Tiny Town has been as hard this week as I feared it would be.
Too many meetings.
Too many projects.
Not enough me.
Not one, but two folks bitched at my face because of projects I was late with. My response? Go tell my boss. Please. Please please please go tell her how I haven't met your deadline. Because I've been in meetings 7 hours a day.
They didn't take me up on it.
So I had this conversation with one of the people who's deadline I did not meet, he also happens to be a pal.
Me: "I've decided to quit. I'm gonna sell the house. Move to Florida. Become a hobo."
Coworker Pal: "Hm. If you move to Florida, that makes you a beach bum, not a hobo."
Me: "Well, I don't want to put on fancy airs. I'm fine with hobo-ing"
Coworker Pal: "But to be a hobo, I think you have to ride the rails."
Me: "Dammit. I'm fairly certain I cannot jump on - or out of - a moving boxcar. I guess I'm going to have to go with beach bum. I wonder how I'll look with dreadlocks."
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