Every once in a while real life will play out like fiction. Today, for example, the weather quite perfectly reflects my health: 42°F with a steady rain over an already icy ground. What was once a foot of fluffy snow has been beaten into ice by now.
Working from home is helpful and horrible at the same time. Helpful, because it means I can be productive while laying waste to rolls of toilet papers and bags of cotton balls. (Why not boxes of tissues? Take a lesson from a nosebleed-prone victim, especially since around this time of year my nose goes into manic overdrive – tissues are made from WOOD PULP. TP and cotton balls are made of actual cotton.) And because I don’t like to create more work for my coworkers. It’s horrible because the connection to my workstation lags and I get frustrated, and I’m already tired at just 10:00 AM in the morning.
In my misery I can’t help but feel just a little like Helen Burns; not the part where she’s all calm about dying, but the part where she gets all passive-aggressive and self-pitying because, “I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should have been continually at fault.” Tell it like it is, Helen.