“I have a theory that the truth is never told during the nine to five hours” – Hunter S. Thompson
Just fill out this form, front and back, initial here and here and sign and date here.
At this point a confession is required. My handwriting is terrible. My printing is undecipherable.
Even I can’t read my scribbling. I read what I wrote 5 minutes ago and wonder – “What the hell,,,,,,,,,,,”
It hasn’t always been this way. Years ago, my cursive was legible. You could read and understand it. Now, at the ripe age of 74, not so much.
The problem is that I seem to have lost some control over the muscles in my hands and fingers. Not too much but enough to make my hand writing more confusing than Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Back to the form.
So I take a seat and, with the clipboard and form balanced on my leg, I proceed.
You know on most forms where they ask sex? I really want to write “Yes” but lack the bravado.
Anyway, I complete the form and review it. It’s embarrassing.
Oh well. I give the completed form to the nice, young, girl in the glass cage.
Some ten minutes later she motions to me. Come here please.
Without looking directly at me and with said form in hand, she asks for my address. Coward? Look at me girl.
With a smile because, believe me, I’ve been through this before and really do sympathize with her dilemma, I ask – “You can’t read my handwriting, can you?”
She looks at me and says – “I didn’t want to say that”. Sweet girl.
I smile and tell her it’s OK. I can’t either.
She laughs. We are now buds. She wants my bod. I can tell.
“If you wanted to see into the future, you just had to look to the past” – Cyberstorm by Matthew Mather