Many things need be said here­with.

i was a set p.a. for only two days. they were rather unevent­ful days at that, and most­ly con­sist­ed of me run­ning errands for peo­ple less com­pe­tent at their jobs than me at mine. [i sup­pose that isn’t say­ing much, because a semi-house­bro­ken colobus could be a p.a.] then again, the pro­duc­er told my sur­ro­gate fam­i­ly here [the art depart­ment] that i made all the oth­er p.a.s look like halfwits. every­body involved in this gig that can actu­al­ly do their job well thinks i’m great. they say i work hard and can actu­al­ly think. i’m hap­py with this praise, and i hope i can live up to it.

now i have moved up a brack­et, i’m actu­al­ly get­ting paid 350 a week and i’m dri­ving the art truck since the [rumored] coke-head that drove it quit after los­ing his wal­let and pet­ty cash [the same wal­let includ­ing the pet­ty cash was lat­er found at Floyd Ben­nett Field but poor Mr. Ex-Art Truck Dri­ving Guy has burnt too many bridges.] The vehi­cle i inher­it­ed from this per­son was even less reli­able than his snif­fles. it bare­ly made it across brook­lyn to the prod. offices and even less bare­ly made it back to FBF the next day. we stopped and noticed a trail of trans­mis­sion flu­id in our wake and a steam­ing pud­dle of the same was form­ing under­neath the vehi­cle.
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