Let me go home!
Some customers are soooooo glad to find someone who will be patient with them and not sigh and roll the eyes when they ask "It says click next to continue. What do I do?" that they don't want to ever let you go. Which, if it's 4:00 and I'm about to be put into the phone queue, is just fine. I like the internet queue better. The phone queue, if you already know how to get into your voicemail and you haven't left a phone off the hook in the basement or something, pretty much all I can do is put in a ticket and listen to you scream about your eighty-seven year old mother with diabetes and your kids with asthma and you're running a business out of your home and you NEED YOUR PHONE. Which is not relaxing. Whereas with internet I know more about computers than you do or ever will, and indeed since I have suppressed all knowledge of Windows 3.1 I have literally forgotten more about computers than you will ever know, means I rule your ass and can usually fix your problem. So if it's 4:00 and you want to clutch me like a security blanket while you walk through the easy to understand steps for installing mcafee, go right ahead.
However, I'm supposed to go home at 10. I've been sick since a week ago last Tuesday. My throat feels like sandpaper and I feel dizzy from the snot in my eustachian tubes and upper sinuses. It's my week to cook dinner, and the consort is waiting for me to come home and cook him lovely pork chops, yellow rice, and salad with homemade blue cheese dressing, which is an elixir of the gods even on the nasty-ass lettuce and tomatoes we get at this time of year. In short, I want to go home. So when you call at 9:30 and I can't pry you off the phone until 11:00, you know you've done a bad thing. Hang up. You can finish it yourself, I know you can.
However, I'm supposed to go home at 10. I've been sick since a week ago last Tuesday. My throat feels like sandpaper and I feel dizzy from the snot in my eustachian tubes and upper sinuses. It's my week to cook dinner, and the consort is waiting for me to come home and cook him lovely pork chops, yellow rice, and salad with homemade blue cheese dressing, which is an elixir of the gods even on the nasty-ass lettuce and tomatoes we get at this time of year. In short, I want to go home. So when you call at 9:30 and I can't pry you off the phone until 11:00, you know you've done a bad thing. Hang up. You can finish it yourself, I know you can.