Well, it's Friday, it's pissing down rain -- all my DNA tells me that this is the kind of day you should sleep in until noon. How many of you had nice warm beds this morning? Yeah, me too. And now, here I sit all broken hearted, my co-worker idiot stuck in traffic, so guess who's been asked to answer emails and requests? Me. Me, allowed to do this taboo thing - when there's no other choice. I can't quite tell exactly why it makes me mad - that I'm so far down the roster that three other people have to die before I'm given anything to do or that now I have to do work that I haven't done in almost five weeks and my memory of how to do it best is rusty. It's freezing cold at my desk, my slab in the middle of the room. There's not even any residual warmth from the 500 boxes that form a vague cubicle around me - and they usually retain heat. I'm wet, I'm cold. I'm bored, I'm broke.
It's Poptart time, I think. And the first of many cups of water. Back in a second.
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