I've Upped My Standards.

(Read 1 orsell your soul)

Subject:	Spittle
Time:	12:31 am.
Music:	Penis Flytrap Punk Rock Is Dead.

I got nothing done tonight, even though albums were released and I'm also supposed to be writing up the DTC Wiki. It just didn't happen. I didn't feel like writing. (SH)It happens.

My last pick-up of the day is a warehouse that distributes office products. Recently they installed tight fencing just inside each doorway. I walk inside the door and I'm caged. There's a button which rings a bell allerting employees that I'm waiting to be let in. Irritated, I lay on the damn thing until someone walks over and allows me inside. I'm also supposed to "sign in." There is a book where I have to write my name, the time of my arrival and the company to which I belong. So yeah, I write Hugh G. Rekshun, 6:66, Pfizer. Natch.

What the hell is the purpose of all the damned security?! Seriously. They carry pens, wastebaskets and toilet paper. Who cares? It's not even good toilet paper. It's that office-style, paper mache crap where your fingers poke through in wid-wipe. So you wash your hands with that pink, granulated shit that does nothing but sweeten the scent slightly. Then, at lunchtime, you go to bit into your sandwich, the fingers rub against your nose and you think, "Hey, was I so exhausted this morning I made a candied shit sandwhich?!" Ludicrous.

It's just another thing to add to the looong list of moments which irritate me during my work day.

I'm tired. I'm cranky. I'm going to bed.