Never did move into that cubicle, it was all a smoke and mirrors distraction. Instead, I've remained in my "bullpen," better titled the "Playpen." The job has changed though, from registrations to module registrations, as reflected in my Hot Sexy New Title: Senior Module Registrations Officer. Now, rather than make sure students have all their educational pre-requisites taken care of, I register, unregister, reregister, and throughregister students into our modules. I don't think I've ever been as bored in my entire life as I am right now typing this.

Here's something more amusing, at least to me:

The gunshot was deafening in the vault as Peavy went down, still holding the briefcase. Ritchie carefully wiped his fingerprints off, placed it in Peavy's palm, and picked up the case. It was still locked but he'd worry about that later. He stepped out of the vault door and listened carefully, making sure he was the only one there. He couldn't see much in the dark but he reassured himself that he must be alone. He moved quickly towards the office window and started to cut out a hole. He hated heights, and the view down from the 76th floor made him sick. He focused on the glasscutter, just needing to weaken it before busting it out. Chopper should be here soon, he told himself. He looked back into the vault and froze. Peavy's body was gone.

The barrel clicked behind his ear and Ritchie knew the heist was over. The glasscutter fell to the floor as his body went limp, the barrel smoking in the moonlight. Peavy tossed the gun to the side, took off his gloves, undid his jacket and took off the kevlar. He'd been wearing it all day and it was starting to stink. Off in the distance, the sound of helicopter blades grew louder. Peavy hurried back to the vault and grabbed a large box, pulled it off the shelf, and yanked it open from the top. He yanked out a single-use rocket launcher and brought it to the window. Setting it up just far enough into the office that he wouldn't be seen, he waited for it to come into sight.

What'll really upset y'all is that Peavy was stealing the money to pay for his daughter, a deaf mute club-footed paraplegic, to have an operation to remove a tumor from her brain. She was only nine.

It's probably pretty clear that at this point, I assume that nobody reads my blog so I'm going to write whatever I feel like. A few months ago, at my job's corporate retreat, I smartly aligned myself at the same table as the CEO, conducted myself pretty well, but the conversation somehow (not by my doing) turned to the internet and blogs. I mentioned that I had one and the CEO's interest piqued noticeably. Since then, I've got a little paranoid about the content so I made it a little harder to find. Not that I'm going back and editing any old articles, I probably wouldn't write them now but to engage in revisionism would make me a communist. As the great Spinafarian Popeye once said, "I yam what I yam." Everyone that reads this tell me if you think Popeye was an asshole. Thought so.