I tried to get out of work the other day by telling my Culinary Manager, Petra that I was suffering from March Madness and I needed to go home. Coming from me, I hoped she would say "March Madness? What's that?" and sent me home before I infected other co-workers. She didn't send me home. But truth be told, I could care less about basketball--it was just a nice spring afternoon and I wanted to get out and take some pictures, do some MS Paint drawings and drink beer:
More to come later. Look at me. I'm clearly suffering from March Madness. There is definitely something wrong with me. Petra, I need to go home.
Peace.
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