I have come to a decision.
The executives that determine my functions are not a bunch of fancy businessmen in fancy-schmancy suits and expensive cologne and weapons hidden in their briefcases.
My executives, in fact, are Jackson, Jillson, Martine Crowe and Samuel Quinn “SQ” Pedalian. They live in SQ’s apartment and are only slightly helpful.
Do I want to do my homework? No, screw you, Jillson ate Martina’s leftover lasagna and now she’s in a headlock.
Will I read the rest of my book? SQ sure wants to, but Jackson took one look, said it was “boring,” and now SQ is crying and I can’t focus on it.
Should I work on my WIP or look at my emails? Jackson says my emails, SQ wants to work on the WIP, Jillson wants to go out on a run, and someone ate Martina’s lasagna again (Jackson this time).
They had a brain cell at one point, but Jackson says Jillson has it, Jillson says Jackson has it, SQ wonders if he had it but lost it somewhere, and Martina doesn’t give two mules about where the brain cell is.
