 Delirious |
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Greetings and salutations. It's the second night I've worked 'til past eleven and while that might be normal for some people it is certainly not normal for me. Normally at this time I am snug in my pretty red rosy Bella sheets from Target, my second home. But no. I am here. My work is shoddy. Shoddy. But when we are constantly reminded that at crunch time it's quantity over quality, what can I do? I do quantity, which means there are typos and errors of the small and gargantuan variety and my work gets handed back to me to re-do, thus inhibiting my ability to keep churning them out. It's all very frustrating. People are delirious. We speed walk to each other's offices and stand in the doorways and blink and stutter and haltingly try to ask our question or say something coherent, but we just can't. We hand each other 47-page documents with pleading eyes, begging, please, please read over this for me. We bruise our toes by dropping our manuals on them. We pathetically eat all food in sight because we are starving. We wear slippers after hours. Sometimes I wish I worked for one of those companies like mo pie's who has treats and shit all the time. But no. I work here. Three years ago, I spent the equivalent to tonight writing ramblingly in this journal. I have no idea how I was so un-busy then. I haven't stopped all week. The only time I stop is to get up and pee but only when I basically feel my bladder start to combust and not a minute sooner. I missed Survivor and didn't record it because I had no idea it switched nights and like a dumbass didn't program it with a season pass. I have no idea who got eliminated on American Idol this week. It's preposterous. Sure, I'm playing a part in democracy in action, but I clearly need to get my priorities straight. My teeth are dirty. Thank GOD for Yahoo radio. It just played "Strangers in a Car" by Marc Cohn, like, way to throw me back ten years in a single instant. Baby, maybe that's all we really are. There's no maybe about it. I also just heard a LIVE Dar Williams version of "Better Things," which heretofore I did not know existed. I have no idea when I will go home. It's ridiculous for me to complain when I never hear a peep of negativity from my sixty-year-old boss who by all standards should be despairing into psychosis right now based on her astronomical workload, but she just takes it one brilliant, omniscient step at a time, tells us what we're doing right and wrong, and keeps on plugging along. Have I mentioned that I will surely die if she is ever struck with sudden sanity and retires? I will. I will surely, surely die. I'm truly thankful that I have a mother nice enough to go to my house every evening and let the dogs in and tuck them in, otherwise they would be stuck outside in the dark, and that would make me very sad. It's now 12:15 a.m. and the end is nowhere in sight. I am filthy. My teeth have socks. I haven't talked to anyone in days. I want to watch The Goonies. Have y'all watched this glorious reel of TV stars swearing their bungs off for a British ad? It is fantastic. I want to play it right now and turn my speaker volume all the way up. I feel that everyone would be hypnotized towards my office and enter transfixed and begin dropping their own f-bombs in sheer overwhelmed panic for tomorrow's deadline in a spewing cacophany of profane delight, and I would execute perfectly synchronized hurkeys to the beat.
About this time in ...
© Copyright 2004 elb |
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