I am very tired. Very, very tired. I have just decided this. It was about the time that I was in the doctor's office this morning and he asked me what I did for a living, and I couldn't find the word. I blinked a few times and then blurted out "Prosecutor....I am a prosecutor." Ugh.
Trouble is, I have a homicide file going to a preliminary inquiry here (like a trial, sorta...it's a Canadian thing) at the end of the month, and so there are no days off in the offing.
So, instead of jumping on my work wholeheartedly, with vigour and vim, I am procrastinating in my office right now. Squirrel Dater is down the hall, diligently working away, but she went to the Dominican for two weeks and is 10 years younger.
In these moments, I fantasize about a simpler life, one where I wouldn't have to debate whether or not I had time in the morning to shave my legs. I could be a barista at Starbucks - they get a pound of free coffee a week. But then I think about being the last line of defense between coffee and caffiene deprived yuppies, and I think maybe that wouldn't be a very restful job.
How about an artist? Well, I would starve (I am singularly untalented), and my inability to gracefully take criticism would mean I would probably garotte the first critic who called my work derivative.
How about truck driver? I mean, truck drivers don't have to talk to people. They seem like a jolly lot. But I would worry about contracting deep vein thrombosis and developing a little white pill addiction.
I thought about a fisherperson. That would be nice and quiet. But I suppose I would be expected to fillet my own fish, and I couldn't get away from batting my eyelashes and handing the fish to some big strong man and saying "Icky and would you mind..."
And I do love my job. I just wish there was more time to do it properly, for the sake of the victims and for the sake of my own peace of mind and professional reputation. And I wish I had more time to take care of myself, and to find someone to share my life with. But I guess stream of consciousness whining that takes 10 minutes out of my day doesn't help with the time management issue. So goodbye blog, and hello 250 files that I'll never get through in a million years.
I thought you already were a barista - OK, so you may call them something else in Canada, but over here we call them baristas once they are called to the bar.
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