It's A Jungle Out There

The jack-hammering has stopped and those “dang mexicos” are gone. Which is sort of making me sad ‘cause now there’s no one to whistle at me when I walk into work in the morning. It's not every day ten muscular men whistle and call me baby before my hair had settled into an ‘ok’ state after blow-drying, since it takes about an hour after styling before it’s actually calm and reasonable, up until then it looks like I licked the end of a fork and gingerly stuck it into a light socket while holding onto frayed electrical wires with my other hand.

On the plus side, the door-slamming from my co-workers has stopped, and hysteria has subsided to a dull roar. Aside from the hourly, “Oh, sugar. I broke it! I broke the printer again! I didn’t even touch it. I don’t know what happened” from Miss Havisham, most of the yelling has stopped.

I’m sort of pleased with the rugged look our office has taken on now. Without any cement surrounding the building it kinda feels like we’re in the woods. Like we had to set up a make-shift accounting office suddenly, in the middle of battle, to make sure we filed all the extentions properly! Forget hot water and food and saving lives, what this war needs is taxes to be done damnit!



P.S. I'm making that face because Jungle coffee is gross.