Well, another day has come and gone at the Viagra Factory (or “Pfactory” as the wags down there would put it). I’ve recently stepped into my new shoes as the “Document Coordinator” for our building. Which, as far as I can tell, makes me the archive bitch. For all of those who knew me in college, I’ll admit freely that my organizational abilities have not improved in the time since graduation… as plainly evidenced by the state of my apartment. And now I’m in charge of shipping junk off to be microfilmed, shipping junk off to be filed somewhere in the bowels of Pfizer, and pretty much every other mundane task associated with data storage.
<p>The one saving grace is that I’m in my very own private abode (the archive room) where I can listen to muzak at the volume to which I’m accustomed. So far it’s been mainly up to the Rancid and Dropkick Murphys level of mayhem. Today, tho, I had to go over an ass-load of <span class="caps">SOP</span>s coming up from NJ… I’m bringing in the <span class="caps">ATR</span> tomorrow, in case I get stuck with that crap again.</p> <p>Yeah, work is work is work… it is, however, an endless supply of kooks, weirdos, and other misfits who wear their social problems on their sleeves. Oh, and there are some <em>real</em> losers, too. It’s pretty much an amalgam of “Dilbert” and the place where Dan Akroyd works at the beginning of “Spies Like Us.” I think it was about my second day there when I was roped into making a prank phone call to some poor lady at the credit union.</p> <p>I think in the meantime, we’re supposed to be testing pharmaceutical products for impurities and/or degredants… but really, it’s like a cGMP deGrassi high.</p> <p>Now, if only Connecticut sold beer past 8 p.m. …</p>