2002-11-08

My brain? She is dead. I am officially taking a Retard Day. I cannot function. I cannot perform the simplest of tasks. The prospect of the immanent long weekend (hooray for Canadian veterans, who fought and died for my one day of freedom in November!) has rendered me slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, dreaming of the elusive pleasure of staying out late and misbehaving on a Sunday night. I've been staring at one piece of correspondence for the past two hours, switching back and forth between pretending to study it intently (when I hear someone walking past my cubicle) and just holding it up in front of me whilst surfing the internet. I've given up on trying to jimmy the mangled phrases into some semblance of coherence, and am now reduced to arranging the detritus on my desk into tidy piles in order to look like I'm working. Visions of foaming pints of ale are dancing in my head. New dockets keep appearing in my inbox, and my only discernable response to their presence is a myopic, startled look, as though they had somehow been imbued with the power of speech and offered me a slice of olive loaf. I long for the intrigue and excitement of a coma. I'm contemplating bashing myself unconscious with the three-hole punch, after rigging myself up, dissected-frog's-leg-style, to electrodes programmed to periodically jolt my prone body with electricity, giving me the perfunctory appearance of alertness.

If one of my beloved readers would kindly pop down here and kill me, I'll buy you a beer.

Hey - I didn't say "fuck" once in this post! Oh�whoops. Fuck it.