Sloth, thy name is Ren.

I believe the burn out rate has been acheived. Guh. I have been ill for the last 2 weeks. If one more co-worker asks if I'm pregnant, someone's gonna get a punch in their eye. Fo' sho'.
I think this job is making me sick. Every morning when I think about coming into the office, I toss my cookies. Fuck. And I used to love this job. I thought I still did. Guess I was wrong.
It's the old "I love the people I work with, but damned if I don't hate the people I work for."
How veddy sad.

I believe I need a new job.
I was chatting with a good friend (the Fierce Accountant) about the joys of the job search (there are none), and I have given myself until January to get out of here. Why January, you may ask? Well, it's easy. That's the month that Weasel Central moves to its new swank headquarters in the 'burbs. Yup, out of the 'hood and into the 'burbs. Kill me now.

I forgot how hard it is to pimp yourself out to prospective employers when all you really wanna do is lie around in your underroos on the sofa while drinking foreign beer and watching all the "dirty" parts in Bound or that hott Peta Wilson/Ellen Barkin flick, Mercy. Though if you know of a job that's looking for someone who does all that kinda stuff, lemmie know, k?