It's a long life to be longing

And so time marches on. Ponderously. Keep a stiff upper lip, little soldier. Don't disintegrate, dissolve, or disappear. There's too much to live for. But, as Hawksley pointed out, it's a long life to be longing. 

So, my friends, what news? What spins the wheels and makes any of this worth the back-pedaling? 

In a word. 

Pizza.

But you don't come here for this drivel. No. Nor for incomplete sentences. You come for harrowing tales of small office politics. The antics of the antiquated and colloquial big-city small-minded. So get to it, you bellow. What, what, what is happening since Grunty and her poop? Well. Rest easy and be still, dearies, here follows your next installment:

Toast Trouble

The office in which I work is small. No larger than a reasonably good sized apartment. And as is the wont of the modern Mussolini (read, employer), is a completely open space, punctuated with the mini cloth walls of the cubicle. A sad little maze for sad little people offering so little privacy that scratching your privates is completely out of the question--don't even try to pick your nose. Total humiliation. 

Every sense is assaulted. I see, hear, and smell all my fellow hell-dwellers. So try to imagine, if you can, what would happen, in this tight, wide-open space, if someone, anyone really, burnt their toast. Every day. 

Cruella comes in, most days, around 10 a.m. She flies in, tottering at high speed, on heels, that in some countries could be considered lethal weapons. After parceling out disingenuous, dangerously terrifying grins to the minions, and occasionally stopping at a lucky peons desk to ask some stickily personal question, of which she listens to roughly half the answer, before walking quickly, but mincingly away, she makes for the kitchen. The routine looks something like this:

"Lead Designer! Who took the coffee? There's no coffee! How do I make coffee!

How do I use this thing?!" 

You're keeping in mind this is every day, right? Every day. 

I'll save you the grotesque agony of listening to the exchange. In fact, many times, and with growing frequency, I, who most days am as patient as Job (that is a total fabrication, but suspend disbelief for the sake of the story, please) can no longer bear listening to the, "Five big spoonfuls, yes, five. Big spoons...." so I get up and make the coffee myself. 

I imagine you're imagining me walking into the kitchen and smiling benevolently at Cruella and telling her I'll take care of it, not to worry her empty little head. But no. Alas that is not what happens. As Lead Designer is calling out instructions, with no attention to what coffee-making activities are actually going on, Cruella has left the kitchen and clicked off somewhere else. But not before depositing her bread for breakfast in the toaster. 

Now we're all adults here, even the floor-soiling dog, so one would be lulled in to the belief that we can manage our own toast. After all, I am being paid a scandalously poor wage to edit the books that educate young minds, not babysit (and yes, I see the sad irony there!) So we all put on our headphones and avert our eyes. 

However, one day, my cube-mate (whom I haven't introduced to you, as he has wisely fled elsewhere) came flying out of his chair, shouting "Jesus!" As his chair rolls wildly across the floor, he runs to the kitchen. All eyes are on him. But only briefly. As we stop what we're doing and follow his nicely formed form dashing to the kitchen, our eyes are drawn to the billowing black, BLACK, smoke roiling across the ceiling.

It's only when I see the thick cloud of smoke that my olfactory senses are alerted. Burnt toast. No. Not burnt. Charred beyond recognition toast. What toast would look and smell like in the cafeteria in Hell. 

Well, Tink calls, "Cruella! You burnt your toast, tee, hee, hee." Cruella comes hustling around the corner, marches straight up to Lead Designer, puts her balled up fists where her hips would be if she had any, and screeches, "Lead Designer! My toast is burnt!! My toast is burnt! Why is my toast burnt?! Why weren't you watching it?!! Lead Designer!!!!!" Then she pivots, perilously, on her spike and storms away. 

That would be enough for one day, yes? But as we sit there, coughing, sputtering, grasping for our inhalers, and marveling at the copious, remarkable amount of smoke one piece of toast could possibly create, Young Female Designer comments, "Hey, don't we have smoke detectors?" 

In a word. No. 

No smoke detectors. No sprinkler system. Just a tinderbox of an office, a warehouse full of books, a group of hapless people, a dog, and a diabolically insane toast singe-er.  

If I don't get out of here alive, I'm leaving you my pencil collection. Protect them, and love them like I have.