Karoshi!

Karoshi, for both of you loyal readers out there wondering what it means, is the Japanese word for "death by overworking." I haven't confirmed it with my physician, but I'm fairly certain I'm suffering through a mild bout, you know, not enough work to actually kill me, just enough to make me consume Excedrin in quantities that could stop a mule's heart and pine for the "good ol' days" of my former vocation, peddling toilets for nine bucks an hour.

I looked pretty good on Monday morning, but around the time Houston rush hour hit (which, for the uninitiated, begins at 2:30 in the afternoon and lasts until 8:00) I was at Ben Taub Hospital for an expert's depo that wouldn't end until tomorrow. If you haven't had the distinct pleasure of visiting our fine county medical facility, think of a Greyhound station, now add the mellifluous aroma of sauerkraut cooking on a camp stove in the corner, then toss in a few scrub-clad zombies and you'll get the gist.

Hot on the heels of my head hitting the pillow, I was back up for a 350-page marathon of a plaintiff suing because an erroneously reported bankruptcy in her file kept her from amassing more credit. She's literally carrying $70,000 in short-term revolving debt, but the only explanation for why her 138th credit card only had a $300 limit was an invalid bankruptcy entry? People never cease to amaze me...

Now it's 9:30 Wednesday night, and I'm in the office doing a photo shoot of some laparoscopic medical device exhibit while the fax machine is spitting out 300 some odd pages of corrections from my proofer. They say there's no American equivalent to karoshi, but I beg to differ... and it smells like coffee and laser toner.

"Things could always be worse; for instance, you could be ugly and work in the Post Office." -- Adrienne E. Gusoff