I’m in a mood today, and enjoying it thoroughly, the way you enjoy, say, sniffles or bad weather — anything that lets you off the hook in terms of being cheerful and polite. Everything would be perfect, in fact, except that I’m at work, which means that I have to at least pretend to be civil or, you know, wind up without a job.
This would be relatively easy if people would just leave me alone, but no. I swear to God that days will go by without a single soul needing to say hello to me, but as soon as I’m feeling blue every coworker on the east coast has to drop by to give their regards. This is a triumph of Not Getting the Hint, because I just caught a glimpse of my droopy little face in the mirror while I was washing up after lunch and let me tell you something: I do not look like someone you’d want to engage in conversation. I look like someone who might be trying to sell you a casket for your grandmother. I look like an elderly, well-dressed Goth.
I am cursed with one of those faces that always betrays my innermost thoughts. I am incapable of disguising my feelings, or even really lying all that well. This is not a fantastic way to be, out here in the world.
I will never be a spy, that’s for sure.