Fast Cars and Fred Phelps
One. There's some kind of auto race in town tonight and I can hear those goddamn cars racing around the track as I sit in my apartment and try to watch a documentary on the nuclear bombing of Japan during World War II. Shut the fuck up, rednecks.
Two. I applied for an appellate attorney position with the DA's office in Sedgwick County. I received a rejection letter today. Not a big deal, I didn't want to prosecute anyway. However, when I pull the letter from the envelope, I see that it's addressed to a Mr. Phelps of Kansas. Phelps. Kansas. Lawyer. Nice.
I'm assuming Mr. Phelps has my letter. And, put into the wrong hands, that letter could effectively out my job hunt to my boss. Well, technically, so could this posting, but you're all sworn to secrecy based on the silent oath you took when you accepted me as your "friend." But, I digress. The odds of a letter addressed to me, accidentally sent to someone in Kansas winding up back in the Magic City to bite me in the ass is slim. Irregardless, it's still unprofessional.
