Velouria (velouria) wrote,

The Joy Luck Club.

We got sent home from work today because of a bomb threat. The director came bursting into our Sunshine Secretary Cycle club meeting to let us know. It was bittersweet. More sweet than bitter, because I wasn't being very sunshiney. I was on the brink of throwing down over the fact that they'd commandeered my sharpie ordering ability from me.

I don't know if it was the whole department or just the building or what. It was probably my fault. I'll bet that one inmate did not take a liking to my response to his whining about not being able to have liquor filled candy. His argument that he would get more fat than drunk did not sway me.

I got home and found a package from my Grandma on the stairs. I was annoyed for two reasons. One that they'd left it there for my neighbor, who I shall refer to as Stone Cold from this point forward because he looks like him, to just waltz off with if he so desired, and two because I tripped over it and nearly died. Stone Cold, by the way, repeatedly sits on his balcony and stares at my heart-patient brother and I (2 pacemakers) haul furniture up the stairs. There's about a buck fifty between us, and I'm guessing 500 on Stone Cold's part. Thanks, asshole.

So I open the package and find this:

It's a pillow. I just started sobbing because my toe hurt from the dive into the door and because it was just too much irony for one pillow. I felt guilty for being such an abysmal antithesis to everything the pillow declared that I was. Stone Cold could have made off with it and had it apply to him more than it does to me.

She asked what I did for a living when I'd called her to thank her. I tried to explain. "So you're the Dear Abby of the state prisons?" Heh. Yeah, I am.
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