Working here reminds me of hunting rats with a sharp stick. They're always lurking around, hiding in email boxes and the cubicle next to mine, waiting for me to impale them. There are tons of them: dozens of these horrible rats-that-are-called-customers invade my shitty space constantly, leaping down phone lines and shuttling themselves from one creaking database to the next. It's up to me and everyone else to stab the fuck out of these rats as often as possible, because if we don't, the rats just get bigger and meaner, until you don't stand a chance. To top it off, these rats are all masochists: they willingly put themselves in front of your sharpened pole, hoping you'll jab 'em in the throat and make all their problems go away.

Suicidal rats, gnawing at my eyes and fingertips and delicate brain tissue. All for seven dollars and fifty cents an hour.

My birthday on Thursday will be spent in the company of rats until I can flee to Catbirds.