Braindead

I’ve reached a level of braindead that can only classify me as completely dead. It’s when you read words, but you really don’t understand them, they might as well be in a different language. And after a long hot day, I decided to regain my individuality and write something.

We had a fire drill today, and although it sounds like I’m in elementary school, I’m really not. It’s great to walk down 10 flights of stairs on a bum ankle. I really wish that at least it had been a real fire. I knew it wasn’t when the line from the hallway to the stairwell wasn’t moving at all, and no one even seemed to care. When you want to be burned alive rather than go to a meeting, things have to change. The stairwell is wide, probably about 5 people wide, with rails on either side, yet our fire marshalls (read: people with red hats) insist on a single file line on one of the rails. Seems like getting out slower will only help in the fire.

I think that I knew that this day was going to be bad when it smelled like someone puked in my cubicle, and I knew it wasn’t me. These aren’t just regular cubicles, they’re super 4-person cubicles, all of us sitting in the corners, with our backs to each other. Maybe the puke was merely imaginary as my friend posted pictures of my first, and coincidentally last, experience with Absinthe, even though it’s the pussified American version. It kicked my ass. I guess it’s true what they say, smells can awaken memories. I’m feeling slightly nauseated. Maybe it was I who puked in the cubicle.

At least the faux handicapped spot I have insures that I only have to limp to the first row of the parking lot instead of the 20th. Viva la… Wednesday.