Frustrated

I tore down the "Life is a Bench" sign we've had posted by the workbench for years, now. It was just sheets of paper banner-printed and taped together. Old and ratty. Life is not a bench anymore. Even the workbench is not a bench. I'm so mad I could scream or spit, and I can't.

When I slipped and expressed frustration with the fact that I now have to pull everything out again each time I need it and I'm not really mobile enough to do so comfortably, I then had to spend the next five minutes convincing Robert it wasn't his fault and I was in no way frustrated with him. He's just the pair of hands that did the dirty deed. He also got the compliment for it. Because the work I'd already done, knowing R has a bug up her butt about things looking "clean," evidently wasn't worth noticing or speaking of.

So, now it looks like we're not getting anything done around here. Let's hear it for fucking progress.

And yet, we had to push the Help Desk server out another month. Go figure. It's like everybody thought Mark was stalling, and time would somehow magically appear if they just put someone else in charge. Idiots and sheep. Many of them with three-letter titles.