I'm a clock-watcher. I have officially become a clock-watcher.
I know. I'm not proud of it, I'm not saying that. But oh, Omnipotent Comedian, how I loathe being in my current situation.
How long does one have to tolerate being treated like a moron before one is forgiven for blowing one's top? Have I reached that point? When I saw the list of anniversaries of employment on the work computer yesterday, when I saw my name, when I saw seven years written after it, I almost burst into tears.
Seven years. Wasn't that a traditional length of time for indenture or enslavement in the Bible?
As my job hunt has been as-yet unsuccessful, my flailing, ill-conceived plans for escape have plumbed new depths, darling one. I keep mulling over procedures and surgeries that would allow me extended periods of leave. I've contemplated asking the more heavily armed members of staff to shoot me. Not anyplace vital, or anything, just somewhere that would force me not to work in this Pit of Despair.
Sadly, as a feminist, I'm against a marriage of convenience.
No, I really am. That would be just wrong. Wrong.
Oh, stop it. Yes, I read those romances, too, but no matter how much fun that is as a fictional premise, it's not my life.
But then, I'm not sure this is my life, either.
Seventeen minutes left.