Oh hi

I guess I abandoned this altogether. I'm back, maybe, because I'm thinking about some job transitions and also a mad burnout case and may need space to "ventilate affect" if that term can be expanded to include screaming and setting things on fire. Exasperation du jour: The fact that my job puts me in the position of being brittle and officious to wage slaves in records rooms is taking some years off my life. I just said "it's a little bit troubling to me" in the smarmy tone you would expect for those words to someone who was being perfectly pleasant because it appears for the millionth time my release for information to help with someone's court case, a thing that has a specific date, has fallen into the void. I would hate to work in a records room. It sounds like a nightmare, like that David Foster Wallace story in the New Yorker where he works for the IRS, checking people's tax forms. I didn't make it through that and I wouldn't make it through a month working in a records room but this does not really help me when I'm on the other end of the equation, sending releases, calling repeatedly, having people do the telephonic equivalent of staring at me helplessly and blinking, and then I have to go back to an attorney and say "I don't have the records yet." This should be simple. This should be the mindless part of the job. Instead it is the ruinous part. Today I'm calling a different records room and offering to go up there physically and pick up the records because they simply don't seem to care at all. My fax cover sheets have gotten more and more huffy. Did I really just say that? Is that what my job has turned me into. My fax cover sheets have gotten more and more huffy. Does anyone have a match?