I arrived to work this morning bound and determined to begin the not-too-terribly complicated process of reorganizing my office and all the paperwork that I've let pile up for quite some time. It was a cool and rainy morning, and I was feeling uncharacteristically focused and far from anxious. Then I walked in.
(Please forgive me for being vague, but the matter involves confidential proceedings for an organization that predates the Constitution. Yes, I work for the Illuminati.)
A simple procedural matter and missed deadline by a colleague of someone for whom I work arose over the weekend and by this morning, as it was described to me in painfully deliberate detail, it seemed to be a full-blown conflagration. I was quickly able to prove that we had done absolutely nothing wrong. The gentleman in question, presented with overwhelming evidence that he was at fault, backed down.
Now, I don't feel like doing a damn thing for the rest of the week. Why? Because this should never have been an issue in the first place, and certainly not the kind of thing that involves me having literally 20 e-mails in my inbox and a couple of hours of discussion. (Technically, I work for the gentleman in question exactly 3.5 hours/week.) Do you think you missed a deadline for submitting something? Checking your motherfucking Outbox and see if you missed the motherfucking deadline. It's not fucking rocket science. (+200 Bonus Frustration Points: at least one of the parties involved was, earlier in his career, a rocket scientist.)
And this is how I spend my time at work.
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