Stressy McCortisol, reporting for duty.

So, my workload is a total and unconditional PITA all-consuming nightmare right now, and all I want to do is go home, crawl into bed, and swig a half-gallon of pixelated eggnog to drown the stress. Mmm, eggnog.


I'm sure you know what I'm talking about, unless one of you happens to be filthy rich and spends their days lounging around your indoor pool while nubile servants of your choice bring you warm tea and fluffy towels as you bake gloriously in the warmth of your well-earned well being. Even so, being stinking rich must have its own stressors. I'm sure if you are well-heeled beyond all reason you still have experienced the conundra of "which servant shall I bed this afternoon?" or "what color body butter goes with 'smug'?" or "whatever shall I do with last season's Louboutons, given them to Goodwill or sell them on E-bay?" I share your pain, friend, and want you to know that I stand with you when you resist the urge to take a nip from the Krystal bottle and a bite of pate to ease the swirl of important issues that muddle your mind.


Won't you return the favor, and stand with me as I juggle my white-hot flaming balls of anxiety over here in the corner for your entertainment?


Thanks. I knew you would.



All of which is a way of saying that it's a darned good thing I only have three bucks for lunch. It's baked potato bar day at the cafeteria ($3.59 per 'tater), and man, doesn't a 3-pound baker with chili and sour cream and cheese sound like just the thing for drowning out the din of nearing doom?