Grey. Grey, Grey, Grey.  Grey is in a negative place right now.  If you're looking for some philosophical musings, or recounts of a good adventure, get bent and go some place else.


I am so fucking sick of it all.  Sick of Bush League Consulting.  Pissed that the bright light I had to do real consulting may be trying to build someone else's dream.  Again.  Can I get a chance to work in a thriving practice again, with people as smart and driven as me?  Is that too much to ask?  Is this my future if I choose to follow Called around?


I'm sick of 0445 mornings.  Sick of feeling like being half an hour early to work is late.  Sick of the Administrator making me feel like I do shitty job, even when I'm already grinding myself to the end of sanity and health.  Sick of the clutter in this hell-hole.  Sick of be unwilling to have someone else in my house.  Sick of living with a business partner with no interest in more.  Tortured by want of more.


I want nothing more than to get in the truck and start driving.  I'm sure I could get three days before Bush League killed my gas and credit card and put an APB on the rig.  Leave that fucker at a rest stop, make one last call on Bush League's electronic leash to tell those assholes where it is, and then begin walking, becoming Grey. Into the night and fog. Disappear well enough to cash out my insurance so that Spawn of Grey can have what they need.


Perhaps some of you know.  Perhaps the Writer.  Perhaps the Anchor. Me; I'll contemplate becoming Grey.  Contemplate the lure of the Void; drifting in a present existence.  Maybe I'll be here again.  Maybe I'll just be Grey.