Once again, I bleed.

This time from a zit. I popped it in the shower and while toweling my face off I see blood stains on my not-so-nice green bath towel. Once again, I have to sit around the apartment waiting for the blood to dry before venturing out to work.

I leave for work, feeling cocky despite it all. So I decide to bust out my brand-new $70 CD walkman. I've been dying for an excuse to take it out for a test drive, especially as it comes with some new-fangled "safety latch" that'll make sure I can be mobile with it- even Jog! On my way to work, about a block in front of the office, the "safety latch" doesn't latch and my brand-new $70 CD walkman goes splat onto the sidewalk- batteries and lids everywhere. And right in front of one of the fake-blonde, fake-tanned, botoxed PR women I work with. I bend over to pick up the pieces of my once brand-new CD walkman and discover that the lid doesn't shut anymore.

Once at work I find out that the work on the ventilation system is over and my recently moved desk can now be moved back to where I used to sit. I call the two Office Manager's to move my desk back to where it should be. When I come back and see the desk had been moved, I go to turn on my computer only to discover it won't turn on. I spend fifteen minutes on the floor plugging and unplugging everything. My boss spends fifteen more minutes on the floor plugging and unplugging everything. Nothing. We call Tech Support. Fifteen minutes later, one of the Tech Support people comes down, takes a look at the computer and announces that we had just forgotten to turn some switch on the back of the computer on. And with that, ten seconds after appearing, the Tech Person leaves as my computer turns on. Stupid PC's.

Naturally, the computer spends the next fifteen minutes crashing constantly. And because it's a PC and part of the glorious world of Microsoft, everytime it does, I get notification after notification asking me whether I want to send a report into Microsoft. I don't want to send a report into Microsoft. Like I care. Like Bill Gates cares.

When the computer finally comes on, I finally get an e-mail from someone who I've been trying to go out with. After spending the past couple of weeks trying to figure out a time to go out and agreeing to a date, she sends an e-mail saying she wants to reschedule- my carefully crafted Next Week plans all shot to hell. I send back a snippy response, wondering all the while if I should have waited before finishing my coffee before responding. Why is lately that trying to go out with someone is more difficult than getting doctor's appointments? Is it too much to ask for someone you're supposed to have a date with be slightly excited about the prospect? Going up the elevator, my Wannabe Office Infatuation flirts with me.

The morning goes by quickly. At 12:30, I have my One on One weekly meeting with my boss. Last week didn't go so well. This week's did. I've worked my butt for the past week and it showed. I feel good that it showed. She tells me what a great job I'm doing dealing with the guy I'm sort of looking after- your typical caffiene addled, nicotine stained Prima Donna artist stress-case with a Martyr complex-and how I've been keeping track of what he's doing and trying to help him out. She likes that I'm always checking in with what's going on with him. Being pro-active. I feel good. My swagger is back, my strut.

An hour later, my bosses boss comes over to my boss's desk and calls me over. "We've got a serious problem" he tells me. Turns out the just bubbling underneath the surface-personality-clash with the caffiene addled, nicotine stained Prima Donna artist stress-case with a Martyr complex came to a head, fueled by his overloaded work schedule and an inability to figure out that I'm supposed to help him. Turns out I'm driving him crazy. He's not liking my keeping track of what he's doing, he's not liking me constantly checking in on him, he's not liking me trying to help him out. In short, he's not liking anything I'm supposed to be doing, what I was hired to do. I try to explain that I've only been trying to help but that he's not buying into it, that some of what he said is completely not true, that he's just not paying attention, and that part of it is because he's not used to having someone manage him. But it's no go. He's the Golden Child. He's an Untouchable. I'm still the new guy. His word is the Truth. The bosses boss wants him to keep up his Jesus Christ Pose. It's not him, it's me. My swagger, my strut is gone.

Meeting over, the phone rings. It's one of our vendors who kind of misled us and charged us for something we didn't think we'd get charged for. A conference call ensues. Nothing is concluded, the payment is still on the books, and the person on the other end is in tears. The call ends not with an ending, but just. We don't have anything to respond to her near-hysterics.

After the call, my boss- bless her heart- takes me for a walk to calm me down. She tells me she meant what she said and that I'm doing a great job. She tells me that she agrees with me about what I've been trying to do and blames herself for pushing me into being so pro-active about it. She tells me to do what her boss says and to back off and we'll figure something out later. I decide that if the guy wants to keep spending a night every week pulling an all-nighter, it's his problem not mine.

The rest of the afternoon crawls. I leave early to play kickball. I take a cramped, overheated MUNI bus that manages to take an hour just to go three miles. Kids from the Projects bombard us with water balloons. Scotch tape is the only thing keeping my CD Walkman from staying shut while playing music.

I get to the game and my allergies kick in- fierce. I'm out of kleenex. As I stand out in the outfield, what feels like a million mosquitoes go All-You-Can-Eat Buffet on me. While waiting for the bus home, a bus that doesn't come and results in me walking halfway home, I feel a scratch on my forehead and as I flick whatever it is off, I pull my hand away only to see globs of blood and mosquito guts on my hand.

I get home an hour later into my sauna like apartment. My apartment is way too fucking hot to be able to do anything like sleep for another couple of hours I float in the new Radiohead disc, hoping it'll take my day away.