Everyday my boss lectures me on the various ways in which my being is utterly useless.
“I think I’m improving,” I mewl pitifully.
“I might even be able to start manning the till soon?”
“You just stick to packing bags.”
My head sinks to a stony neck as she shuffles off with the perseverance of a saint.
I gape as a colleague picks up a jar of pasta sauce and takes aim. It streaks through the air, straight into my palm and I fling it back ferociously, making him nearly topple as it strikes him in the chest.
“No more pass-the-breakable!” He quivers his lower lip. “No!” I snap, passing full bags to a hair-raised old lady. “Play with someone who can afford to get in trouble.”
“But they don’t have your reflexes, Lis-babe.”
“Oh,” I roll my eyes, “all right,” surreptitiously reaching for a roll of hobnobs.
News: It's NaNoWriMo and I'm taking part to kick-start the writing that's slowed to almost a dribble over the summer with all the fuss that goes along with life. So... a word quota is a good motivation. It should be. And yet the procrastination continues.
I found this small bit from a month ago which no longer is a thing of contempt (hopefully this will happen with other things I have since written).