Greetings from my concrete tomb

Temping can do interesting things to ones psyche. The pay is crap but the work is less than minimal so it evens out. My ass hurts from sitting on it for so long. I'm sincerely regretting the papusa I had for lunch because my cinderblock office has no windows and now it smells like the neglected boudoir of a Mexican hooker fresh out of soap. It's an improvement over the usual smell of dust and broken dreams.

I was just handed a discharge file to assemble, meaning I have to gather and put together the information necessary to fire some shmuck who missed work too much and wasn't clever enough to cover his tracks with "sick babies" and "occasional bouts of violent diarrhea", as one employee graphically cited. I feel like George Clooney in "Up in the Air" only less silver foxy and way less likely to bang anyone I meet at work.