For the Wisdom of Whitney Houston

Today a woman came into my office, burst into tears and accused two of the cleanest cut individuals of smoking crack in the file room. I didn't know what to do, so I took the information to my boss. The woman claimed that she smelled it on them and says she's familiar with the smell because she works at a homeless soup kitchen and because her husband was a chronic user. As far as I know, she has no reason to lie. My boss and I agreed that a camera should be installed in the file room. The problem is that the guy who would do the installation is the guy who stands accused. We'll call him F.

F. had been uncharacteristically irritable lately, and he seems to be bloated. I attributed it to drinking. This afternoon I started thinking crack might account for it. But I've done some research, and if he's using crack I should be seeing bursts of energy, and that isn't F.

I guess I had to take the claim seriously, but I feel bad because I didn't disbelieve it right away, and because I took the accusation to my boss. But a sobbing woman is telling you something, you tend to believe it.

I just think I od'ed on my job today. I am so glad tomorrow is Friday.

Quick update: Butch may be feeling a little better. He's taken a few nibbles of food and few slurps of skim milk. For some reason that's the only dairy he'll drink. I've never been able to get him to touch cream. Thanks to all who sent well wishes. I'm hoping the prayers worked.