Work It, Actuary Boy

Is it possible to run out of stories to tell?

Must be a side effect of being in a chronic good mood thanks to the pharmacological miracle known as Celexa. Dammit, I love that stuff. But I think it's like what happened to Sarah McLachlan and Tori Amos after they got married. They ran out of misery and even remotely interesting things to sing about. I hate their husbands and their good mood talent sucking ways.

I don't like to just ramble in entries, and I haven't had the time to sit down and construct anything even remotely entertaining lately, so I haven't been updating.

But, here now it's 5:42am. I was supposed to be at work by 5:30am. I guess that's not going to happen, but they can just kiss my little white butt. I need to ramble for awhile.

Last Wednesday, I worked from 7am until 10pm, with barely a nod of acknowledgment from anyone of my bosses. I guess since I'd been working ridiculous hours for 2 weeks straight, it'd become expected. Thursday, I was on my way to another late night, when I started going into labor at about 6pm. Ladies, I don't mean to mock the pains of childbirth, because I'm sure it's a bitch to go through, but I can't imagine anything worse that this pain I had. I had two ackward actuaries cramped into my tiny cubicle with me as I sat there sweating and panting from the pain and trying not to distract from the conversation about the Pension Benefits Guarantee Cooporation or whatever bullshit they were spouting on and on about. They finally scampered off about 6:30, and I headed for the bathroom a few minutes later. I nearly knocked over one of the aforementioned 55 year old actuaries as I made my way to the bathrooms across from the elevator. He said, "Good night Patrick", and I said, "OH HOLY FUCKING SHIT BALLS," as I saw the maintenance crew cleaning the bathroom. I made a mad dash for the stairs and climbed to the second floor bathroom in time to relieve my stomach of my once bacon double cheeseburger and large fries.

And I went back to work. Still sick to my stomach, still having contractions, still sweating like a whore in Orlando. I went back to my desk... I'm way too dedicated to my job.

I finished up my work and limped to my car to drive myself home. It's an hour drive, and I contemplated stopping 3 times to ralph out the window or simply give into the contractions and double over in pain. Luckily I managed to get home 28.1 seconds before eruption number two.

I spent the rest of the night in pretty much the same condition. I took a sip of water, and 10 minutes later would have to run to the bathroom because my stomach was rejecting it. My temperature dropped to 93.6. Aren't you supposed to die or something if you get that cold?

I've never been so sick. So I called into work on Friday and told them I couldn't come in. And today, despite the fact that I went into the work on Saturday to make up the time, I'm going to get attitude for having missed work Friday.

We're really behind on work for a few major clients I have, and I'm going to have actuaries in suits with pocket protectors riding my ass all week long. Picture a team of nerdy, balding, short geeks in all Steve Erkle clothing and glasses with the exception of 6 inch spiked heals with whips in their hands that they use to snap in my direction and yell, "Can't you use that calculator a little faster, actuary boy?! Work it! Work it!"

This is what I have in store for me this week.

I'm feeling a little nauseous again.