I returned from my last vacation to find her clutching my pink Trapper Keeper of inmate letters and glaring at me sternly. It was my best-of binder. I'd written commentary in the margins and hi-lited the hilarious bits for possible future screenplays. I do not see how this is any of her concern, but it became as much somehow. So I spent all day today taking great pains to hide and transport home what could feasibly be construed as "extremely unprofessional, Colleen."
But this was delayed by the Personnel Liaison in the next room phoning to lecture me about the emergency information form he insists that I fill out what feels like weekly, despite the fact that my emergency information does not change, ever.
"This is serious, Colleen."
"What, I'm sorry. I'm not allergic to anything. I told you that last week."
"You've written just let me die under special instructions."
"Colleen, this is very unprofessional of you."
UGH. It's a legitimate request, you asshole. Please world, should an emergency arise, make sure that my headstone reads "She was unprofessional" after you have put forth absolutely zero effort into resuscitating me.