FUCK! Sometimes I feel like a mother of infants, but infants who talk and walk and are endlessly needy and aggravating. (OK, I guess the needy part is a stupid reference in apposition like that, because, fucking duh, infants (and like, not “but,” all of my co-workers) are both needy.)

In the middle of maximum “I can’t fucking finish this deadline is a-coming like a trackless, deadly freight train” I asked for some help for something. Very mature, managerial, don’t you know, because I’m all about the effective management deal. Anyway, I asked for help, was told “no problem” and somehow I’m still the fucking go-to guy for answers.

Next time, I think I’ll just get a shot gun and a rocking chair. Then, when I need to be left alone, I’ll just show visitors the business end of “Ole Bessie,” and they’ll skedaddle from my porch, metaphorically speaking. I guess shooting would be more effective than just threatening to stab my co-workers.

By the way, the other reason I’m in a more hopeful mood today — The best reason to work for in the vicinity of the ivory towers of the academy. For the most part, no one is in a position to comment about my sartorial choices. Today I opted for Buffet (as in Parrot-head douchebag), khaki shorts, sandals and a Hawaiian print shirt. And I’m kind of, sort of in “management.”