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Post-Modern Drunk: Abort, Retry, Epic Fail?
I returned to work for the first time since the middle of July. After lupus, mixed connective tissue disease, infective endocarditis, and half a year of recovery, I took the A train back to work.
And so I have to say, fuck all you haters--it turns out most people who know me in person actually seem to like me. Yeah, I don't understand it either, but it turns out to be true.
I arrived at work--the security guard asked how I was doing, and where I'd been for so long, and how was I doing? He directed me up to a room that was filled with two dozen people who literally cheered when I entered the room. On the table was coffee, croissants, and pain au chocolat. The head of my department had decided to bring in croissants, and asked around to find out where my favorite croissants were. Surprisingly, one or two people actually know where my favorite croissants were from (Patisserie Claude, on 4th St. just west of 6th Avenue).
I then settled back into my desk, and spent the morning not being able to do any work, since people kept coming by to ask the same question: "How are you doing?" I explained lupus to a dozen people, one at a time.
Then I went to get lunch, and the street vendor asked me where I'd been and how I was doing, and wished me well.
Around 3pm, the question everyone was asking was "How are you holding up?" I didn't get much done in the afternoon, either.
Then I went home, slowing only when the vagrant in the park told me, "Good evening, professor," and then went home to my wonderful girlfriend; we ate dinner, played with our cats, and I put on the new Thermals album.
So, to everyone's who has ever wronged me or thought they got one over on me here on the Internet, on the off chance that you hadn't already noticed, fuck you, I win. You may think you got away with sucking so much, but I noticed. I just didn't care.
Now if only I could get Facebook to shape up, life would really be good.
