As revealed to me only moments ago by a colleague at the next desk over, seasonal affective disorder (SAD) is ruling my life. With each passing day of cloud-covered gloom, I come to resemble Oscar the Grouch more and more. My hair is sticking out in all directions. My eyebrows are continually furrowed. I say mean things to strangers on the phone and think about how much they deserve it. Just now, for instance, I hung up on an operator at the Bloomingdale's call center because he couldn't pronounce my name. Maybe I'll be overcome with remorse when the first ray of sun filters through, but at the moment I'm pretty sure my irritation is justified.
Other targets of my wrath:
1. Hannah Montana. I don't get it. I can't stand it. The other night I tried to watch five minutes of this show and all I could do was mutter "Robots!" under my breath, repeatedly and with malice.
2. Dr. Phil. Seriously Dr. Phil, you need to quit meddlin'. This is an A and B conversation, so you'd better C your way out.
3. My desk phone. How rude of it to keep blinking even though it knows I can't possibly muster the strength to listen to messages. How completely disrespectful.
This must be why they call it the Windy City. Because it blows. Anywho, I'll just be here waiting on a delivery of brownie bites or Swirlz cupcakes—the only things that could possibly revive me at this point.
Disagreeably yours,
ARD.
P.S. I just dropped my Sharpie on the floor. Great. Now I have to reach down and pick it up.
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