Somebody should tell the boss slavery is evil. I'm being mean, but I feel like a slave. Neither I, nor anybody who works for him knows when he plans to return. Now, it looks like I'll be missing more than just four Justin concerts. That's what grates me. Forget the fact that I can't work for my other jobs. That somebody is going to have to be me, but anytime stupid me wants to talk, he'll reach for the remote or pick apart my sentence as incomprehensible, syntactically flawed, or totally from outer space.

Last night, I slept in his car because I couldn't stand the blaring murder mysteries on the TV anymore. S&V is not who I want to be, but working for this dude, I am now numb to it. Besides, he only got a room with one bed, so I was supposed to sleep in the chair. I was too big and fat, so I tried the floor. Then, I realized how awful my mind had become and decided to head for some light. I really wanted to see Justin, though.

The can't tell anybody his plans. Instead, I have to make reservations, cancel reservations, change reservations, wait until the last minute to tell people they have to do something another three days, and then cancel that. No rule can be kept. It's me that looks the dweeb and he that remains the intellectual pillar of the community.

I don't think a shrink would understand - that I would rather go see Justin than watch somebody organize his pills and order me to do this, one little thing. I can't see the big picture, not even driving. Go! Stop! He tells me to stop in the middle of traffic sometimes. One time, we circled around a parking lot for about 15 minutes getting the right angle of approach for the car. He couldn't tell me where he wanted the car. Turn right, now left, now back up, etc.

Enough. I rant. I must go back to watching the organization of the pills. I sympathize with the Parkinson's, but the control freakery and OCD are now my masters, and I don't know how to say no in a way that anybody hears.

When this dufus excursion is over, I may be running home to daddy.

Grrrrrrrrrr.

OK. No more dark tweets. I'll stay off this board until I can post something worthy of the love and respect due the Moodies.

Happiness to all who have found out how to control their lives enough to see Moodies concerts. I thought I once did, but I only had it easy. Now, I've met my match.

Peace and love, and mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be leslees.

No. I don't know his motives, but he is insensitive to people needing to have a life outside work. Two people who used to work for him got off by saying they would have to pay extra at daycare if they didn't go pick up their children. I can't use that excuse. I've missed at least a couple planes, maybe three, because I had to do stuff like organize the counter top at the last minute. I'm supposed to be the city/county correspondent for a local newspaper, but one year, I missed practically every meeting because he would have to have his hair cut at the last minute.

One hates to say it, but sometimes, I want to say the boss is senile, but he sees me as the senile person. For example, today, I got a lecture on how to switch out the morning pills for Wednesday with those for Saturday. Big toughie. He kept asking if I understood. Simple tasks, like determining whether the can with the larger radius should go inside or outside the can with the smaller radius, are considered great learning opportunities. Organizing the silverware drawer, each time I am trained, I get to learn the spoon-shaped holes get the spoons in them, and the big spoons go in the big spoon-shaped holes, and guess where the small spoons go? I remember when people used to think I was a genius and treated me that way. I liked it, but this is my place in life, now.

It wasn't that bad of a day today, because I was taking him to appointments with professors at the university. It started with having to pick up a scooter. I was running, running, running. Then, he told me to go to the university and set up the scooter and come back and pick him up. That left me ten minutes to make three trips. I was in a sweaty panic. I tried assembling the scooter, but it wasn't working. A couple Germans (I use that term with the highest of compliments here) must have heard me swearing way over in the engineering building, and they came to my rescue. They compassionately offered to help and then went about systematically and quickly diagnosing the situation and, big thanks to their angelic intellects, the boss made his appointments. The funny thing was me getting on the scooter and trying to drive it. A lady who saw the Germans flee to my rescue gave me encouragement, kindly, after I came within about an inch of slamming into her car.

This evening, I had to beg the boss to tell me which hotel reservation he wanted, as he had reserved two places, indefinitely, of course. I had to stare at the wall for what seemed an hour before he got ready to tell me. I recall the good old days when life had meaning. When one had to keep fit in mind and body to be up to the latest challenge. When one woke up ambitious to get going, to do some good in the world. When all was discovery and creation. Now, one wants to numb out on meds because the boredom is too much to face.

Being able to break away to see Justin made it all worth the madness. I will not be consoled.

The Magical Mystery Tour continues.

I see several options:

* death
* disability
* running away
* answering ads to the Melody Maker (sp?) under the desk
* nineteenth nervous breakdown