Bright Lights and the Misery of Finalizing Anything

Today I’m finalizing my upcoming cover story on the double super secret crap suffered by one local woman. (Like that? That’s my fake-o newsy teaser to make you want to read the story. If you know who I write for, that is.)

Otherwise, the temperatures are expected to reach a balmy 95 degrees today, which should, if we’re double super lucky, feel like 110 with the humidity, the broadcasters say. At least we’re not in a burning plane in a ravine off a runway, right? Ah, do you smell the optimism? It is a foul, foul stench, I realize.

Now I must crawl back into my double super secret protective shell that keeps the world from creeping into my cubicle (cubifice, as they are known around here), as well as to keep it from infecting my already tired, so tired little brain. This little brain has gone to market, and it cannot stand—just cannot STAND—the glare of the fluorescent lights illuminating all that waxy fruit.

Come to think of it, under my desk is probably the best place to spend today.

Maybe I’ll pop out later to check on you all.