Back Tuit

Handlebar-moustacheSunlight pummeled the windows, their square-frame lenses outlined through the white cotton curtains.  It was like those false windows on cruise ships that trick the passengers into feeling less claustrophobic, but with the intensity turned up exponentially.  It was as if she were a prisoner, and the Gestapo had just shined the tower spotlight directly into her room.  No.  It was as if Dr. Horrible had shined a gamma-ray freeze beam thingy at her, and the platinum-fiber portal shields, hanging from their rods, had protected her.

It was morning. And although her circadian rhythm had been apt to let her sleep until 0800 nearly every morning this past week of vacation, her eyes snapped open at precisely 0515 this morning.  Fifteen minutes before her alarm went off, her body’s parts all told her, “We know the score.  We get to be useful again this week.  Not like last week where you only used your imagination and went with the flow.  No, it’s time to go back to work and we get to carry our brain around for everyone and everything that needs it.  Don’t bother with the ‘Star Trek bridge door whistle alarm do-hickey,’  we already know.  Just sayin’.”

She had a sudden urge to chew her fingernails.  She thought of all the emails she’d ignored last week and wondered if she’d have time over coffee to get to them.  She envisioned a huge billboard with flashy lights around the edge, and in big letters – her “to do” list, neatly prioritized and made known to her.  Wishful thinking.  Ouch!  She plucked the amputated index finger nail tip from her front teeth and sat up.

Who was the asshole who decided at some point that 40 hours was an appropriate work week?  What huge conglomerate of waxed-handlebar mustached men and thin faced, hair-gel plastered women were “evil laughing” at this very minute at the massive amount of pain and anguish they were imposing on the working masses?  And what kind of “fucked-up in the head” did those damn internet bitches and bastards think she was – those idiots that sent messages about their pyramid schemed “get paid to sit on the beach” web conferences and “get rich without trying.”  She’d memorized some of their faces in the hopes she might run into one of them out-of-the-blue and give them a piece of her mind (not to mention specific fingers of both of her hands).

It was morning, on the day she had to return to the J-O-B.  “Lighten up,” she scolded, “at least you work with happy people …”

“They sure as hell better be,” she thought, as she self-talked her way into the car and turned the key, “or else there better be chocolate.”



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