eight and three is eleven

I had my exit interview today: an hour meeting with HR to discuss any issues I might have had in the past five years. I know what you're thinking. Where to start?

I didn't start, of course. The Exit Interview is traditionally an outlet for pent-up fury and disgust. (All the ones we hear about, anyway.) Instead, I had a deeply boring conversation about alternative supervisory structures and training incentives. I did feel bad admitting that I'm leaving without another job in sight. It sounds like I didn't LIKE this job.

I'm such a wuss.

For the record, I don't hate my job. I don't even dislike it. I enjoy a lot of it. I think my coworkers are da bomb. I do hate the excessive hours, uneven supervision, and occasional foul-mouthed psycho. (I don't have a problem with the psychos who keep it clean.) And I hate the crap calls. Man with gunshot wound to his chest? No problem--that's my job. Getting yelled at by man whose Porche was just repo'd in front of his country club? Not all that great.

I packed another box of books today. I'm almost out of boxes.