OK, I totally, totally fucked up. I'm, like, in no way hesitant to admit that.

See, like, the other day I was out Krogering before work, and right by the door they had, like, this cage-type thing hanging off the ceiling, with all these balloons in it, right? Like, a balloon coral. And they're these mylar balloons, the silver ones that are shaped like throw pillows, and say shit like "Happy Birthday" and "I Love You"— where, instead of the word love they've got a heart— and "Get Well." And, so, I'm just sorta starring at these balloons, grooving on them, with my Nutter Butters in one hand and my OJ in the other, and I remember that my roomie Suveer mentioned that his sister, Samra, was sick— not a contusion from this new piece of shit she dates, thank you very much, just a totally run-of-the-mill urinary tract infection. And I start thinking about what a nice gal she's always been— plus being a total cutie— and figure, what they heck, I'll drop the buck and get her a "Get Well" balloon.

None of this is a problem yet, in case you're getting all, like, "Rob, dude, where the Hell is the fuck up with buying a balloon for your bud's sick sis?" Just, like, wait for it; the fuck up is coming.

So, I get to work, and it's cold as a witch's tit, and so I don't want to leave the balloon sitting in the car, on account I'm nervous that the cold will, like, shrivel the balloon, and I don't wanna be giving some bummed-out balloon to a sick chick. Long story short, I take the balloon and my Nutter Butters and OJ all up to the lab.

On the one hand, this is cool because all the office-building-ladies in their pant suits and business skirts and shit— the ones that generally look at me like I'm tracking dog shit on my shoes when I get into the elevator with them— take one look at my Get Well balloon, and then look at me twice and smile. You know, I wouldn't necessarily like to bone any of these creepy bags, on general principles, but it always feels good to know you're making points with the ladies, right?

But, so, that's the one hand, the good hand. The other hand is that I just let the balloon sorta roam free, once I got in the office, and it ended up bobbing into Lord Architeuthis' room, where his tank and computer terminals and shit are.

I was at the janitor's closet— which, by the way, I'm still a little nervous about going in, after the way Lord A locked me in there for, like, a week and a half— getting a mop bucket filled so me and Janey could make a run over the lino. So I'm filling the bucket when I see, sorta out the corner of my eye, Get Well go bobbing past, but didn't think much about it, so I didn't, like, book after it or anything. Sorta took my time, right.

Big fucking mistake.

I turn off the sink, go jogging round the curtain to round up my runaway, and come in just as the balloon bobs into the side of Lord A's big tank, making a little double-boppa sound as it bumps the glass. I dunno what Lord A was thinking on, but it looked pretty deep, with his tentacles all swirling and his beak sorta slack, the way it is when his thoughts are all way inside— but, whatever it was, he was totally absorbed, 'cause that balloon scared the shit out of him. He totally jumped, and squirted out this little cloud of ink and everything. But, then, he sorta shook himself, like how a dog shakes off water, and then his eyes— those goddamn all-seeing perfect fucking eyes— sorta went wide, and then narrow, and then wide again. I was totally sure that he was pissed as fuck, so I ran up, already spouting off these apologies, and grabbed the string, being all "Dude, Lord A, totally sorry about this interruption shit; I'm, like, totally out of your hair—" and shit like that, when he lifts a tentacle and says:

"Silence, Rob. Leave her be. She may, for a time, find her leisure in my chambers, for I wish to expand our aquantainceship, and am frankly flattered by her interest in me and my works."

And I am all like about to say "What the fuck?", but then realize 'Holy goddamn fucking shit; he's talking about the balloon.'

Later that day, he whispers to me over the intercom, asking what "her" name is.

And, like, I'm still totally wigged out by the fact that he wants to get it on with a balloon, so I say "Charlene"— which was totally a mistake, and now he's done nothing but ask my advice about how he can get her to open up, and what I really wanna say is, "Like, dude, it can totally never be; you're, like, from two different worlds, 'cause you're this giant tentacle beast from Tremulon-4 and she's a fucking piece of plastic with helium in her." But, instead, I've been telling him to talk about TV and weather and shit, which was another fuck up, 'cause now he's whispering to me over the intercom every five minutes to get my to find out what the weather's like. And then I need to explain, like, what weather is in enough detail, so that he feels comfortable talking about it and shit. Like Cumulating Clouds and amino acids and shit. Man, super genius alien monsters . . . sometimes they just don't know shit about shit.

Anyway . . .

So, I figure, it's a mylar balloon, and those hold up damn good for a balloon, but still, that gives me, like, a week and a half, two weeks at the outside, before that puppy gets all saggy and shit, and a saggy love-balloon is definitely gonna be a bummer for Lord Architeuthis. And a bummed out Lord A isn't funny. Not a fucking bit. Plus, a balloon— even a really nice balloon— can't possibly reciprocate Lord A's advances, so, like, there is a definite lashing-out-in-blind-rage risk there.

Shit! This is so totally fucked! See, this is, like, exactly the kind of shit I'd write to a dude like Lord A to in order to get the advice, but who the fuck can I write to? The dude I need advice about is, like, the big lord kingfish of advice.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

And, like, to boot, the Three Wise Crabs have been totally no help, either. They just laugh these days. And, like, one of them has learned to do an impersonation of Rue McClanahan . . . you know, Blanche Dubois from the Golden Girls.

Shit.

If any of you Readers out there have any ideas, I'm totally open. Write me at rob@poormojo.org, and don't breathe a word of this to Lord A. He'd totally freak out