03.04.03 - 6:02 p.m.

This is like the fourth day in a row I have actively decided NOT to do work. I just have this one assignment that I cannot bear, and I am putting it off until the last possible minute. When I will slap something together and it will be a piece of shit and I will have to redo it five times and I really just don't care.

Walking through the Food Emporium last week, I passed the door to the butcher's back room and caught a tangy whiff of ammonia. Just like when I would walk down Lincoln Ave. toward the Diversey stop on the Brown Line, past the red and white take-out burger place and then the meat processing plant. The sidewalk was always wet and the air fairly reeked of bleach. I always gagged and tried to walk as quickly as I could across those few squares of concrete, imagining what was going on behind the metal wall. Now I kind of miss it.

I went to the podiatrist yesterday. He was kind of young, but a little odd, as I suppose you would have to be if you wanted to look at feet all day. (Podiatrists of America: no hate mail, please!) X-rays of my foot proved that it, too, was a little creepy. I don't like looking at my bones. The upshot of all of this is that even though I now have black-and-white confirmation that Fred does exist, I don't need surgery on him right now and he could stay just the way he is for years. Of course, he could shift in a month or two and start causing excruciating pain, but I'm looking on the bright side of life.

Next week: the dentist! Oh, what a joy it is, keeping all my parts in working order.

Speaking of parts, should I get the Matisse fish on my left (Fred-inflicted) foot? This of course would mean fessing up to the paternal side of my family about existing tattoos, but this is an idea that will be floating (fish pun! ha!) around my brain for a while.