I am staring at this pile of 1x2 masonry bricks and I honestly feel like if I have to look at another depostion transcript I’m going to actually set my desk on fire and just walk into the woods, but instead I’m here in my office at 3 am trying to figure out the structural integrity of a fictional barbican, you know? Like I’ve got forty-eight hours to file this brief for the appellate court and my brain is just... it’s stuck on the fact that I don’t have enough Dark Tan slopes to finish the crenellations on the east tower and it's driving me insane. It’s pathetic, right? I’m fifty-two years old and I’ve got a corner office with a view of the skyline and people literally tremble when I walk into a boardroom for a settlement negotiation but here I am on my hands and knees looking for a translucent orange flame piece because I need it for the Great Hall’s fireplace and it’s like... I’m living two lives and one of them is made of plastic and feels way more real than the one with the six-figure bonuses and the mahogany furniture.