Going to Bed at 8:30.

The work situation? Not to the level of the Brain Thing Era yet, and thank God, but also so not worth the risk for what these people are paying me. No money is worth that kind of risk, of course, but I'm not even getting paid enough to be able to tell myself it's worth it.

Late this afternoon, after a two hour torture of corporate inner workings meetings, I picked up a voicemail from the condescending title critter. She carefully analyzed the replat I had brought to her attention, and also ignored everything I'd told her about the big picture, and stated with absolute confidence that certain parcels were excluded from the replat, and therefore it does not matter! This is why she's a professional! Um, Dumb Bitch: The exclusions you crow about are 1) printed on the first page of the plat, so when you say "analyzed it" you really mean "read the large type on the front page"; and 2) irrelevant, as I told you over and over, as I tried to make you understand the purpose behind what you do.

By the time I picked up this message it was time to call it a day, and I had a pounding headache from the 2 hour meeting (the details of which are too specific to get into, suffice to say I am at the wrong end of yet another very shitty stick of Stoopid). I didn't have it in me to call Title Critter back and explain for the sixth or eighth or whatever time that everything she says is true, yet irrelevant. I didn't have it in me to take her through it again. It's only Tuesday, and the stoopid is wearing me out. I am SO glad next week is a 3 day week, and then it's the countdown to Christmas, if I haven't quit by then to save my life.