Slow Sow Slow
Dear Today,
If you would speed through these last 15 minutes, I’d really appreciate it. After spending most of my afternoon in the midst of monumental fuckups and panic attacks, time seems to have stopped. The morning last 1,000 years, so I don’t find it fair that you are ending the day the way you began it. After all that time in turmoil, it was decided that my fuckup had really found a bigger problem with one of our systems, and now the wheels are in motion to change things. I think I deserve a job well done, really, despite all the trouble I caused.
Therefore, I’d like you to reward me by speeding up so I can get out of here. You know I’d just leave, but my VP is here working late on some equipment, and he keeps flitting past my desk. Okay, “flitting” isn’t the right word. He keeps coming by and waiting for me to talk to him, which means he stops and stares at me for at least a minute and then he turns into my dad and starts digging through all my stuff trying to elicit a response from me. I just pretend I don’t notice (though inside I’m FUMING at that digging) and he eventually wanders away. But anyway, he’s here. And he knows I’m supposed to be here until six.
So help a girl out, would ya?
Aaaaaaaaaaand GO!,
MissDirected