I sit in a cube.  That’s the shit end of the popsicle stick at my place of employ.  But, every now and again, it’s my little bit of cheery workaday fun.

Today’s episode was overhearing someone unhappy with accountants being all bean-counterish and wonderfully full of accounting goodness.  It was Proust’s madeline to me.  Or maybe some other pretentious imagery that’s a mnemonic segue.

I suspect in the quiet moments of my dismal worrying life that a cabal of accountants was complicit in my undoing.  But, you know what I fucking figured out today — Duh, it wasn’t me, it’s them.  I actually understand that accountants are what they are and do what they do, and I don’t hassle them for it.  I don’t roll over if a soupcon of imagination could bring them to the old cliched win-win.  But, yeah, an accountant jugular will never be my fight.

At the old job, my accounting skirmishes were abberrant.  Quite a few were about, um, ah, arithmetic.  You know the counting shit those people are supposed to be good at.  Yeah, if you tell me two plus two ain’t what I think it is, and need to whip out a calculator to show me how you got something else, I’ll fight you.  ‘Cause, like, you know, reality is cool and shit.

Nah, truth is, I’ll let some shit go at work, if it can just make my life a bit tasty sweetier.

So, once again, a big “fuck you” shout out to folks at the old bad place.  And, an equally big “yay me” for, well, being me.