Taking a look around me, I had ample opportunity since the mail stamp, glue and stuffing machine seemed to be on the fritz ... I took in the 'atmosphere' and observed further proof that I was indeed in hell. Coming down the aisle, was a pathetically sad looking young guy who looked like he'd lost the will to live or had the life sucked out of him ... or both. He was dragging a bunch of crates around, carrying what I now believe to be the souls of the damned in them. I think his was in the top pile.

Looking away from him in a hurry ... I was afraid that looking at him too long would cause my spirit to die as well ... I saw, or rather heard a loud incessant beeping, like a motor scooter horn. Sadly it wasn't. Nothing so entertaining. Instead there was this rather maniacal looking guy on a motorized crate lifter contraption, who looked like at any minute he would start laughing insanely, go crazy and run us all over.

It was the Warehouse of the Damned. And I was in it. Figures.

It also figures that the one thing that would possibly keep me sane for the rest of this hellacious day, would be the one thing they would ruin. The bastards broke my headphones. Some old guy moving around some of the soul carrying crates that were in front of my station, hooked the wires to my headphones and ripped them right out off. Accident? Sure. As if. I now believe the devil just doesn't like No Doubt. Which means he doesn't like good music. Especially since I distinctly remember hearing the nasal twang of country as I walked in the doors.

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