windowless

the lady who sits behind me in my office has just been moved upstairs. or will be upstairs sometime this week. i saw her packing a box and said, nonchalant as i'm capable of being, "oh, packing?"

"yeah," she said, "just as soon as i've come i'm gone again." for a brief, terrifying moment i thought that she meant that she had left her job or had been fired. it was going to be a more awkward moment than the one hilary's having right now, as she drives around baltimore with her hot-but-completely-silent-22-year-old male coworker. (so, ahem, you watch much tv? no? well, what about npr? no? oh, um. so i'm a singer. no, not like american idol. classical. yeah, like opera. no, not like with horns and stuff.) thankfully, though, the lady's just switching rooms.

"well, at least up there you'll have a window!" i said. this office is a cramped, often-too-hot or too-cold windowless box. it's strange to think about the impact that little things start to have when you're as bored as i get at this job. i spent the next 30 seconds thinking to myself, gosh, it'd be so nice if we had a window in here. then i picked up my pen and ordered more taxicabs for our study participants.