I spent an hour this morning being harangued by my 22-year-old, fresh-out-of-college boss (sometimes being a patient man is its own curse). Finally, I told her "I have six personal messages for you. Numbers one, two, four, and six are: 'Fuck you.' Three and five are: 'I quit!' " I drove three blocks (around two corners) and not only had a job but was working by one o'clock.