It's 5 in the afternoon.

It's days like this, after a cup of unsettling tea, a sore middle finger from abusing the f5 button (occupational hazard), slightly less than six hours of sleep, after clocking in too many hours of housekeeping on my own incredibly boring courier-font-in-size-10 code, that I would like nothing better than to be at home reading a sorely neglected book about a female bounty hunter from New Jersey, while enjoying the sweltering heat in the most tattered shirt I own.

I'm incredibly tempted to walk away from my responsibilities. Just for the rest of today, to walk away from an office of prematurely balding sedentary workers, to not spend five hours of my evening slogging away on the treadmill in a gym that artificially inseminates itself with energy by way of blaring trance music and glaringly-colored walls. To walk away from a clerk that tells me I'm earning less than a lab rat that finds the cheese in a maze. No, To walk away from a clerk that tells me I'm earning less than all the different kinds of lab rats that find cheese in mazes (it's a temp job, dammit. Learn some tact also.) To walk away from being broke not by my own undoing, but by the bank that decides that it's excellent customer service to process cheques ISSUED BY ITSELF one full month after its customer deposits it in. (Have you heard of anything like that? I'm still in shock. And making as big a fuss as possible).
Jesus.

To be able to wake up in the afternoon, to stop tasting blood because I bite my lip in frustration, to basically be my own boss, and not serve my boss who serves her boss who serves his boss who serves his boss who serves her boss who serves his boss.

I'll see you at the gym.