Dear Journal,
Grant and I have always made an efficient team, but yesterday our productivity level at work dropped drastically. After I compared our daily accomplishments with the meticulous records I keep on file in my office from days prior, I became concerned. On average, we can fix 5.7 leaking pipes, unclog 16 toilets, and recover three wedding rings lost in the garbage disposal in a day. Yesterday, our averages simply did not match up.
My mind was still in a haze from the dream I'd had the night before, but I began to suspect something might also be troubling Grant. In order to save our friendship, I invited him to an eating establishment with Latin cuisine of some sort. I think the proprietors are Mexican, or possibly Guatemalan – I will need to double-check my facts. They spoke with a hint of a South American dialect, but I can't pinpoint it by ear.
Grant and I briefly discussed TAPS business. Morale doesn't seem to be high enough to investigate at this moment – we like it to be at least a good 77%. Soon, as our first round of Margaritas diminished (mine was splashed with iodized salt, not rock salt, which I prefer, and thus was disappointed), we began to get to the heart of what came between us. Things were said. Words were had. I am still not able to talk about what happened afterward. I suppose I should speak with my wife soon. In approximately 43 minutes I will.
Jason