Friday. A full two weeks back at the Scarlet Letter after my 7-week hiatus. Oh, how I miss the carefree days of not coming into the office. The halcyon days of not having people throw their cars at me from the wrong direction up the aisles of the parking lot, of not having my fellow co-workers position their caffeinated, jerking fingers over the Close Door button in the elevator as soon as the damn thing stops on my floor.
For the love of god, let me off the elevator before you request that the doors fling shut so that the elevator can hurtle you on your way to... well, nowhere.
It's short-timers. I just know it. My ability to gladly suffer fools, never the kevlar-coated stuff of a Jane Austen herione, is now gossamer thin and littered with holes. I will not make it to my anticipated quit date. I will be in a federal penitentary long before that date arrives.
Right now, I am a worthless amalgamation of red blood cells at work. I can't concentrate, I can't get motivated, I can't do anything that would require me to do anything that would resemble work. I wish that someone would lay me off so that I can avoid making the double-bird jesture as I tell them that I quit.
Two days. Two days to adjust my attitude and suck it up for the next few months.
Wish me luck.