So among the charmingly nutty Christmas hats, cards with cats clinging to pine trees, and middle aged women with Santa sweaters here in the office, I am tucked away in a corner, faithfully banging out flights for irate soccer dads and Beijing businessmen. I'm trying to finish the Paulo Coelho novel which is Sahara-dry and Shirley Maclaine-metaphysical. I'm not smart enough for this shit.
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