Mr. Cellophane

In a location adjacent to a place in a city of some significance, what comes out of my head is plastered on the walls of this blog.

Sunday, August 07, 2005

The invisible woe, man.

Another dull Sunday at work. One of my co-workers instructs me to call the police. Apparently, a drunk man and a mentally disturbed woman (who comes in quite often and never shops, let alone says much) got into a heated argument. (Sidebar: It's incredible how people could tell the difference; a lot of people that come in seem to be drunk and/or mentally disturbed.) I make the call and wait...and wait...and wait. That was about two hours ago. I'm not sure if they ever got there. I couldn't help but wonder, 'What if someone had gotten fatally injured or killed and the cops were just sitting on their hands?' I maintain that if anyone else made the call, help would've arrived and the situation would've been handled in nothing flat. I get the sense that, well, people don't care about what I'm saying, even when it's slightly important.

I really hope that things turn around for me and soon. I'd hate to have to go Sebastian Caine on people. On the other hand (since I know people don't read this blog, anyway), I have no compunction about saying that when push comes to shove, no one will be spared. No...one.

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