I am camped out in my fox hole of an office, alternative rock and the space heater blaring, daring anyone to knock on the door. Last Friday I officially became a POW of the law office. I was given the ultimate PFO (please f-off) and told I had two weeks notice, things just weren't "working out" (code for the boss took a bonus and bought a new BMW so we can't afford associates). Because I must squeeze every last cent I can from this fortress of desperation, I am forced to show up every day until next Friday, working to close cases and keep a low profile as my status as enemy combatant requires. This place for which I used to have mixed emotions of pride, belonging and loyalty tinged with resentment has become my jail cell. With an air of superiority and pity my soon to be former coworkers viligently try to ignore my presense (although their social awkwardness did not allow for much meaningful interaction in the past), and while this should bother me the only thing I can think of is my pending release. Sure, I'd love to punch half the office in the face and have a good Lewis Black style rant, but of course I can't do that since one day I may need something from my captures. My confinement will end next week and I suppose my sentence here will be what most call "good experience", but for me it will have been an exercise in frustration and join the list of things I can say I did without any desire to do it again. As I clean out my desk, leaving only spilt Splenda packets and business cards, I can't help but be excited by the rush of relief and the knowledge that I am the one getting the better end of this deal and will be the one feeling pity for those I leave behind.
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