So, I have this job. Most of the time this job is pretty good. We're in a cool buildling, I've got a cool machine, I've got my own corner office (even though my window overlooks a brick-and-blacktop courtyard that isn't exactly the most architecturally-inspiring stuff I've ever seen) and my co-workers are all very nice. And even though there are certain anklebiters who think it's fun to cut out paper animals and leave them and their accompanying detritus strewn about the office like some gigantic origami graveyard, I really do enjoy what I'm doing, plus my boss lets me do shit like blog, websurf and email during business hours (though I recently discovered websudoku.com, which might just be the end of any and all productivity coming from my corner office), and doesn't mind if I take a few extra days of vacation because she knows I've put in extra overtime in spades over the past four and a half years. And most of the time, it doesn't conflict with my personal life.
Until now. Because certain dingbats (outside our company, thankfully) couldn't get their shit together in time, I'm headed for the land of tequila, Tijuana, and Tenochtitlán for a full week. Missing a Blues Traveler show, a Grace Potter & the Nocturnals show, and barely making it back in time for a weekend Guster run the following weekend.
It gets me real pissed off and it makes me wanna say...
It gets me real pissed off and it makes me wanna say...
It gets me real pissed off and it makes me wanna say...
)@*&#$^(@*&#^%(*@#&^&)$(*@#$_(*@#_$)(@#*_$)@(#*%_)(@#%
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