how to crush my heart into itty bitty pieces

As many of you may be aware, I like eating. A singing fat lady will fly out of my ass before I ever utter the phrase, "Oh, I forgot to eat." I just cannot relate to people who say such nonsense, as food is at the forefront of my consciousness pretty much all the time. It gets me to work in the morning, keeps me company in my little multi-monitor pod, and when I'm running or biking or ellipticalling at the gym I'm also visualizing the burrito I'll be having immediately afterwards. So, naturally, when something gets in the way of my carefully thought out eating plans I get a little *ahem* cranky.

Today I waited patiently all morning for the clock to strike 11:30, which I consider to be the earliest acceptable time to eat lunch. I rarely hold out that long though, so my stomach was extra talkative. Before I even returned to my pod with the precious food--I don't get one of those fancy hour-long break things I've heard talk about--Stereotypical Boss said, "You need to fill out a Patriot Act form for blah blah billion dollar account right away [and I don't have any information on the account whatsoever so you'll have to go downstairs to get the file which is thicker than Fatboss' thigh and page through all of it to find the necessary information and then collect some signatures and go back downstairs with the form filled out.]" First, screw Dubya and that silly act. Second, I think it is a testament to my maturity that I completed this task as my pesto pasta with tomato and giant mozzarella chunks called my name without crying or seriously injuring someone.

I'm going to have to conclude this one, as Fatboss is currently dancing to Big Important But Actually Very Tiny Chicago Boss's "In Da Club" ringtone and Mr. Fartypants at the end of the desk is working up a storm, so to speak. There has never been a better cue to leave for a little coffee/chocolate break.