Is it freezing in this office, or is it just me? Though the office usually is cold enough to make an Eskimo feel hunky-fucking-dory, this time it might just be me. You see, this weekend I decided to bathe in reputable unintelligence and soak up the sun for 2 hours, thinking that, because it was early April, the sun could not possibly be at a strong enough intensity to administer the kind of burn that I'm now sporting. I am red, my clothes feel like sandpaper and I am shivering like a Chihuahua. Unhappy me.

AND, it's Monday. I'm freezing and it's Monday. I always have a special place in my heart for Monday's (usually it's next to the place where I keep the water chestnuts and Poison Ivy). The reason being, I am always a moron on Mondays for a variety of different excuses (didn't sleep all weekend, don't remember Sunday, jetlag, "Saturday night only happens once a week", "Com'on it's Friday, you don't have to work till Monday", "I'll just have one drink, then I'll be fine tomorrow"). M.O.R.O.N. Today, I am a moron because I woke up this morning after sleeping a good 12 to 14 hours last night, probably due to the sun-poisoning that I bestowed upon myself yesterday. Everything is foggy, and I haven't had a coherent thought yet. This makes it very difficult to act in an easy-going, intelligent manner. Even though, luckily, the partner I'm working for today still hasn't shown up, a few secretaries have tried to talk to me. This is uncomfortable for everyone involved.

SITUATION: I am approached by "Lithe," an insecure secretary who wants to introduce herself to me and make small-talk. I sit there, smile, and nod like a moron, unable to seamlessly carry the conversation from "Nice to meet you," to "(Anything else you can think of saying)." This makes for understandably awkward comedy. She stares at me, waiting for… something… then delivers an uncomfortable sentence like, "well, nice to see you at this desk," or "alright, um, if you need anything you know where to find me", or I say "yeah, I'm sure she'll be back tomorrow." She then resigns her attempt at friendly conversation and retreats back to the depths of her cubical from which she came.

It's like playing Connect-Four with a child who has ADD and Autism: you're nervous, but you convince yourself it's Childs play and "what's the worst that can happen, right?" Then in a fit of panic, and loud shrieking noises, the board gets broken in two, and you get a red-chip in your eye.