Protagonist meets Clarissa

"I'm a writer. A poet actually, well, I'm a copy writer, but I really want to write poetry, full time that is."

"Oh, I dig it. All this logical, rational, empirical hard sentences during the day. Cramming out succinct lines for the day job. Then you come home, let the hair down and it is all like: 'The chicken walks upside-down in the snow. Damn your eyes, plumber. Speckled eggs don't grow on trees, what? Are we recording? Is this thing on? Who's on first? Hammer meets nail, sickle gets a face lift." When he had stopped for breath there was a chair under foot and a few yards to the nearest party-goer, except for Clarissa.

"I certainly try to convey that sort of gusto. It sounds like you write as well?"

"Oh sweetie, you flatter me, but its an illusion, or just some fog on your rose colored glasses at best. More like psychosis. Maybe a little lax with taking the medication." He turned his attention to putting back the chair. She was the most intense thing in the room and it was difficult to look at her uninterrupted. "I'm glad you have a creative outlet, time for something you're passionate about. It seems so many after settling into a career settle into their loveseat, as well, and shutdown. Personally, I became much more passionate about learning after college, and have always had a creative side."

"In what ways does your creative psychosis manifest?"

She was passing the ball back to me. Hadn't I said enough? Too much, for sure, and I failed to leave her with a question. Did Mary turn up the vodka ratio or is something else throwing me off? "Well, I run a think tank out of my garage. Actually, there are a half a dozen think tanks in garages and storage facilities around the country under my supervision. We are hoping to open a satellite in Belize soon."

"Oh, and is there anything in particular that is thought about in these garages?"

There is an application on his cellphone for lawyers, guns, and money, all at once. A very efficient and useful app for those who have a penchant for trouble. He could feel himself fingering the bulge in his dress jacket where the phone resided, but this was overkill. "Meet my PR person, Betty." Eight feet covered in one lunge and Betty's arm was in the crocidiles grip.

"Why does my title keep changing?" It was more playful than out right resistance. She was getting so much out of this internship.

"Why does your major keep changing? Now make us sound decent and I'll say goodbye to Mary and get your jacket." He steered her towards Clarissa even as she looked up to say 'so soon.' "Clarissa this is Betty, Epochian Thought's communications executive."