But sail upon the wind of lamentation, my friends, and about your head row with your hands' rapid stroke in conveyance of the dead, that stroke which always causes the sacred slack-sailed, black-clothed ship Charon to pass over Acheron to the unseen land here Apollon does not walk, the sunless land that receives all men.
Pissed off at my incompetent sucky-Te/T manager who isn't resourceful and is the sole reason I'm nowhere closer to getting transferred to a different store. She's dropping the ball on everything/ no initiative and I have no power over the process other than constantly poking her and getting virtually nowhere.
"...On and on and on and on he strode, far out over the sands, singing wildly to the sea, crying to greet the advent of the life that had cried to him." - James Joyce