Posting on this blog might become a weekly phenomenon, unless there's an undiscovered reserve of energy hidden in my foot I can find and tap. I work, I come home, I yell at the cats, I sleep (until feline voices wake me) - hit repeat, and that's my week. Not only does it leave little energy for writing, it provides even less material, as I'm sure few of you are interested in the tales of horrid customers and petty resentments I gather at work. And sharing them would probably get me fired.
Though it would be pretty cathartic.
Actually, the past week at work has me pretty worried. Worried that I've been replaced by Dark Protagitron, that is. Where I used to be friendly, helpful, and labouring under a massive guilt complex, I'm now a little surly. The jangly indie pop I used to listen to in my office has been replaced with rap and hip hop. I now give the phone both middle fingers instead of just one. And so on. I suppose it's a defence mechanism you evolve in customer service, but I just don't want it to get out of hand, until I start spitting venom all over freshmen.
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