It's hard out there for a gimp

I think I've broken my ankle.

This week can't end fast enough. If you were to take the notion of utter chaos and anarchy and cube it, you still would not be able to fathom the depths of the amazing fucked-upitude at work. It's sucking out my soul, people, and it ain't just me. The times the designers just look at each other and shake their heads in complete disbelief and confusion and desperation per night is staggering. Last night no one knew when the deadlines were because we had been given three different versions of the deadline report and no one knew which was right. Tonight no one could explain to us if there was a difference between the Midtown/Downtown edition and the "two-star" edition, since there were distinct pages for both in the system but only a deadline listed for Midtown and none for two-star. We needed to know so we could, you know, lay out and send the freaking pages if they were supposed to exist. But no one knew. No one. The word "clusterfuck" is being bandied about without affection. I'm beginning to wonder what it would take for The Suits to re-examine what it is we're doing as being impossible with the skeleton crew we've got.

There are now five people at work who consistently call me Leslie. Three of them do it ironically. Two of them are quite sincere.

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I now know that grocery shopping is best and most efficiently done at the Midtown Schnucks at 1 a.m. I've been a bit skiddish about going alone in the middle of the night since I was told someone had been shot and killed there a few years back, but I chanced it tonight and it was a nice enough experience. It's packed at all hours usually, but I owned it tonight. There was an officer sitting up front, keeping an eye on things, so I guess I don't have to worry about getting shot unless I piss him off.