The World is Sick

God, a red nugget, a fat egg under a dog.

August, it is. I have survived eight weeks of this nightmare. I still have trouble getting up in the morning.

Work is going fine, if you don’t count the “little” hiccups that were accompanied by successive career crises and the realisation that I really don’t get along well with most people. They’re probably just trying to be friendly, but I find that what they say tends to be uninteresting and sometimes offensive. The interesting thing is that if my friends said those same things, I’d probably be completely fine with it. It’s a good thing that I don’t justify my social interactions with objectivity.

Those guys and I have nothing in common. Or perhaps I’m just inherently biased. Biased against people who have really off-key singing, make random exclamations, and try to talk to me when I’m attempting to procrastinate. Also against people who make terrible jokes, and I have to refrain from telling them so in order to not come off as an antisocial jackass who uh, tells people that their jokes aren’t funny. Is this what working life is supposed to be like? Your boss has a crummy sense of humour, and you have no choice but to pretend you find him funny?

Bleh.

Four weeks of work to go. Well, less than that, because it’s Tuesday now. For some reason, I’m feeling the pressure now. At 11pm, after having pizza and enjoying a relatively Samson-free evening.  It’s not like my work is going more terribly than one might expect, but I have a bad feeling about… something. It’s not really clear what.

Maybe I’m experiencing physiological symptoms of a non-psychological problem. Now that would be scary. And expensive.