Blisters, paper-cuts, shredded cuticles and a back-pain issue perplexing in its persistence — a refusal to wear gloves coupled with a drive to be faster than my neighbor mean that I am kicking through 517 to 600 1040s an hour, depending on what hand is in charge of what function (and how tired I am). I have to switch every night. They laid off 16 people on Sunday. Everyone is e-filing. This industry, too, shall soon feel the crunch of "no paper no more."
So, go out and celebrate my exceeding of Operation Quarterly Numerical Performance Standards for Employees — I'm efficient enough to be better than "surviving" (level 2) and dropping in between levels 3 and 4.
All this is surely helping me cope with the accumulating sense that all other items are slipping away. It is true, even today, that other job is still receiving 25 hours of my time. That leaves 100 hours a week to eat, sleep, bathe, communicate and do anything else that is necessary to survive.
We are predicting eventual explosions of volcanic scale, though a recent complication from mad-woman hormones seems to have left no victims. I mean, really, if I were looking to escape, I'd run off in that 530i that he just left a key on the table for. (It's not ours.)
PS: have seen spouse for a total of 30 seconds today, not including six lines of dialogue with stairs in between at 4 a.m. We seem to be involved in too many things. Hmm, now that I've read a review (long live reviews!), that car doesn't seem fun to drive at all.