All this Obama excitement has prevented me from sleeping, or rather the excitement hasn't, but the endless late-nights searching for clips of speeches on youtube has.
And it doesn't help that I'm developing some strange kind of OCD trying to locate artwork for every piece of music on my new iPod. I've been at it for nearly a week and have managed to get about 900 pictures thus far. I've over 200 left to get.
It's ridiculous. It changes nothing about my life, where smoking with a vengeance has made dieting and cycling slightly boring to continue with, where my heart is tingling worryingly and making it harder for me to commute through traffic at speed.
Receipts are building up on my desk.
My very detailed Excel weight loss spreadsheet is going unfilled.
I can't be arsed anymore.
Consequently, I have tubed it in to work more times than I've cycled this week, listening to music and reading John Kennedy Toole's Confederacy of Dunces on the recommendation of a friend, which has left me devastated as it turns out it's about a 30-something loser living with his mother, exactly the same as my work of drivel.
And of course it's superb; far better written, more tightly plotted, and vastly more interesting.
So discovering that has been fun.
And at work today, my boss confronted me. I knew trouble was looming when I heard him on the phone;
'Yes... yes... I'm sorry.... He's not had much sleep... I'm sure he didn't mean it.'
Turns out the easily-offended person on the other end was easily offended by my earlier conversation. I had answered the phone (in monotone), sighed (frequently), and was insulting to boot. But then they failed to appreciate that the phone never stops ringing in our office, and it always rings when I am in the middle of something important, which is all the time.
Her offence was to ask for cakeboxes, of which we do around twenty.
'What size would you like?' I was forced to ask as I stared forlornly at my monitor and the work I now had to stop concentrating on.
'One big enough for our small cakes, and one a bit bigger to fit a couple of muffins.'
It was at this point that I grimaced. I have no idea how big one of their small cakes are, and that goes double for their fucking muffins. I wasn't in the mood for this. What I really wanted to say was, 'How am I supposed to know what size your cakes are?'
So I did.
Apparently, that's extremely rude.
I've been pretty bad lately. I've been making Basil Fawlty look like he's won a customer care award. I watch Curb Your Enthusiasm and see Larry David getting angry, and it's like watching a documentary about me, albeit with more money and talent. And balder.
Last week, I actually threw a customer out. Admittedly he was blind drunk (this was about 10am) and swore and refused to leave. I fucking loved it, opening the door and yelling, 'Right, OUT!'
A few days earlier, another customer slammed the phone down on me. Again, in my defence, I had a mouthful of food. I like to answer the phone when having my lunch with a mouthful of food, because it sends out the message, 'Hey! Listen to me. I've got a mouthful of food. That's because I'm having my lunch and for the last three years I only get 10 minutes every day to eat the fucker. That's my lunchbreak, and you're ruining it. Now what do you want?'
For some reason, answering with the muffled phrase, 'I'm sorry, I'm having my lunch' was enough to inspire a full-on phone slamming.
Earlier today, a customer walked in and asked for boxes. I had to drop everything.
'Sorry,' I said brusquely, 'We're sold out.'
'Really?' he said.
He didn't leave.
'Yes,' I sighed.
He still didn't leave.
'You don't have any?'
'I just need one,' he added, as if his small requirement would make them magically appear.
'But we don't have any!' I yelled. 'I can't sell you any because there are none left to sell.' I tried smiling the last few words out, if only to soften my tone of murderous intent.
Then he left.
And thus, my boss decided to give me a written warning. I am, apparently, aggressive. Recently, he informed me, I'd inspired him to call his wife when I'd left the office, so he could inform his beloved that I'm 'doing his bloody head in.'
I replied that being a salesman is not one of my strengths, because I hate the general public.
All things considered, he was very nice about the whole affair.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, my mate Jimmy is holidaying in the States. Apparently, while I was lying catatonic in fitful slumber and ill prepared to answer the world's dumbest questions later that morning, he'd been stood in Chicago's Grant Park watching history being made.
It is nearly 10 o'clock, and I'm shattered. Time to find a few more album covers on Google images, methinks...