You know what I hate most about this job? It takes no effort to do it passably, and I do it passably. To do it well would take a little bit of concentration, and I'm not willing to give it that. But I still feel lame for being only passably good at my really stupid job.
The Bobby Bare-afterglow has worn off and the hangover has really kicked in with a vengance. I just want to go home and watch back episodes of That 70's Show and pretend that I'm still in high school. How does Red-Wine do it? One school night that I'm out past my bedtime and I am a complete wreck.
The skeevy guy at work is getting to me again, too. He's always touching me. He doesn't hang out at my desk all the time, because my boss warned him against that. He does occasionally have some legitimate reasons to be around my desk, which would be fine except that he really pushes the personal space thing to its maximum limit, and he never walks away without rubbing my shoulder with his slimy hand. I think he might actually be reptilian. Plus, he asks me stupid and creepy questions.
Him: Are you happier than before?
Me: Er. Before what?
Him: I just want to know if you're happy.
Me: I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I haven't been unhappy and I'm perfectly happy now.
Him (hand on my shoulder): I'm just checking on you, that's all.
I'm working up the nerve to talk to my boss about it--the last time I talked to her the whole thing wasn't very encouraging (though it did have some good results). Plus I just hate being that person. The one that is always complaining. Kind of like I'm doing right now.
Excuse me, I just need a nap.
Design by Soapboxdiner, modified by Red Dirt Girl.
Copyright � 2002-2005.