I wish I could scream to the depths of my black lungs to you people, but I can’t because:

1. I’m wearing the ass-end of a month-long flu that annihilated my household and the newsroom. My scream will come out a hoarse gravel, then I’ll start hacking up resin, tar and Philip Morris.

2. I’m so tired I feel like I’ve been unplugged.

This life of sweeping up broken pieces, acting as a dreamcatcher of verbal abuse and having my energy sucked into the most manipulative game I’ve never knew existed is getting as old as I am. I’m trying to do the best I can. However, the most disturbing thing I’ve encountered along my path is that there will always be sick spectators slapping down cash to watch sadistic predators rip out an innocent foal’s throat.

Now that I got that out of the way, let’s talk about work. Our executive editor recently died, we’ve lost longtime colleagues to layoffs or better jobs, we all do the work of about (insert absurd number here) people, and when we’re clocking in at hour 15 of the day, holy shit! A mistake slips by.

It’s not because we’re dolts who got our education from your mom’s slutty goldfish, it’s because our eyes physically stopped working. We only had time to leave our desk twice, once to pee and once to slam coffee in the newsroom kitchen and then take our PB&J back to our desk to eat.

Then the drive home to Denver is fun. The highway looks like a video game, likely from the impending ocular migraine swelling from staring into a dated computer for more than half of a day.

We try to sleep. “Did I double-check if that was the right page number on the jump? Did I make sure the date was right? God dammit, I forgot to post the ‘Things to Do’ on the website.” No rest for the weary.

Then along comes “Loyal Reader,” smashing at a keyboard like it cupped his/her/their genitals, penning an “I’d like to remain anonymous” letter. “You call yourself a newspaper? It’s more like a really expensive roll of toilet paper riddled with mistakes. I’m going to stuff your body with your own newspaper after you die and mount it on my wall. I hope you burn in hell. Learn the difference between its and it’s.”

“Hosanna / Hey Sanna Sanna Sanna Hosanna / Hey Sanna Hosanna,” the crowd goes wild as “Loyal Reader” sprays down his workspace with Lysol, dulling butter knives (in lieu of nails) that will be hammered into our hands and feet. “Crucify the journalist!”

There has to be a light at the end of the rat-infested tunnel that’s somehow gotten clogged with malignant narcissists, right? I’m not picky. I’ll take an incandescent bulb for $200, Alex.

At times I feel like I’ve been systematically stripped of my self-worth. Yes, last night in bed with your dad, but also by our “president” and by my trusting nature. I’m over it. When it’s under me, I’m going to fly off into a beautiful… fuck it. Just bury me. It’s time for my nap anyway.

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