audit that I haven’t even thought of before. I look down to see what I’ve written. I can’t even read it. After breaking out my Johnny Quest decoder ring, and trying to decipher the inane scribbling that has become my handwriting, I realize that we never laid the food out of the freezer to thaw. Breakfast will be rushed, which means the paperwork will be rushed. John is now less helpful than ever. Thank you, John. I try to shake thoughts inapplicable to the job from my head. I kick myself in the ass on the way out. Way to suck, team. Day 5. The running definition for Purgatory is: any condition or place of temporary punishment, suffering, expiation, or the like. Night fifty (it seems) I feel horrified to even get in the car. I don’t remember driving here, but here I am in this God-forsaken place. This isn’t a job; this is dress rehearsal for hell. I do my job mindlessly, forsaking the thoughts that battle valiantly against the doors of my mind, trying to tell me to care about what I’m doing. I just do it. My thoughts, what few there are, are hardly what I would call rational strands of thought. I am a ball of yarn. Let’s review. I’m sick of energy drinks, and coffee, but I need them. I’m sick of cereal, and microwavable sandwiches of every conceivable type, but that’s all my meals can be. No time for anything else. I’m sick of being awake. I can’t sleep, I don’t want to eat, and I shake near constantly. God bless money. Oh, cruel fate, that I should be so wounded by the job that I sought to give me gain. Cruel Irony, you once brought me laughter, but have now brought me to a readily available substance that I am now addicted to. I travel the long road home, half awake, mostly in a stupor; I find myself with a moral to cling to from this time in Purgatory. Sleep in what energy you can. Drink in what you can’t.
47
