My replacement at work, she slapped my peripheral vision as soon as I walked in. She seems more the kind of person to work in my shop than I could ever be. I can’t help but approve of her rock-a-billy zebra lunchbox and betty page haircut. They matched her leopard skirt so well. My manager, she just shook her head. Another new girl is no help to her. She’s only just through teaching me how to run the strangely mis-managed shop around and in spite of how badly and quirkily organized the owner has it set up. It’s only been November she’s been able to leave me for hours at a time to handle everything. I almost feel sorry for the new girl. I don’t know if she has the diplomatic memory to deal with the crying chaos she’s just been inserted into. Every day reaches a new impasse with stress, introduces another piece of the suspicious labor law puzzle. I’m counting on my job to be gone when I come back from Montreal, otherwise I may find myself trapped there by a lazy sympathy for my co-workers and that might count as a new dictionary definition of the word dreadful.
So it seems the biological source/reservoir for the dreaded Ebola Virus are some tiny, cute, and apparently tasty fruitbats. The apparently tasty is why we keep having outbreaks. How fun is that? As fun as a pack of russian killer squirrels? Or a group of children who fight with machetes to re-enact a battle from Lord of the Rings? The jury may still be out, arguing with David Byrne over copyrights.