So today I was waddling out of work after being called out all night and a good chunk of yesterday and my coworkers, bless them, caught me by the elbow and reeled me back into the office to ask about this system issue and that piece of equipment.
But bit by the bit, the questions began to morph into various repetitive forms of the sentiment, "Are you okay? You don't look well." Including the highlight of one such yipped exclamation of and I quote, "Damn girl! You look like you just lost a fist fight with Ebola!".
And in spite of my reassurances, I soon found myself on the receiving end of a stethoscope bell and the palpating fingers of a concerned surgeon gingerly checking my lymph nodes in spite of my floundering.
My makeup had worn off.
Apparently my natural appearance = someone about to leak blood from their eyes before collapsing in a liquefying, spasming froth.
Tip your waitresses. Good night!
If anyone should need me, I will be in my bell tower. Or in the strangely watery depths beneath an opera house bellowing, "Sing my angel of music!".
Last edit by CheesePotato on Sep 3, '13
: Reason: Go go Gadget can't-spell-for-@#$%!