I promise.I try to get the spreadsheet to stop blurring, come into focus.The laughter gets louder, putting the lie to my promise.I squeeze my eyes shut tightly. Almost painfully so.Stop. For God’s sake. Please stop.“Heh, heh, heh...”It’s part of the never-ending litany of bizarre noises and strange odors emanating from his cubicle.Weird laughter, inappropriate jokes, bodily noises. And the Smells. God the Smells.Every. Damn. Day. Sardines in heavy oil. Sardines in Mustard. Once in a while pickled herring. And the occasional tin of smoked oysters. The tins just sit in his trash can. Reeking. All week.I can’t even enjoy my precious coffee.The worst part about the laughter is that nobody is back there with him, and he isn’t on the phone. I hope he’s watching non-work videos on his computer. I really do.Because if he isn’t ... well, that’d be even more disturbing.Everybody else here seems to be utterly clueless about the hell I’ve been consigned to.I have no idea what I’ve done to. Sorry, that was a bit harsh. My life is often awesome, but it feels like it’s no longer under my control, which causes frustration.The arrival point was by the lake, and, in retrospect, if they had arrived at the house instead, it’s possible the worst of the problems could have been avoided.At that time, I was at the office, where I got an arrival alert, as normal, along with Alpha’s best guess as to who they were: Monica Rambeau, Felicia Hardy, Angelica Jones and Patsy Walker. None of them were in costume, but Alpha guessed who they were because they were a known group of friends in Marvel comics.I groaned aloud, glad that only Diana and Anna were with me at the time.“What’s wrong?” asked Anna, who, since she didn’t yet have the new communications implants, hadn’t received the same message I had.“Another new set of arrivals. Marvel’s answer to Sex and the City. I hate that show.”“What show?” asked Diana, who didn’t watch much television.“Hey, I love Sex and the City!” protested.
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