2003-10-02

In the immortal words of Belle and Sebastian, get me the fuck away from here, I�m fucking dying. (I may have paraphrased a little there.) I feel as though I have been hit by a truck � one carrying samples of top secret mega-deadly germ warfare. I�m at DEATH�S FUCKING DOOR. Which, to my chagrin, looks a lot like the entrance to my cubicle. Oh woe!

Yes, dear readers, I have dragged my bedraggled ass into work today, despite (or perhaps because of) my undoubtedly high level of contagion. My bones ache, my head is pounding, and every time I swallow it feels like I�m choking down a mouthful of broken glass. And yet I work! For I am noble! Also, I want to make a fucking point, therefore I am flaunting my martyrdom at every opportunity. It�s a good thing I�ve read everything the Bront�s ever wrote, because I am now a level-ten ninja of pathos. I am decked out in my best Super Pathetico outfit: jeans and a ratty hooded sweatshirt, and no makeup (oh my! However will my coworkers recognize me without that barely-noticeable trace of eyeliner?), and I am hacking consumptively, pale hand clutching my heaving chest. Sometimes I moan. I think the moaning is a nice touch.

However, all is for naught. My boss, who heard my croaking excuse for a voice and informed me I could go home if I wanted, has abruptly gone home herself (neatly negating the afore-mentioned permission) because her daughter missed the bus to school. This is the fourth day this week she�s either been absent entirely or hasn�t worked a full day. For the record, it is THURSDAY. So now I am the boss, and I have the Plague. Come closer, minions, so I can breathe on you!