not much.
Nobody had decided to become the main character.
Nobody was generating paperwork like they were trying to help me meet some imaginary quarterly write-up quota.
People were, for the most part...
behaving.
And that's when I remembered:
MY CLIPBOARD DOES NOT HAVE A KILL COUNTER.
I'm not playing Call of Duty: Haus Morgenrot.
I don't need twenty write-ups to unlock the extended magazine.
Everybody went to group?
Wonderful.
Everybody followed instructions?
Fantastic.
Nobody created an incident?
PROMOTE EVERYBODY.
Jerry: “But what are you going to write about?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Jerry: “That's terrible for Bearblog.”
Me: “That's excellent for my fucking blood pressure.”
Sometimes boring doesn't mean I wasn't working.
Sometimes boring means:
THE BUILDING IS FUNCTIONING.
I'll fucking take it.
WRONG FORM. RIGHT PAPERWORK.
There was one paperwork correction.
Something I'd written wasn't supposed to be an incident update.
It was an actual incident report.
Fine.
Wrong category.
Rewrite it.
Correct it.
Move on.
No twelve-page Supreme Court brief defending my original paperwork.
No wounded pride.
No appeals process.
Jerry: “Wrong form?”
Me: “Yep.”
Jerry: “Fixed?”
Me: “Yep.”
Jerry: “Would you like to explain why you originally—”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “But perhaps—”
Me: “RETURN TO NEUTRAL.”
🦝✍️
Done.
SOMETIMES YOU JUST TELL A MAN TO KEEP HIS HEAD UP
Then there was the hallway cat connected to the needle, contraband, and EMS situation from Day 1.
By Day 5, there wasn't much mystery left.
Haus Morgenrot was kicking him out.
Eventually, the police came and picked him up.
That was it.
After the EMS situation.
After the needle.
After everything surrounding that mess.
After being so damn close to finishing his time here.
He was leaving Haus Morgenrot with the police.
And I'm not going to pretend I felt good watching that.
I felt bad for the man.
I really did.
That doesn't mean consequences shouldn't exist.
It doesn't mean I'm erasing what happened.
And it sure as hell doesn't mean I'm going to take his problems, put them in my backpack, Uber home with them, unpack them beside my bed, and stare at them at two in the morning.
But I can still watch another human being having a shitty ending and think:
Damn, man.
He told me bye.
And even after everything, I told him:
Keep your head up.
That's it.
No lecture.
No “See? I told you.”
No Mr. Germlin TED Talk about personal responsibility while Hans Zimmer slowly materializes in the hallway with an orchestra.
Just:
Keep your head up.
Jerry: “You feel bad for him?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Jerry: “Even after everything?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Jerry: “You going to carry it?”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “There it is.”
Because:
COMPASSION IS NOT INVESTMENT.
I can feel for the bastard.
I can hope whatever comes next somehow becomes something better.
I can genuinely mean keep your head up.
And then I have to let him go.
His choices are his.
His consequences are his.
His next chapter is his.
I don't know what happens after the police take him away from Haus Morgenrot.
BORING TECH DOES NOT WRITE FAN FICTION.
I just hope the motherfucker eventually figures things out.
Not for Haus Morgenrot.
Not for his counselor.
Not for Mr. Germlin.
For himself.
The police took him away.
I went back to work.
And somewhere between those two things, I managed to feel bad for another human being without making his life my responsibility.
That's enough.
Keep your head up, man.
I meant it.
Return to neutral.
MR. GERMLIN IS ANNOYINGLY CONSISTENT
One thing I will take my flowers for:
💐
The hallway cats say I'm consistent.
Honestly?
That's probably one of the better reputations I could have at Haus Morgenrot.
Tech A might tell you one thing.
Tech Z might tell you another.
Tech D through F might form a fucking coalition government and require a two-thirds majority before deciding whether Tuesday occurs before Wednesday.
But when they see Mr. Germlin, they generally know which operating system booted.
I don't need them to think I'm cool.
I don't need them to like me.
I don't need quarterly numbers from the Hallway Cat Approval Poll.
I need them to know that if something happens today, I'm probably going to handle it roughly the same way I handled it yesterday.
Don't know?
Ask SOD.
Minor correction gets corrected?
Move on.
Something actually requires documentation?
🦝✍️📋
Somebody wants to explain?
I'll listen.
Relevant information can matter.
But listening doesn't automatically mean the answer changes.
And apparently they notice.
They'll ask:
“What time you get off?”
Same answer.
Every fucking time.
10:00 PM.
Not 9:47 because I'm spiritually finished.
Not 9:53 because my Uber exists.
Not 9:58 because I'm already mentally naked in the bathtub.
Ten.
I'm here until ten.
And while I'm here, I'm available.
Day 4 reminded me of that rather directly.
Day 5?
Patch installed.
THE GREAT BATHROOM CIVIL-RIGHTS CASE OF 2026
Speaking of consistency...
Somewhere around that 1:00–2:10 PM group stretch, one hallway cat approached me.
His counselor told him he could use the bathroom.
Okay.
He really needed to pee.
Okay.
My answer was essentially:
I'm not going to stop you.
But I'm documenting that you left group.
That's it.
That's the whole mystery.
Group starts at X.
Client leaves at X.
Client returns at X.
Or doesn't.
Done.
I don't need:
The client approached staff displaying a countenance indicative of substantial urinary distress and proceeded to deliver an oral argument concerning the biological limitations of the human bladder—
No.
BORING TECH DOES NOT WRITE FAN FICTION.
Group began at [time]. Client left group at [time] to use the bathroom. Client returned at [time].
Beautiful.
Boring.
Useful.
Hallway Cat wasn't particularly thrilled with the “I'm documenting it” portion.
Eventually we reached something along the lines of:
Well, I'll go back in there, and if I pee on myself, I'll make it a civil-rights issue.
...
Sir.
I just told you I'm not stopping you.
But okay.
Then he asks:
“Is there a grievance I can put in?”
Absolutely.
Same room.
Please avail yourself of the Haus Morgenrot grievance infrastructure, which—by the grace of God—has apparently returned to the wall.
Jerry: “He's going to file a grievance against you.”
Me: “Okay.”
Jerry: “You're telling him where the grievance forms are?”
Me: “He asked.”
Jerry: “Aren't you worried?”
Me: “That's what the grievance process is fucking for.”
Later I even asked whether he actually put one in.
Didn't get much of an answer.
So somewhere inside Haus Morgenrot there may or may not exist:
THE UNITED STATES v. MR. GERMLIN'S CLIPBOARD
I await service.
CACTUS THERAPY ENTERS PHASE THREE
Meanwhile, remember Sunday's hallway cat?
The one talking about crashing out?
The one who received my groundbreaking behavioral intervention:
“Next time you crash out, go punch a cactus.”
Monday, I apparently decided recommending cactus punching wasn't enough.
I needed credentials.
So I told him:
I punch cactuses for a living.
Not little decorative ones.
LARGE CACTUSES.
The kind that make my hand hurt.
With pleasure.
Then Tuesday arrives.
I see him standing in line.
And because this joke has now survived longer than several legitimate Haus Morgenrot operational instructions, I remind him:
“You do know I punch cactuses for a living, right? Really large ones too.”
This motherfucker asks:
“What type of cactus?”
Oh.
We're doing specifications now.
Really large.
Really hard.
Jerry: “Sunday's original advice was for him to punch the cactus.”
Me: “Correct.”
Jerry: “And by Tuesday you're describing your professional cactus-punching career.”
Me: “Correct.”
Jerry: “Large ones?”
Me: “Large ones.”
Jerry: “Hard ones?”
Me: “Especially.”
🌵👊
Jerry: “This doctrine has escaped containment.”
Me: “Nonsense. It's evolving.”
And to be fair...
He's been crashing out less.
I am not claiming causation.
I am not claiming clinical efficacy.
The Mr. Germlin Cactus-Based Behavioral Intervention Program™ has not been peer reviewed.
No randomized trials.
No double-blind study.
No control cactus.
But the observational data is fascinating.
Less crash-out dialogue.
More cactus inquiries.
🌵📈
I'll take it.
ENTER MS. BIGTIDEE McGEE
Then we arrive at one of the more interesting little interactions of Day 5.
One hallway cat had developed what I can only describe as a fairly obvious interest in a member of the TDCJ staff.
And listen.
I understood.
For purposes of this chronicle, we shall call her:
MS. BIGTIDEE McGEE.
The historical record will reflect that this nickname was not selected through a randomized process.
Mr. Germlin possesses eyes.
Mr. Germlin's eyes occasionally transmit visual information to Mr. Germlin's brain.
Mr. Germlin's brain occasionally responds by shutting down every useful background process and launching:
SMEX.exe
Now here's an important distinction:
Mr. SMEX.exe Germlin remembers where he fucking works.
He simply goes home and tells Jerry about his stupid thoughts.
That's what Jerry is for.
Jerry: “I'm what?”
Me: “The containment vessel.”
Jerry: “For what?”
Me: “The stupid.”
Jerry: “I resign.”
Me: “Request denied.”
There are thoughts.
There are actions.
These are not the same fucking thing.
Sometimes my brain goes:
🦝👀
WOMAN PRETTY.
And then Adult Mr. Germlin says:
Fantastic observation, National Geographic. Now go finish your fucking room inspection.
That's called self-control.
And apparently Hallway Cat had eyes too.
Except here was the problem:
He's a client.
She's TDCJ.
That changes the fucking equation.
PREA CLASS HAS ENTERED THE CHAT
Now, exactly where every TDCJ policy, Haus Morgenrot procedure, employment rule, and legal boundary intersects?
I'm not going to pretend I have the entire fucking regulatory tree tattooed across my chest.
But there was something I did remember from PREA class.
The whole:
TWO YEARS AND ONE DAY.
That wasn't hallway gossip.
That wasn't something Hallway Cat 347 whispered to me beside a vending machine while purchasing Flaming Hot Cheetos.
That came from PREA training.
And then there's all the TDCJ personnel-policy machinery surrounding this world—things like PERS 263 and PERS 282—which, from where Mr. Germlin stands, is enough alphabet-and-number soup to make the raccoon clutch his clipboard and decide:
You know what? I'm just going to behave.
I'm not going to freestyle the fucking rulebook.
I'm not going to pretend I'm counsel for the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.
I know enough for the immediate situation:
Client.
TDCJ staff.
Current facility.
🚨🦝🚨
PERHAPS USE SOME FUCKING SENSE.
That's it.
Haus Morgenrot can feel relaxed sometimes.
Hell, I'm probably partly responsible for that.
I joke with people.
I bullshit.
I tell grown men to punch cactuses.
Apparently I'm operating an unauthorized horticultural anger-management clinic in the hallway.
But:
RELAXED DOES NOT MEAN BOUNDARYLESS.
Eventually everybody has to remember where the fuck we are.
Including me.
THIS MAN'S COURTSHIP STRATEGY NEEDS PATCH NOTES
And this hallway cat?
He actually seemed to like her.
Not just:
hehe woman.
He was interested.
From what he'd told me, he didn't have a wife.
Didn't have children.
There wasn't some Mrs. Hallway Cat waiting at home with three children and a frying pan.
The man was single.
Fine.
Godspeed.
Someday.
Somewhere.
Under circumstances that do not cause Mr. Germlin to hear the distant sound of paperwork spawning.
Because his current romantic strategy involved teasing this woman.
And at one point I swear this motherfucker called her:
“BIMBO.”
...
Brother.
Jerry: “Powerful opening move.”
Me: “Incredible.”
Jerry: “Is this courtship?”
Me: “Apparently.”
Jerry: “What happens next?”
Me: “Probably confusion regarding why courtship has failed.”
Jerry: “Nature is magnificent.”
And that's why I told him to calm down.
Not because I was Romance Police.
Not because I thought attraction itself was a problem.
Not because I was offended on behalf of Ms. BigTidee McGee's big ol' tidees.
I wanted to keep this motherfucker from getting himself in trouble.
That's it.
Because maybe it's harmless teasing.
Maybe everybody laughs.
Maybe nothing happens.
Wonderful.
But what if he pushes too far?
What if something gets misunderstood?
What if the wrong joke lands the wrong way?
What if something that started stupid and harmless turns into a boundary problem?
Then suddenly nobody's laughing.
Now supervisors are asking questions.
Now statements are being collected.
Now somebody wants documentation.
Now the cactus has achieved sustained nuclear fusion.
🌵☢️
And I'm standing there thinking:
Goddammit, all you had to do was calm the fuck down.
Better safe than sorry.
For him.
For her.
For everybody.
MR. SMEX.exe GERMLIN HAS NO MORAL HIGH GROUND
And I'm not handing this advice down from Mount Germlin as though I've transcended mortal attraction.
Please.
Sometimes my own brain has the computational capacity of a potato.
Bills.
Career.
Retirement.
HCA grievance.
House.
Raccoon Den.
All suddenly minimized because one neuron stood up and announced:
SMEX.
Jerry: “We have important processes running.”
Brain: “Terminate.”
Jerry: “We need those.”
Brain: “TIDEE.”
Jerry: “Oh, for fuck's sake.”
Adult Me: “CONTROL YOURSELF, RACCOON.”
And I do.
That's the fucking point.
Mr. SMEX.exe Germlin isn't wandering Haus Morgenrot acting on every stupid thing that crosses his brain.
He goes home.
He tells Jerry.
Jerry suffers.
The system works.
Jerry: “I dispute the final sentence.”
Me: “Complaint box is on the wall again.”
Jerry: “Motherfucker.”
Thoughts are thoughts.
Actions are actions.
Attraction doesn't delete judgment.
DINNER WITH DR. GERMLIN, ROMANCE SPECIALIST
Later during dinner, I talked to the man again.
And underneath all the jokes, I told him something I genuinely meant.
There will be a woman out there who likes him for who he is.
Don't change that.
Because my message wasn't:
Stop being yourself.
It wasn't:
Don't like women.
It wasn't:
Become a silent monk and move into a cave.
If he's goofy?
Be goofy.
If he's playful?
Be playful.
If he likes joking?
Fine.
There very well may be a woman somewhere who thinks his particular flavor of nonsense is adorable.
But being yourself and controlling yourself aren't opposites.
You need both.
Jerry: “So Dr. Germlin's relationship advice?”
Me: “Be yourself.”
Jerry: “Good.”
Me: “There'll be somebody who likes you for you.”
Jerry: “Wholesome.”
Me: “Control yourself.”
Jerry: “Important.”
Me: “And perhaps don't begin courtship by calling the woman a fucking bimbo.”
Jerry: “There it is.”
That's all I was trying to give him.
Be you.
Just understand that right now, you're a client.
She's TDCJ.
We're standing inside Haus Morgenrot.
There are boundaries here whether the building feels relaxed or not.
And I would much rather tell you:
“Hey, calm down.”
...than watch some stupid little interaction turn into something considerably less stupid later.
Because I've already got enough fucking paperwork.
PEOPLE SURE DO LOVE CONSEQUENCES
Later came a newer hallway cat.
His pants were down far enough that his underwear was making an unsolicited guest appearance.
I corrected him.
Admittedly, something along the lines of:
“I'm seeing your underwear.”
...probably wasn't the finest sentence in the collected works of Mr. Germlin.
Patch notes accepted.
Next time:
Pull your pants up.
Simple.
If it becomes something actionable?
Name.
Facts.
Paperwork.
Done.
And then fate intervened.
Because the vending machine ate his money.
Of course it did.
Haus Morgenrot's vending machines look like they survived three recessions, two divorces, and Operation Desert Storm.
Now I needed his name so the vending-machine issue could get routed appropriately.
And suddenly:
I HAVE ACQUIRED YOUR NAME.
So naturally I informed him that knowing his name would make writing him up considerably easier.
Not because I wanted to.
That's the funny part.
I'd love everybody to follow the rules and render my clipboard completely fucking unemployed.
But people sure do love consequences.
Jerry: “The vending machine gave you his name?”
Me: “Essentially.”
Jerry: “Operation Pepsi Informant?”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “The machine has sources.”
Me: “Get out.”
I HOPE HE CHANGES FOR HIMSELF
Then there was another hallway cat.
Rude.
Disrespectful.
I've written him up plenty of times.
Apparently he's been through Haus Morgenrot twice.
And honestly?
I feel for him too.
That doesn't mean I absorb his bullshit.
Most of the time now, if he's trying to bait me, I don't give him much.
No eye contact.
No argument.
No emotional wrestling match.
Just:
🐈💢
🦝
🐈💢💢
🦝
Whether that's changing him?
I don't know.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
I'm not taking credit.
But I know it keeps me from feeding the performance.
And I hope he changes.
Not for me.
Not because Mr. Germlin is a hard-ass tech.
Not because I've written him up.
For himself.
Maybe he's been through a lot.
Probably more than I know.
So I'll put a prayer on him.
Wish him the best.
And leave the rest where it belongs.
With him.
COMPASSION DOES NOT REQUIRE OWNERSHIP.
I can care.
I don't have to carry.
“WE COULD BE FRIENDS” 🎵
Then one hallway cat decided Haus Morgenrot needed a musical number.
🎵 “We could be friends...” 🎵
No.
We cannot.
Be gone.
Hallway Cat: 🎵 “We could be friends—”
Me: “No.”
Hallway Cat: 🎵 “We could—”
Me: “Be gone.”
Jerry: “You didn't let him finish.”
Me: “Application denied.”
Jerry: “Friendship position currently occupied?”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “So technically there's an opening.”
Me: “There is about to be an opening in the wall shaped like you.”
I can joke with hallway cats.
I can hope they succeed.
I can feel bad when they fail.
I can be happy when somebody successfully finishes.
I can treat them like human beings.
That does not mean we're exchanging friendship bracelets.
I'm staff.
You're a hallway cat.
Boundaries.
9:15 PM — FOUR CATS SPAWN
Right around 9:15 PM, when feet are supposed to be coming off the floor and the evening is winding down:
🐈🐈🐈🐈
FOUR HALLWAY CATS APPEARED.
Apparently four grown men independently concluded that approximately one fucking minute before everything wrapped up was the ideal time to hit the store.
Jerry: “Where did they come from?”
Me: “The ether.”
Jerry: “Why now?”
Me: “Because 8:47 would have been convenient.”
Jerry: “Fair.”
No crisis.
No incident.
Just ordinary, artisanal, locally sourced Haus Morgenrot bullshit.
Beautiful.
9:29 PM — DON'T YOU FUCKING SAY IT
At 9:29 PM, I looked around.
This had actually been a pretty good night.
No ambulance.
No physical fight.
No hospitalization.
No grievance-box sequel.
No giant catastrophe.
And I was tempted to say:
We made it.
But absolutely fucking not.
Haus Morgenrot still owned thirty-one minutes.
Jerry: “So Day 5 is complete?”
Me: “It's 9:29.”
Jerry: “Right.”
Me: “Don't.”
Jerry: “Nothing else is going to—”
Me: “I WILL PUT YOU THROUGH THE VENDING MACHINE.”
So we waited.
10:00 PM — RACCOON EXTRACTION
And then...
Ten came.
Ten went.
Nothing wild happened.
No final boss.
No 9:59 incident report.
No constitutional crisis.
No cactus emergency.
I clocked out.
At ten.
Exactly like I keep telling these motherfuckers.
And I went home.
Lights were on.
I turned them off.
Washed dishes.
Checked on Sis.
Let Bruno the Chihuahua outside.
Refilled his food.
Refilled his water.
Shaved.
And...
That was it.
Jerry: “That's the ending?”
Me: “Yep.”
Jerry: “You shaved?”
Me: “Yep.”
Jerry: “No catastrophe?”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “No ambulance?”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “No cliffhanger?”
Me: “I shaved.”
Jerry: “Jesus Christ.”
Me: “Filler episode.”
Jerry: “It's beautiful.”
It really fucking was.
THE RACCOON GOT HIS FILLER EPISODE
Maybe that's what Day 5 actually taught me.
Not every day needs to become something.
Not every rude comment requires a response.
Not every explanation requires a rebuttal.
Not every hallway cat needs to like me.
Not every person I feel sorry for becomes my responsibility.
Not every attraction needs to become an action.
Not every thought needs to leave your fucking head.
Not every violation requires me to chase somebody through Haus Morgenrot like Red Arremer.
And not every shift needs to end with me carrying pieces of the building home inside my skull.
The hallway cats say I'm consistent.
I'll take those flowers.
Because consistency doesn't mean rigidity.
It means people generally know what they're getting.
Listen with interest.
Not investment.
Don't chase.
Don't carry.
Don't freestyle.
Return to neutral.
And Day 5 added another:
RELAXED DOES NOT MEAN BOUNDARYLESS.
Haus Morgenrot can joke.
Mr. Germlin can joke.
Hallway cats can joke.
Mr. SMEX.exe Germlin can privately report his dumbass thoughts to Jerry after work.
Jerry: “Against my will.”
Me: “Thank you for your service.”
But eventually everybody has to know where the fucking line is.
Including me.
And perhaps the most important lesson of this suspiciously normal day:
LET BORING BE BORING.
If nobody fucks up?
Wonderful.
If nobody creates paperwork?
Even better.
If the hallway cats semi-behave?
Give the little bastards their flowers.
I'm not running for office.
I'm trying to make it to 10:00 PM.
POST-CREDITS SCENE — HCA 2: GRIEVANCE HARDER
Of course, Haus Morgenrot released me.
HCA still had downloadable content.
So after getting home, I filed another follow-up regarding the unresolved discharge-prescription mess.
Bearblog Mr. Germlin wanted to submit:
FOR FUCK'S SHIT, SEND THE FUCKING PRESCRIPTIONS.
Professional Mr. Germlin submitted:
Dates.
Timeline.
Previous grievance.
Previous follow-up.
September 1 call.
Walgreens quote.
VA instructions.
Requested resolution.
Please contact me.
Thank you.
🦝📋
My original grievance had already documented the repeated HCA/Walgreens/VA loop and requested that HCA identify the appropriate provider or department and get the outstanding prescriptions transmitted directly to the VA pharmacy.
The August 27 follow-up documented that HCA had been told yet again that the medication issue remained unresolved.
Now September 1 has another entry.
The paperwork can argue.
I can go to fucking bed.
Would I enjoy Ulric money™ somehow emerging from this adventure?
Absolutely.
If twenty-five thousand dollars falls through my ceiling, I am catching that motherfucker with both hands.
Jerry: “Do grievances normally pay $25,000?”
Me: “No.”
Jerry: “So why are we discussing Ulric?”
Me: “Hope is free.”
Jerry: “What if they just fix your prescriptions?”
Me: “I'll take what I can fucking get.”
Jerry: “But you'd still like Ulric money.”
Me: “Obviously.”
SEPTEMBER, DAY ONE
So September's first offering was...
Fine.
Actually fine.
SUSPICIOUSLY FUCKING NORMAL.
Haus Morgenrot behaved.
The hallway cats semi-behaved.
The grievance box returned from whatever side quest it had embarked upon.
The crash-out cat became interested in cactus specifications.
The Great Bathroom Civil-Rights Revolution apparently failed to launch.
The vending machine became a confidential informant.
Four hallway cats attempted the 9:15 PM Store Rush Any% Speedrun.
Somebody attempted to become my friend through song and had his application denied before finishing the first verse.
One man left Haus Morgenrot with the police.
He told me bye.
I told him:
Keep your head up.
And I meant it.
Another man discovered that perhaps calling the TDCJ woman you apparently like a bimbo is not the strongest romantic opening available in the current meta.
I told him someday there'll be a woman who likes him for who he is.
Don't change that.
Just learn to control yourself.
Something Mr. Germlin understands perfectly well despite occasionally running SMEX.exe in the background.
HCA remained HCA.
And Mr. Germlin?
Mr. Germlin remained annoyingly fucking consistent.
At ten o'clock, he threw the deuces and went home.
Tomorrow:
DAY 6 OF 6.
One more.
But that's tomorrow's problem.
Tonight?
I look back toward Haus Morgenrot.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, a cactus burns.
🌵🔥
Jerry: “Shouldn't we put it out?”
Me: “Is putting out the cactus actually my assigned responsibility?”
Jerry: “No.”
Me: “Damn.”
Jerry: “That's crazy.”
Me: “Goodnight.”
DAY 5 OF 6 — COMPLETE.
🦝✌️