I was coming home from work on a dull Monday evening. The sky was almost pitch black and there was dreadful rain. The weather report had warned all people who live in Bloomberg to watch out for flooding. At 9o'clock in the evening radio 1 had no good songs on so as I was trying to change the radio I took a turning down a gloomy street. There was no street lights along this road, all I could see was a little cottage with the kitchen light on. Interested by this I continued on driving . As I approached the old cottage I saw a sign on the front like it was at some point a shop. Over time the lettering had faded but I could distinguish that one of the words said Smith's. As a reporter I thought there would be a story here so I got out my note pad and started jotting down notes.
As I was doing this a woman appeared at the cottage window. She looked as though she hadn't seen a human being in almost 20 years, which could be true because she is so isolated out here all alone with no friends or companions. She peered out of the left side of the window trying to hide herself the best she could. Her face had aged over time. Not because she was old but because she had been so lonely.
Sitting in my car I tried not to look directly at her. She had short greasy hair that laid across her right eye with her left eye starring at me like an Eagle about to catch it's pray. Trying to jot down all my feelings and emotions into my note pad I suddenly realized where I was.
Everyone at work always talked about the mad woman who lives on the edge of the woods. I never thought that it might actually be real and even if it was, I never thought I would be studying her from about 5 meters away. Now a nervous rec I turns my keys, but nothing happened. "Oh My God" I am going to die here!
Work today had been as stressful as usual. The piece one of my colleges had written was full of wrong facts and information. It was as if he had forgotten to write his piece and then tried to write it correctly completely drunk. Considering how he looked this morning I was probably right. John Steward still acted like a teenager getting drunk off his face the Sunday before he has to come into the office. The fact that he was clearly hung over was not a problem until I have to bust his balls about the CRAP report he handed in. Around the office I am the only reporter who takes my job seriously. All the other people filling the building have more than enough money to stop working and go and live in somewhere like Spain. Every single one of them. We should be called The Rich Tossers Of Bloomberg (with a couple poor ones). However, there are some good things about working with people who you know are rich, there is not even the slightest chance that I can be the same let alone better than them so whenever free drinks come round at Christmas party's I just let myself get pissed. No expectations.
You may have guessed by now that I don't have the best of lives. I live in a two bedroom flat with a roommate that walks around naked. She is the most prettiest and slimmest person you have ever met with your own two eyes. Constantly I am seeing her bring random guys home. In the past 2 years of living with her I have never had a date in that apartment that has lasted more than 10 minutes. This is because by the time they see her they don't want me no more. Melissa will sleep with anyone to make me jealous, even on the sofa when I am trying to watch TV. I have no friends or family who live close to me. I moved out here to Bloomberg 3 years ago to follow my dream of becoming a reporter. Maybe I have one positive thing about my life. I have no kids as well as making my dream come true as a reporter. My life is my career.
