How many years do you get for assault, again?

Absence does not make the heart grow fonder. I have been back in the fresh hell that is admin work for only two weeks and already have developed that, "Oh, sweet baby Jesus, kill me now" feeling when the alarm goes off. On the walk to work, I have to stop myself from charging down a side street and running until the heels of my shoes disintegrate into powder and I'm found three weeks later living in an alleyway next to a string of restaurant dumpsters.

It's not just the work, though that's bad enough -- I have paper cuts upon paper cuts and have developed an expensive eye drop addiction because everything's written in tiny print. (Apparently 6 point font saves ink. How, I'm not sure. I would have thought it meant you can print more. But if I started arguing the point on everything that seems nonsensical at New Job, I'd never go home.) Anyway, it's not just the work; it's the workers as well.

There's Roger, who smells like sour milk and snorts whenever he hits the Escape key. (Which is a lot. Roger, what do you do all day?) 

There's Di, who wears so much eyeshadow that her lids crackle when she blinks. Di also refuses to show me how the reverse photocopier function works. Because I'm going to use it for evil, or something.

And then there's Baz. Oh, Baz. In the first two days, Baz came out with the following pearls of wisdom:

"My, you're a sparky one!"
"Is it true what they say about redheads?" (To which I did not reply, "We've got good aim?" and kick him squarely in the 'nads. Applaud my restraint, readers.)
"Chris Brown keeps getting a bad rap. What's done is done; leave the guy alone." (Yes, how wrong of us to keep bringing up the fact that he, oh, I don't know, BEAT UP HIS GIRLFRIEND.)
"Actually, I think Maroon 5 is a pretty sweet band."

I wish Baz were a co-worker I could simply ignore, but New Job wouldn't let me have this peace of mind. No, Baz is my new boss.

I have a feeling that things are going to get much, much worse.