It's one of those Days, as I just mailed to V. Days with a bad capital D. You know, when things don't so much not work as work in entirely exasperating fashion.
The latest project we're going nuts over is about doing what we have been trained to do so far, except that this time we use the new software to do it. Which we, (read my team and I) did not create. And whose logic therefore takes us some time to grasp. Not just time. A whole lot of time, much brain-addling and in the end, desperation. That is to say, we do understand what we are doing, but we didn't entirely, to start with, and the only reason we do know what is happening now is because of all the things that have gone wrong so far.
If, at this point, any of you is tempted to tell me mistakes are for us to learn from, go boil your head.
In other words, I crave comfort food. V made me some fantastic sandwiches (egg and tomato, never thought I'd grow to like tomatoes so much) for lunch but they're long devoured and my body, having gone through the incredulity
-- What? You mean that was all?
-- Turn the (transparent plastic) lunch box upside-down, moron, there are bound to be a few crumbs somewhere!
and the anger
-- You will pay for starving me, bitch...
has finally turned vengeful
-- Yes, keep on dreaming of those finger chips. Yep, focus on the ketchup, kid. And right after I'm done messing with your mind with the chips, I'll move on to hamburgers, pasta, pizza and chocolate boats.
Now you know just why I hate my body. Not because I'm one of those narcissistic/anorexic women, but purely because it's paying me back for all those years of neglect during my University phase. It's as mean as I am.