161,280 Minutes...that's how we measure our last days at work...

161,280 Minutes. Come hell or high water, I will not be in this office in 161,280 minutes.

It's not my fault you can't edit the website. Fact is, you can barely turn on the computer. And you think the entire internet resides on your personal machine. You have paid hundreds of thousands of dollars for a beautiful yet dysfunctional turd that we have been forced to live with for years. You want yer stuff to work on the intarwebs? Create a workaround like I've done. No, I won't help. I'm too busy counting down my minutes. (kthxbai).

It is hard to work in a tiny office where my co-workers absolutely don't care about what's going on in my life. It really is. They ignore me in a way that borders on violent.

I'm not the annoying girl who talks all day. I'm also not the person who ignores their lives. I know what they like, what they watch on TV, what their kids are up to, who's going to college where and what they're studying, you get the idea. If they tell me something they're worried about, I listen. I don't offer advice unless asked--and I check back with them to see if whatever they were worried about turned out ok. I don't participate in their boss-slamming, but I would never rat 'em out either.

I do not get this courtesy in return. Today, I have an MRI for a problem that, for me, is the boogeyman. Friday, I have an EMG. I am terrified--close my office door, chug xanax and try not to shake terrified. My co-workers have seen me walking around this office with ice pack slings across my body. They've seen me leave for multiple appointments and multiple rounds of PT. No one's asked what's going on or if I'm ok. Once, I brought it up and said that I was scared--it elicited no response. The person I said this to literally took a cell phone call in the middle of our conversation and didn't come back. I hope I'm not a whiner or a topper--I'm pretty careful to avoid this stuff.

Yes, co-workers, I make more than you. You should be able to guess this--but the fact that the bookkeeper shared my salary with you can't help. I have a professional degree that I sacrificed a lot to get. The same with my experience--it's prestigious and you guys don't have it. If you want it and were to ask, I'd be the first to tell you how I did it if you wanted to do what I do--or I'd support you in what you wanted to do.

I'm younger than you. It's true. I'm even kind of cute. And, to some people, likable. I liked you guys. I still would if you'd just be fucking decent. You'd be surprised what we probably have in common...and what we don't might even be funny. I don't think I'm better than you...in fact, I'm clumsy and can be awfully stupid about things that you probably do better. I do think you suck for being assholes. But maybe you think I'm an asshole? I dunno.

Sorry for the rant. I don't have anywhere else to post this. And my husband has already been far too accommodating to lay this dumb shit whining at his feet. Fingers crossed no earthquakes happen while I'm in that machine that feels an awful lot like a coffin. More fingers crossed that the EMG hurts less than last time and doesn't find more nerve damage.

And finally, prayers that they figure out exactly what in the hell is going on in my shoulder/neck/whatever. 'Cause I never wanna be on a spinal surgery table again.