My boss called me and my coworker into the office to ask what happened and since I was the only one present during World War III, I had to relay all the ugliness I tried to swallow down into that quiet place in my soul where I hide bad things, like my urge to punch people in the face and be mean and such. I almost didn't survive it. And it was all so dumb because listen- our job is pretty great. At least I think so. I mean, maybe it's only great for me?I don't know, but on my side of the third floor annex, we're chill and we get along and our work gets done without too many bumps in the road. We communicate, share ideas, help each other out and cheer each other on.
OK look, it's not the bestest most amazingest job ever, but it's pretty freakin' cool compared to places I've worked before: Waco School for Girls, the Basement, Married to That Guy. This job rocks and I'm thankful for it. I do my best. I enjoy my coworkers. I rarely miss any days (and I used to be famous for taking sick days if I felt my socks were looking at me funny!) and I care about the work we do. I know I won't be doing this forever because I have bigger plans for my life, but I hope to be working here for a very long time.
And anytime it gets too rough or crazy or annoying, I just take a step back, breathe in and regroup. As long as the sun is out (even if it's hiding behind a cloud) and I'm alive to see it, it's a fucking good time.
*smooches...wishing you a laid back, Cali-style weekend*
---------
ignore all reports of rain; make your own sunshine!
Posts
