February 05, 2001
God. Soooo tired. In the
God. Soooo tired. In the last twelve hours (ten of which have been on the phone), I've taken 392 calls. I've got about forty-five minutes left. Think about that number for a minute. 392 calls. I don't even want to talk to people I adore 392 times a day, much less slavering, angry accountants. There's got to be an easier way to make a living, like, I dunno, handling rabid weasels or something. (Wait. That would be the same job, wouldn't it?) Ya know, 392 (393, now) isn't even my record. My record was 548. And that was in a much shorter day.
Why am I here so late? Long story, involving a root canal gone bad and a foolish gesture of selflessness on my part. Do I sound bitter? I'm not really. Just exhausted.
In another news, why haven't any of you told me I tend to sound like a pompous windbag when I'm this tired? Jeez! What do I pay you people for?
