So here we are folks, counting down, lots of work to ctch up on, and I get called into town for an audience, only to be told I won't have a job when I get back. Charming.
However, after a co-worker got me breathing again, a word in the ear of the union has me at least being demoted to the mail room not next week but 1 July, which is better than being hoisted out onto the street with my coffee cup.
Worse, it's more politics than apitude. Ack.
Never mind. Must go home to pack. Whee!
I taste like Nuclear Waste. Delicious.
Tasting like nuclear waste is a good thing - nothing bites me, nothing eats me, few things even touch me. I appreciate the solitude my harsh exterior brings. What Flavour Are You?