I'm dying

Just kidding. Although flowers and boxes of gooey Laura Secord chocolates wouldn't go amiss right around now.

Mass release is always a killer, but I find I'm less and less tolerant of the toll it takes on my body as the years go by. I suppose it would be easier on me if I didn't insist on working at my usual breakneck speed, but that would just be another kind of pain for me. Once I tried to work at the pace of my incompetent boob co-workers and found it wasn't even physically possible for me. I actually expended more energy trying to deliberately take a beat between keystrokes that by noon I was exhausted.

My shoulders ache, I'm experiencing twinges in the small of my back and the majority of these kids are either lazy or dumb as a post.

I've just gone back and reread what I wrote above. I'm such a freakin' Wendy Whiner, aren't I? I should be grateful to my boss for continually calling me back so I can replenish my damn bank account, since I can't seem to find anyone else who wants to hire me. Plus, when I'm at a job with structured hours I stay on my diet much more than I do when I'm sitting around at home with peanut butter and chocolate calling out to me from the kitchen. I should be grateful, not an ingrate.