"Do you want to send this message without a subject line?"

I'm baffled by the amount of variations of "I don't know" one person can convey in a subject line.

There's double spacing and ill formated punctuation. Half a sentence taken over by a derailing train of thought and a finishing touch of a phrase that comes off as a question instead of the solution I was hoping for. No wonder sleep has been such a struggle.

Last night I had a conversation with my soundboard to make sense of the days one liners and distractions that took away from my getting anything done. No sense of accomplishment or pride from me, just uneasiness about what my tomorrow would bring.

Here I am hoping that there was a way to influence my 9-5 outcome, but those ambitious days drain the bank of energy you'd need for a week with sharon. 

Subject Line: What's the office phone number??

That email had to be the highlight of my day and yet I still couldn't muster even a giggle when venting to every breathing mammal that would listen. A women who is bloated with the ego of both loyalty and madness couldn't retain even the smallest of details. 

It's barely 11;00am now and I can feel the kick of an internal alarm, the one that sings "caffeine or vodka on this bright fluorescent day m'lady?", so much for the best of both worlds.

If it's not a Hannah Montana theme song narrating my work day it's 'ANNIE: The Musical's' "Little Girls". Not in its original format though, a duet. Between the slimmly framed ball of fire and the glassy eyed blazer, both sticklers for staying on tune...the radio must be on, or is it the hold music? they both sound so frivolous in her cage of glass. Peering in from time to time, we all start picking up on her 'distractors'.

Like clockwork she steps out barefoot for a break, complains about the new yogurt stains she acquired from this mornings car ride over and mutters something about how her zyprexa didn't do much good for her 4 hours of sleep. Too bad the bottle encourages a structured bedtime, little girls seem to always disobey they're mother. 

According to all my observations over the year, there'll be a few more missed phone calls from numbers she recognises. The voicemail will mention a dollar figure and she'll run to close the door on her competitors. while she's at it, the extremes of hot and cold will reverse for shift #2 of the day. Increasing the fan speed will let her unpaid bills fly across the room and knock over the dirty wine glass from Tuesday's late night catching up on her daytime diary.

The emails will soon start flooding in - ones about her 'big ideas' from last night and the bus backs she doesn't remember signing off on. Keeping a paper trail always comes in handy right about now. The five of us exchange responses from email threads they weren't in onto its rightful owner and screenshots of the ones that no one will believe. They also live on the wall.

Chairs start sliding back in unison as one of us is designated the lookout, the keymaster and the firestarter. I'm resigned the title of 'comic relief' more often than not. Either that or 'angry sympathiser', but today I arrived with a full arsenal of self-depricating slogans to take us all the way 'till days end.

The fire escape might be the most mythical feature of our time in captivity. We enter the elements, all shinning down on our transluscent skin, fluorescent lighting has been kinds to none of us as of late. I take to my usual square of cement - legs crossed and looking to the sky. Flames are lit on the ends of their tongues.

How finicky their lighters become in unsteady hands.

a lunch time re-cap for all

love ness xx