grammar police is me

One of the Yahoo News headlines today is CHERNOBYL MATERIAL THOUGHT STOLEN FOUND. I figured it out on about the fourth reading.

I was at work for twelve hours yesterday. It will probably happen again either today or tomorrow. Don't ever let anybody tell you that salary is better than hourly pay. We have a mediation on Friday for a flaky nutjob of a client who fired her old lawyer about a month ago and showed up on our doorstep with two boxes of jumbled papers, each about the size of a bathtub. This file has owned my life since then, as I try to organize it into our file system and make some sense of it. My boss, the big-shot attorney, has not looked at this file, nor does he seem to intend to before Friday, so I'm going to the mediation with him where I will be expected to finish his sentences for him and have the appropriate piece of information at my fingertips within one or two seconds of him needing it. On the bright side, I get to wear the expensive suit that's been gathering dust since I interviewed for this stupid job.

So I haven't been blogging lately, because really, who wants to hear about that? I also haven't been riding my bike lately. Since Saturday, in fact, and before that it was last Monday. Last night I dreamed about my bike. I suspect it was due to a large amount of subconscious guilt. My bike sits in the living room (due to my landlady having crowded it out of the garage a while ago - she's dangerously close to crowding out my car as well, and that will definitely not fit in the living room) staring at me and making me feel like a cheating spouse. I'm not cheating on you, bikey, I want to say. Do you see any telltale carbon-fiber residue on my collar? Do you smell someone else's bar tape on my hands? I swear I'm just working late!

And on top of that I'm sick. I really don't understand why people bother making meth out of Sudafed when the original stuff is obviously just as good. Going downstairs to the restroom has become a treacherous task. I am dizzy, weak, light-headed. However, I am twice as productive as usual, in a dangerously insane kind of way. Think Requiem for a Dream, the mother hopped up on her diet pills. I cranked out a six-page mediation statement in eight and a half hours, half the time it would have otherwise taken me. I am invincible.

Now I'm scaring myself. I'd better go eat something.