I just got out of a three-hour client meeting. I’m wearing a suit jacket over a promotional polo shirt from the company I worked at in Philadelphia. I want to kill myself for about seventeen different reasons. At the dramatic conclusion of the meeting I took out my business card and flung it across the coffin-shaped conference table, detaching the retina of one of our visiting clients. My business cards are nine-pronged shuriken aka throwing stars, with my name and contact information engraved in Mrs Eaves Petite Caps. They are choice. The guy who makes them for me also does breastplates and codpieces. I want to say his name is Matty. He’s got this shanty over by the docks and is super-popular with the ladies, from what I hear — I mean literally hear. To make ends meet he sells pot to the high-schoolers, who call him Captain Creeptastica.