Oh, what a world, what a world!

Oy - such stress....

Today at work I have had to deal with major issues like PAGE MARGINS and PARAGRAPH SPACING and MIXED USE OF STYLES!

Gasp! Quel Suprise! Shocked looks!

I know, my life is so chock full of glamour and excitement that you wish, just for a moment, you were me. Ah, my dear misty-eyed friends, this cannot be, and for that I am wholly sorry, for to give you just an hour of my life would bring me so much pleasure, and yet I cannot, for you couldn’t know that strength it takes to not burst out in joyous song every time I get another e-mail asking about things like APPROVAL PROCESSES and MEETING REQUESTS and SYSTEM OUTAGES.

It is nearly too much for me to bear, and I’m an experienced professional.

So, take my word when I tell you that all the glamour is exhausting, as well as is all the actual work that is the output of decisions made about things like STATISTICAL PROCEDURES and DROPOUT RATES and VENDOR LISTS.

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For those of you who are a touch shy on the definition of ‘sarcasm,’ that right there was it.

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Turning now to the weather, because we are currently having some:

My oh my, Ida, how you do roar and guh-nash your choppers are our fair Triangle,. How you do soak and blow (ed note: GREAT name for a bathhouse!) our fair region with your moist offerings, your vivacious breath.

But Ida, sweet wonderful Ida, did you have to make it so VERY crappy outside that instead of having delicious sushi for lunch at an actual restaurant, I instead had a cafeteria salad while sitting in my cube, AGAIN?

I know, luscious Ida, that I will not melt if I go out in your rains. I will not fly apart in the clutches of your brisk zephyrs. I will not perish in the combination of attenuated weatherly offerings you have served up, but dang if I won’t get a little wrecked, a little tousled, a little tossed, a little nerve-bent while on the wet wet roads fighting off people who apparently believe that the rain is a sign of impending doom (perhaps even the Apocalypse, which sounds nice but probably isn’t accompanied by maracas) and thus should rive as irrationally as possible because hey, there isn’t any more tomorrow so let’s Danica Patrick the MUTHA out of Route 55.

Thanks, sweetie, for nothing. And hey, in case you don’t know it, cafeteria lettuce tastes NOTHING like Rock Star Roll.

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And that’s it dudes. I figured I’d better post something else for our new friend the disgruntled blogger (or is it the whiny-ass mocker? The silly stalker? The blasted mewly-mouthed bitch-ass complainer with a short resume and a pocketful of sophomoric insults? I simply don’t know) to kvetch about.

Just a little public service, people. You’re welcome.

And if I had my druthers, I’d be off to ride a giant spotted monkey across wet fields of soybeans while shouting tangentially anachronistic phrases into a howling wind, but instead will simply turn my attentions back to the work at hand. Surely, SOMEONE must have needed my opinion of what size font to use in a table by now…

Have a grand day.