July 8, 2009
It has now been over a week. Morale is at an all-time low, but I fear that we have not yet come within spelunking range of the bottom. The Commissioner continues to do his duty, but he is keeping a low profile. Though the pictures of the Tyrant still litter the walls, it is more likely because none of us want to be pink slipped for destroying government property. Those lucky people in Iraq - at least they were allowed to topple their dictator's statue.
The strain is starting to tell on us all. I heard a group of employees begging the building owner to put Rolaids and Valium in the vending machines. I myself have proposed that we replace the water in the water coolers with vodka. (Since we can't pay the bill anyway, we might as well get the upgrade until we are cut off entirely.)
I'm worried about my cubemates. Harry's bull-dog face now looks like a bassethound. Linda has developed a nervous tic in the right side of her jaw and I'm pretty sure I heard Angie (she is an elder at my family's church) muttering something to do with cement, chains and an AK-47.
I'm keeping my head low and trying to keep up good spirits, but my dreams haunt me...
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