uh, hi. my name is tomas and i

have to write something here but

i really don't know what to do. i

mean i don't have anything witty

or smart to say like all those

other people. i was going to scan

some pages from my diary when i

was a kid but ms. bowe already

did that. um, so, oh wait. i got

something in my nose.

i knew this was going to be a bad

day when ms. bowe called me into

her office. i only ever had to go

to ms. bowe's office once before

but i remember it real clearly,

like it's tatooed on my brain or

whatever. um, so. i had to go

into that big gloomy old office

and sit in the big creaky chair

that she makes everyone sit in.

the room smelled like marihooney

and cheap whiskey just like

always.

finally ms. bowe got off the

phone with her masseuse and

turned around. "now look, clark"

she said, and then i said "uh,

um, ms. bowe, i'm really sorry

about your chihuahua and i didn't

mean to run it over but-"

"shut up, you moron," she said

and so i did. "that's not what i

want to talk to you about and

besides, that little shit wasn't

a chihuahua, it was a shih tzu."

she spat some phlegm into her

ashtray and glared at me for a

while. i could feel some mucus

dripping down my nose but i was

too scared to sniff.

"clark, i need you to do a home

page. and it better be good.

we're all doing it, all of us

here at this big ol' happy family

here at word." and then she gave

one of those cackles that always

makes me think of that lady in

101 dalmatians, what's her name.

"b-b-but ms. bowe" i said, "i

d-don't know how to write

anything good like that."

"just do something, you pathetic

pile of fleas. and stop

scratching yourself!

disgusting... remember, clark,

you don't do the work, you don't

get the big bucks." she coughed

some more and gulped down the

rest of her drink.

"b-b-but ms. bowe" i said, "i

don't get the big bucks. you

don't even pay me minimum wage."

"what is this, you asking for a

raise or something?" she was

yelling now and stood up, her

cigarette dropping ash all over

the beige surface of her desk.

the giant picture of paul newman

behind her loomed out at me,

threatening a dire fate. "we

don't pay you jack shit for a

good reason," she continued, "you

little worm. look, we need

something from you to offset

graham's piece. huh? what was

that you said?"

"um- uh- nothing, ms. bowe. just

my twitch acting up again.

s-sorry."

"whatever. like i was saying, if

you don't write it - no more bbs

privileges."

"n-no!" i squeaked. "i'll do it,

i'll do it." what else could i

say?

she laughed at me and pushed

herself out of her chair, its

wheels making an unpleasant

noise. "well," she said, "what

are you waiting for?"

i just sat there, not sure what

to do. "um... uh... ms. bowe-

uh, your wig is falling off."

she snarled and readjusted her

magenta wig. "that's it! get out

of here, you goddamn chickenshit.

i got work to do. murphy! rayman!

get in here, you no-good lazy

bastards."

and so i ran off to my cubicle

(well, it's more like a little

hole in the floor) and, well,

that's everything that happened

today up till now. um, i can't

think of anything else to say,

but i hope that this story gave

you a good insight into my life

here at word, and that it

encourages all you little kids

who are hoping to one day make it

big in the world of web

publishing. if you work hard you

an get as far as i did!