Damn it.
Oh, man . . .
The problem is more widespread than first thought.
ALL restrooms are now closed. Please use the Ola Babcock Miller facilities. They have been advised we may have staff and or clients frequenting their building today.
I just got that email. Actually, everyone got that email. And then one of the upper-level admins started walking around the cubicles handing out new buckets with the pricetags still attached and little "privacy sheets" to string over our cubicle walls . . .
Okay, the buckets thing didn't happen. But all the bathrooms in this building are closed!
Why did I choose today to implement my water/coffee/Dew diet?
. . .
I have been assigned the duty of describing what I do, for those who will come after me. For now, that's the fucking moronic counselors who will finally have to do their own research for once, instead of sending me the 6th request of the month for information on medical transcriptionists. We've got this one lady—M. Krefft—and her specialty is to ask for nine things at once. In the past month, no joke, she's asked for most of this stuff at least four times. For example, today I'm going to open the "mental health counselor" report I wrote for her last time, change the client's name to the new one, and send it back to her. There you go, you fucking idiot.
. . .
Ever since I found out we're all getting canned, this job has been much more tolerable. Like wildly more tolerable. I just come here and fuck around to an even higher degree and don't worry about this stuff and wonder what will happen and drink a really alarming amount of Dew and abuse the fax machine.
The problem is more widespread than first thought.
ALL restrooms are now closed. Please use the Ola Babcock Miller facilities. They have been advised we may have staff and or clients frequenting their building today.
I just got that email. Actually, everyone got that email. And then one of the upper-level admins started walking around the cubicles handing out new buckets with the pricetags still attached and little "privacy sheets" to string over our cubicle walls . . .
Okay, the buckets thing didn't happen. But all the bathrooms in this building are closed!
Why did I choose today to implement my water/coffee/Dew diet?
. . .
I have been assigned the duty of describing what I do, for those who will come after me. For now, that's the fucking moronic counselors who will finally have to do their own research for once, instead of sending me the 6th request of the month for information on medical transcriptionists. We've got this one lady—M. Krefft—and her specialty is to ask for nine things at once. In the past month, no joke, she's asked for most of this stuff at least four times. For example, today I'm going to open the "mental health counselor" report I wrote for her last time, change the client's name to the new one, and send it back to her. There you go, you fucking idiot.
. . .
Ever since I found out we're all getting canned, this job has been much more tolerable. Like wildly more tolerable. I just come here and fuck around to an even higher degree and don't worry about this stuff and wonder what will happen and drink a really alarming amount of Dew and abuse the fax machine.
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