Tomorrow's my last day of work, and I'm all drained and pale and a little queasy. My replacement of two days is a twenty-three year old quivering mass of college educated corporate orgasm who apparently welcomes the chance to drive twenty miles farther than
my current three-hour commute. And that makes me want to call her mother. She carries a dingy Hello Kitty purse. She still has a tan from her honeymoon. Her lunch today was baby carrots in a Ziplock snack bag. The impending carnage smells like White Shoulders and Aussie scrunch spray. It's breaking my heart. Metaphorically, I mean.
