On doing it with my eyes closed. Don't you see?
This is the be all end all.
The real deal.
The genuine article.
The bottom line.
The Truth.
The instar omnium.
Ignore this.
I stumble (pumped full of caffeine but my swagger overslept) into the IRS center's receipt and control unit, AKA Hazmat central, AKA the room in which I'm spending most of my immediate days. And I'm trying to be as inconspicuous as possible so as not to attract attention to the fact that, though I'm actually here, I'm hours late again.
This is sort of a running joke. I walk in late, I'm high-fived, I'm teased about whether I'll stay a full eight hours or go home "sick," then I'm at my desk for about four.
This girl Veronica who sits next to me and bullshits about boys and drugs with me all day, she runs up to me and grabs me by the arm. "Turn around," she whispers through one of those ventriloquist poker faces. "Gobackgobackgetouttahere."
"You're wearing makeup!" I say, and she smiles. I stop and start out.
So now we've attracted the attention of some of the others, and then more, and then I'm greeted by a huge cheer. I don't mean a cheer, I mean an explosion of shouts and applause that swells from one end of the unit to the other, announcing my arrival. Contrite but laughing, I approach the manager's desk with a flourish.
Ten minutes later, I'm being snuck out of the unit so as to avoid rousing any further rabble. This is our manager's idea, not mine. I've been furloughed and no one is supposed to know. Well, they're not supposed to know because everyone is being furloughed today, which is really just a fancy federal word for "fired." It's a seasonal thing, you know?
The drive home is the strangest thing. The sun glaring and the windows down. This terrible elation, it's the emotional equivalent of dropping down in the middle of the ocean on a golden barge. Or something.
It was the order that was keeping me sane, you see. But the money and the sleep will help.
What's up, fuckers?
The real deal.
The genuine article.
The bottom line.
The Truth.
The instar omnium.
Ignore this.
I stumble (pumped full of caffeine but my swagger overslept) into the IRS center's receipt and control unit, AKA Hazmat central, AKA the room in which I'm spending most of my immediate days. And I'm trying to be as inconspicuous as possible so as not to attract attention to the fact that, though I'm actually here, I'm hours late again.
This is sort of a running joke. I walk in late, I'm high-fived, I'm teased about whether I'll stay a full eight hours or go home "sick," then I'm at my desk for about four.
This girl Veronica who sits next to me and bullshits about boys and drugs with me all day, she runs up to me and grabs me by the arm. "Turn around," she whispers through one of those ventriloquist poker faces. "Gobackgobackgetouttahere."
"You're wearing makeup!" I say, and she smiles. I stop and start out.
So now we've attracted the attention of some of the others, and then more, and then I'm greeted by a huge cheer. I don't mean a cheer, I mean an explosion of shouts and applause that swells from one end of the unit to the other, announcing my arrival. Contrite but laughing, I approach the manager's desk with a flourish.
Ten minutes later, I'm being snuck out of the unit so as to avoid rousing any further rabble. This is our manager's idea, not mine. I've been furloughed and no one is supposed to know. Well, they're not supposed to know because everyone is being furloughed today, which is really just a fancy federal word for "fired." It's a seasonal thing, you know?
The drive home is the strangest thing. The sun glaring and the windows down. This terrible elation, it's the emotional equivalent of dropping down in the middle of the ocean on a golden barge. Or something.
It was the order that was keeping me sane, you see. But the money and the sleep will help.
What's up, fuckers?