“There’s good news and bad news.”

My boss said he needs to talk to me about that raise I asked for.  And of course, my desperate need for his approval and neurotic tendencies mean my mind immediately leaps to the obvious conclusion that he’s going to fire me.  And that he hates my hair.

Sam made me a cinnamon roll and Conehead brought me donuts. 

I’m sitting down here going into a sugar coma and WILLING him to call me up and get this meeting over with.  I wonder if it would help if I stood outside his office and clawed at my face, whimpering “DON’T YOU KNOW YOU’RE KILLING ME?” until he lets me in.