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So I roll up, real smooth-like, and she’s all, “Hey, sugar, what’s good?” I’m sweatin’ bullets—nervous as hell, thinkin’ bout Robert Downey Jr.’s character, Paul Avery, all cocky but shaky inside. I say somethin’ dumb, like, “Uh, you workin’ late?” She laughs—cackles, really—and I’m like, “Well, shit, how’s THAT workin’ for ya?” She’s cool, tho, tosses me a wink. Surprised me—she wasn’t jaded, just playin’ the game.

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Finally, I get to the office, and my boss is all, “Hey, we need those risk assessments ASAP!” I’m like, “Sure, let me just pull them outta thin air.” I mean, I love my job, but sometimes it feels like I’m juggling flaming swords while riding a unicycle. And don’t even get me started on the spreadsheets. They haunt my dreams, I swear.

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