Ok, so I am sitting in the Boston suburbs, alone in a conference room with a table built for a midget, staring at the blank grey walls day after day. My project scope changes on an hourly basis thanks to my foolish leadership. Bob Barker might just spontaneously appear, as the mailing machine on the other side of the conference room wall creates a faint sound much like something from The Price Is Right. (Yes, other people have indeed heard the mysterious sound)
At night, I return to a mediocre hotel that is wedged between car dealerships and sleazy lounges on a miserable stretch of suburban highway. I am thoroughly uninspired. With such remarkable surroundings, what better way for me to mark the passage of time than by providing details of my week in stains:
Monday: White oxford shirt makes it past tortilla soup at lunch, but then falls victim to linguine alla fresca (translation= linguine in a vat of tomato juice, olive oil, lemon, and garlic) at dinner
Tuesday: Blue oxford shirt escapes sandwich with garlic aioli but is then viciously and irreparably marked by deep orange Indian curry
Wednesday: BLT posed little threat to pink oxford, but what could dinner bring?
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