Even Crazy Land has its moments. I was unaccountably in high spirits today and spread cheer around the office. My mood improved when seafood lunch was provided for all by aforementioned Crazy Land. God knows I deserve it. Well, we probably all do, except for Golf Pro. Golf Pro, of course, was not here. Though Owner would say he's working hard, the rest of us know he's working hard on a beer by now.
It's been a deadly week, with Owner having a mental meltdown all over me. I'm empathic, you know, so all lost souls and lunatics naturally gravitate to me. When they leave, my mind and body have absorbed whatever manifestation of nuttiness they carry with them. Owner was having a panic attack, quit taking tranquilizers two weeks ago, has stopped taking thyroid medication and, on that day, hadn't eaten anything by mid-afternoon. After his endless monologue, he felt much better. Me, not so much.
Mr. Moneybags is looking for another job. He can't take it anymore. What a weenie. I've withstood the onslaught of Crazy Land for around 15 years now (but who's counting).
Let's see, does that make me stupider or stronger?