Been writing short stories at work. Really violent ones. This latest one is about a little girl who was raised by a sex trafficking drug cartel and grows up to do heinous things. Rodriguez/Tarantino-esque things.
And then, I had that dream again last night. Where I'm driving in my car on the freeway, and there's a van in front of me, with a little girl who looks like me banging on the back windows, begging me to help her escape.
Also, is it mean to eat lunch at my desk with my door closed these days? I'm too tired for all the chatter at lunch. And while I really love that people from all departments come to sit with me and harass me about one thing or another - which turns my empty table into the popular table - I think I'm people'd out.
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