I just got my wisdom teeth out, was still in lots of pain, popping vicodin, but like a neurotic pussy, I came to work anyway. My plan was to check in, clean up a few loose ends, then get the hell out of there and go to bed. Until Paul M., the world’s lamest partner, walked into my office and “asked” me to go to the printer and review a document. I quickly explained my medical plight, but he didn’t give a shit. “If you’re in that much pain, why aren’t you in bed?” So I popped a few more vicodin and went to the goddamn printer to proof the stupid S-3. I was there until 4 a.m. The next day, instead of giving me a thank you, he said I missed two major typos and “need to commit myself to the firm or get the hell out.”
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