Recognition: the dream of the artist. Today, at work, Calvin rather randomly said that he'd heard good things about me from management. This came as something as a surprise. I can't imagine many ways in which I might be distinguishing myself from the other workers, given that trained monkeys could conceivably do the same work. Perhaps it's just the pace: Anyone blessed with the opportunity of watching either myself of Will walk without the limiting factor of company will know that we are rapid chaps. When I do work for cash, I usually think to myself of Colossians 3:22-5. I'm sure it's not applicable only to slaves. It occurred to me afterwards that in a dystopian future, the recognition of management would be the logical cue to illicit scientific experimentation on my person, starting down a path that would ultimately lead to me slashing prices with my adamantium claws.

Shane worried me today. His taste in films was wearisome, but the worst part was that he revealed he owned The Phantom Menace on DVD. "Didn't you like it?", he said. Spooky.

I got the boots. They're alright, but they look really dull. I may attempt to give them a lustrous sheen this evening.