YOU think of a title - my brain won't work.

I'm sitting at my desk at my new job listening in (well, not quite yet, but soon) to an interview with a law firm that one of my new work friends - A.M. - is going to be conducting. I have my own little cube - complete with Ice Bat, an ergonomically correct chair and keyboard surface - which I have no idea how to adjust, and my water bottle - to insure that I will pee every hour on the hour. That last statement reminds me of a conversation I was party to yesterday.

I was getting my keys to my new apartment - which is awesome, by the way - and walking down the halls with the caretaker when along came an old, crusty (lots of dead skin flakes trapped in spots around his stubbly jaw line) resident whom I'd remembered from the last time I lived there (SIDE NOTE - he'd received the package MSU sent me with all of my pre-TA materials the summer before I started teaching, but kept it in his little twerpy, stinky apartment. He kept coming up to my door to see if I was home, but as he never left a note stating that he had a package for me, I had no idea the books were there. He finally happened to come up at a time when I was home (two weeks after they'd arrived)).

Crusty is walking down and the caretaker asks how he's doing. He promptly goes off on a story about his prostate and how he's got this damn dribbling problem. Then caretaker says, "I know EXACTLY what you're talking about. That dribbling gives me a hell of a time." Is this what I have to look forward to? Dribbling?