Lovin' the Late Shift

It is 7:30, and I am beginning to believe there is a very real possibility I might die at work.

"Why," you might think to yourself, "Katie must be so relieved! She's been so bored at work for months! Surely, she must at least feel relieved that she's needed; that she's accomplishing something!"

No. But thank you for playing.

I'm sitting at Corporate Happy Fun job with a headset perched on my ear in the extremely unlikely event that we're going to get a phone call between now and 8:15 CST. How unlikely, you ask? Well, about as likely as me one day explaining String Theory. To a chimpanzee. With a lobotomy.

Considering the monumental waste of time this is, I'm not that incredibly upset about it. At this point, my entire experience of Corporate Happy Fun America has been one of unmitigated human folly; I have ceased to expect anything better. I knew that the occasional late evening shift was part and parcel of this particular job, so I really shouldn't complain.

BUT . . .

My fellow late-shift suckers have, at least in theory, the possibility of being in some way useful. Plus, as an added bonus, they make a fuck of a lot more money than I do. Which means that they should have to sit here, and I should get to go home and take of this stupid bra. 7:40 is too late on a Monday to have to wear a bra, I think.

Instead, I'll just sit here for another 34 minutes and think about what I want for dinner. I think that cheese will figure prominently.