I don't know how many things the Boss thinks I can do at one time, but the answer on a Saturday night is "zero." Unless you count lying on the couch, staring at an endless hockey game. If that counts, then the answer is "one," and that one has nothing to do with any of the stream of faxes I got all afternoon and evening.

One of them started with, "I hate to ask you this, but ..." Right. Another asked, "Did I ever send you ...?" Answer: No, and if you do I'll ignore it.

He knows that if I'm working on a Saturday at all, it's to try to catch up on work I couldn't get to during the week. And if there's work I didn't get to during the week, it's because he keeps interrupting me and sending me off in twelve different directions.

I did a really dumb thing last night. It was 1:30 in the morning, and I should have just gone to bed. But I was feeling wide awake and there was one more DVD I wanted to watch, so I could send it back to Netflix today. I slept late this morning, but it wasn't enough to make up for being up most of the night.

And I paid the price today. It was the wrong day to mess with me, because I started out in a foul mood. Things could only get worse from there.

I'm afraid I abused the equipment. I pounded on the fax machine and threw the phone across the room. It didn't do any good. It didn't even make me feel any better. I still had to pick things up and put them back together. It took me a long time to calm down enough to write an entry. I think I should probably quit before I say something I'll regret. Something else.

On the other hand, there's this. Every time I think about cashing it all in and living in a refrigerator box under the Fourth Street overpass, all I have to do is remember what really counts. This, what you see right up there, is what really counts.