The light in the hallway outside my office is blinking. Constantly. I think it’s blinking something in Morse code. I swear it’s telling me to kill someone. I’m having trouble making out whom, though.
I called the receptionist so she could have building maintenance come and replace the bulb. That was over an hour and a half ago. Maybe the light wants me to kill the maintenance dude when he gets here.
Why don’t you just close your door, you daft broad? Well, I could, but then I’d appear inaccessible. We can’t have that, now can we? The attorneys are all getting new Blackberries. They’re sweet, by the way. I have, well, had, one (that’s a whole other story). It has integrated phone, wireless email and Internet access features. They (the attorneys, not the Blackberries) keep popping in and asking me inane questions. Questions they could answer if they just read the fucking memos that were sent to them. Questions they could answer if they just applied higher brain function for a few minutes. Questions I really could not care any less about answering but, well, seeing has how the pay me quite handsomely here, I have to pretend to care about and, subsequently, answer.
The light keeps blinking, blinking, blinking. It’s telling me to either kill the next attorney who pops in and asks if they can configure the new Blackberry to blow them at two-hour intervals or kill the maintenance man (after he changes the bulb, of course).