So there I was staring morosely out the window, vaguely hearing my boss as she explained how an incensed client from
I wondered if my body mass could actually break the plate glass window and propel me outward and on to eternity in one go.
“So that’s how bad it is, Joyce.…”
For two weeks I’ve been thinking of a worse adjective for “mistake” other than “egregious”.
It’s sheer bullheadedness paired with a bad temper—a winning combination that my mother is certain would get my face blown off in a motoring altercation. It very nearly happened by the way. Twice. Both times with a .45.
But I’m tired of staring down at proverbial .45s whether they’re Smith & Wesson or a burly American shrew.
And I truly am sorry for letting my anger get the best of me that Saturday.
So tonight I’m going to write that letter of apology and plot how I can make amends.
And then I’m going to drink myself to smithereens.
