The devil has finally found the perfect instrument to torture me.  He tested me with those toe gloves, with phone calls to Verizon, and with the music of Katy Perry.  I may cringe, devil, but you cannot best a hardy thrillseeker like me with such paltry devices. 

And then I was given a “self-assessment” to complete at work.  It is not like a self-exam where you can just *not* do it and say you did (sorry, doc!).  No, no.  It is a series of fire-ringed hoops to jump through in the hopes of landing in a pile of money at year end review.  Not really a pile so much as a a thin bit of tissue to keep you from scraping your bottom.   I am not new to the concept, however at my current firm, it is quite the fucking doozy.   The questions are lengthy and sound like something that can only be answered after a 3 day seminar in “teambuilding”.  I thought this kind of shit only existed in the world of Steve Carrell and John C. Reilly.  I read, laboriously, over the half dozen items.  I cried a little inside and put it away.  Over the next days I periodically thought, sweatingly, of the paper in my bag.  I wondered how the fuck I am supposed to talk about my ownership of processes and my business contributions.  Remember when it used to be enough if you would show up not smelling too drunk? 

It’s a brave new world.  Time to justify my love.  Time to self-assess.  If only Katy would write a song about it.