I'm Not Really Here . . .

You are imagining this.

I have proof of this because I am busy as sh** and depressed as h*ll, and I am supposed to be reading the Adventures of Franny K. Stein with someone I have left basting in the tub.

My allegedly peasant-level job is bleeding over into my life.

The local aid organizations handling our evacuees (see, I'm doing it too) are fighting, hate each other, and want do things "our own way." I know this because representatives from said organizations had a screaming match in my office.

Unfortunately, I have to deal with both of them, on a regular basis, and it looks like I am going to have to pretend to deal with each exclusively.

And I've picked up a new animal rescue, as if I didn't have enough going on.

My office is also completely packed full of rugs, sheets and comforters, because we aren't sure what to do with them yet. I have to post a map at the door so people can find their way through it to my desk.