My boss it at a meeting and I’m finished with the project she gave me to do in her absence. I’ve been writing frantically on and off in a steno notebook. My purse is filling up with hastily wadded up papers. It looks like a pack rat’s nest in there. A demented frustrated writer pack rat at that.

I don’t want to leave them out and about on my desk in case some one reads them and confirms my manic diagnosis. “The Madwoman Chronicles” But what’s a person supposed to do? Walk the halls?
We have no water cooler to lean on and shoot the breeze, so I can’t do that. I’m as nervous as the mice in the backyard when Bob is about. Eeek, someone’s coming, wad up that sheet of scribbles and get it into the purse, the only private spot I have in this whole place.

Oh my gosh, I counted them- I have 5 scribbled pages in there and this will make 6. Is this government waste? I sure hope not. I would bring my journal instead, and I even did one day, but it was just TOO obvious, so I gave it up.

My right foot is rocking back and forth resting on top of the swivel legs of this chair. I definitely am in a jittery, jumpy, nerves on edge peri-menopausal place today. Somebody better let me out of this barn or I am going to start kicking down the stall doors!

Oh boy, here comes page seven!

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