The receptionist finally calls Damian Mata, and I'm spared the elder gentleman's creepy gaze. He was sitting right across from me just now, and he just... stared. What? WHAT, old man? I'm typing. It can't be that great a novelty to you, right. To be fair, Mr. Mata may not have really been paying attention to what I was even doing. His was a blank stare, his drooping pale blue eyes glazing over as he retreated into his own inner world. Much like I wish I could do, except I'm afraid I'll fall asleep if I try. I've got maybe three hours of solid sleep under my belt, and my brain and body scream for more. Instead, I'm stuck here, waiting. Fuck.

Where. The hell. Is Mom.

People carrying babies, ugly kids being annoying, idle chit-chat and cell phone speakers all blending together into a cacophony of white noise. I go in to work in about two hours; I want to be home napping. Ruben guaranteed we would work a straight shift today, no break, which means I'm probably looking at a ten-hour grind at the warehouse with only a ten-minute break sometime in between. No lunch. Kill me now.