Work

Working girl.

That's what I am.

A working girl.

Woman.

Whatever.

For a week now.

One week.

Una semana.

I haven't done much and this bothers me.

A little bit.

I come to work to actually do what the title says.

Work.

I want to be put to usage.

Whether it be menial tasks or actual important tasks.

It don't make any difference to me.

Or to Kevin Michael, either.

I just wish my boss, (for lack of better word, 'cause he feels more like a supervisor; oh wait! supervisor) or now that I found the word supervisor, understood that.

I don't know.

I guess it is easier to have me watch the ceiling stay than explain to me the intricacies of his work.

Which could be done faster if he would just show me what to do.

But he doesn't.

He's not bad.

I'm just tired of doing nothing.

I really am.

BLAH.