Are you there, God? It's me, Norman.

As a general matter, I experience sufficient difficulty slogging through a day of work without writing about it. Every now and then, however, the constant low-level agitation and dread explode into full-fledged Grand Guignol. For instance -- don't blame the messenger! -- this morning, as I was turning into the corridor from our offices, I overheard the tail end of a co-worker's litany of grievances as she and another emerged from the ladies':

"And on top of everything, I got my period. (beat) It stained my underwear."

Seriously, God, are you there? Please deliver me from this place. And restore my hearing.

Although I wanted you to be aware of another of the petty indignities that beset poor Norman, I am truly sorry, gentle reader, for the vulgarity and insensitivity of this post. As penance, I will attempt in my next entry to take up the cause of melodramas, the so-called woman's pictures or weepies, in a noir context. Bear with me, though; I'm still convalescing from my unfortunate encounter.