And then there's the gal next to me. Who first ran into my chair on her way back from the printer and whose binder she keeps pushing up against my arm - completely oblivious to the fact that it's even there. She keeps speaking to herself in a hushed tone...as if she's so into her work she must discuss it with itself. Nobody is ever that into any of their work. Those people just want attention. And she keeps sighing these surprised sighs. Like she's just so bowled over all of a sudden by her latest intellectual discovery via Google.
This is just a tiny, measure of an example on how everything feels as though it's encroaching on my personal space. The plate. The food. The stench. The moron. Her exasperation.
Last night at work a truck driver called up and yelled, cussed and bitched at me for twenty minutes. It was the same driver who'd called me last week and yelled, cussed and bitched at me for thirty minutes about the same exact problem, to which I had - surprise - the same exact solution. At this rate, by Christmas maybe he'll stop calling. Most likely not.
This morning, I woke up late, thoroughly exhausted, burned my toast and was too late to school to work on a rough draft of a final paper. In which case, our professor said we might as well not even come to class if we are without it.
It has not been a pleasant day thus far. My personal space is at war with the world...and the mustard is winning.