Tonight’s adventure was trying to catch up on a spreadsheet that I kept getting interrupted while trying to understand while chained to my cubicle walls. Meanwhile, M. got a night call from his manager with some out of office strategizing.
Is it any surprise that all I want to do is go to the beach near our house. Sadly, it’s the house we must pay for every month with our meager, or at least not nearly enough zeroes on the checks, earnings. If I can’t have a life of leisure, I’ll grab the leisure I can get.
It would all be so much less painful if I were filthy, fucking rich. The kind of money in which scandals and embarrassments abound and countless generations of stupid and degenerate. I want that kind of dough. I want to douche with Chateau Neuf du Pape. OK, maybe I’d just drink that.
Right now, my vacation from this level of workaday horror is more Ripple and less Biarritz. Shit.
