So I carefully moved the table back to where it had been before, and went down the hall to my office, somewhat at peace, wondering which guns I should take with me to best suit my current mood.

7/8/10

LUNCH. OR DINNER. Does it matter at this point? Second meal of the day, eaten well after sundown. Hot dogs from the cart in Culver. How do they get their grass-fed beef dogs down here from SF? I suspect they are using different beef, more likely something other than beef. I know not all the California herds were destroyed, but I still can’t imagine the cost of raising them organic. Better not to think too much about it.

Looking in my phone after the first batch of deliveries, realized I’ve fallen behind logging them. Trying to get caught up, but it’s hard to remember everything. Was the Chinese Shabu dragon delivered to the models throwing the suite party at the Chateaus? Or did it go to the airbrush artist at the custom bodywork shop on South La Brea? There might be something in my journal, but I don’t have time to go through it.

Guess?

No. The fault is mine for not keeping more accurate records. Better to record only what I can definitely remember about the sales than to implicate someone in a crime they had no part in.

Was that course work? Justice in Practice and Theory? Professor Steinman. An A- from Steinman because “a young man should always be left room to improve.”

That pissed off Rose.

“An A is a fucking A.”

I tried to tell her it didn’t matter to me. Not like the minus was going to drag down my GPA and hurt my prospects.

She said that wasn’t the point.

“You earned it. It’s not fair that you earned it and he ticked a fucking minus after it because he thought it would teach some cute fucking lesson. Fuck that. You should report that shit to the chair of your department.”