goin' postal

lord, but i hate my job. it's not that i hate the work, per se, but the environment. how is it that no one has to knock at a cubicle? i'm in there, doing my thing. it's my space. there should be a door. or failing that, some sort of line across which people will not go without my say so.

oh to have a door.

but cupcake, you will be thinking. why do you not simply quit?

now there's an interesting story, and one i dare not tell.

okay, that's a lie. i haven't quit because i need the money. every day i half-heartedly look on careerbuilder and cl and monster. but i end up drifting into blogworld and blocking out the mindnumbing boredom by reading about social lives beyond my own and then someone comes bounding into my cubicle so i have to click on a spreadsheet and act like i am doing work. as soon as I get out of there every night, i race down to the local, order a cosmo and wait for my posse to join me. they hate their jobs too.

can i blame bush for this?

one of my friends quoted drew carey as saying something like, "so you hate your job? there's a support group for that. it's called everybody and we meet at the bar." true. so true.

something's gotta give. on the way home i stop at blockbuster and rent movies like office space and nine to five where the oppressed workers have the last laugh. next: a christmas carol, part 2-- in which bob cratchett beats scrooge senseless with tiny tim's crutch.

is there a checklist for warning signs that you're about to go postal?