Sometimes, I feel like Bob Cratchit. I don't copy letters, though. I copy numbers.
My occupation is slightly more glamorous than that of an IRS auditor. Slightly. I work in a cold office with buzzing fluorescent lights overhead, rubbing my hands together and wishing I had a space heater.
My job is dull. I work alone and speak to no one, copying numbers from this place to that place and making sure they add up. Right this very second, I'm wearing two sweaters and wondering where I can get fingerless gloves.
Come to think of it, I just saw some at Costco and wondered who would ever want those? Bob, that's who. It came with a matching hat and scarf, too. It's only a mile from here and only lightly raining. I can make it there in about twenty minutes. And, wouldn't you know? There's a Starbucks across the street.
Bob didn't have Starbucks.
Poor Bob.
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