GFY.

Today my lady coworker gave me (unasked for, if this does not become apparent) 3 books. What Color is Your Parachute?, The Art of Interviewing, and last and certainly least, Prosperity Pie by someone named "Sark" which, and I shit you not, consisted entirely of unintelligible scribble writing and crude drawings. Somehow this ended up on the New York Times Best-Seller's List.

This is behind only Stuff on My Cat in terms of things that make me want to obtain a gun license soley so that I can purchase a gun and put in my mouth and blow my brains out all over my cat.

These people write for a living and I spend my days printing letters from someone who oppose the death penalty because she could tell her dentist was feeling her up when she was under anesthesia for a root canal? And then smearing toner all over my white pants when my printer craps out from having to print 500 copies of it? Yeah? This is what I suffer endlessly for? Good to know.