One of your "boyfriends" came by trying to ask where you were and something about tertiary syphilis. I don't know, I wasn't paying attention.
I told him you had been killed in a tragic industrial accident because the management was too cheap to update your equipment. He's back in your station wailing and crying and making a spectacle of himself, possibly eating the hair on the floor. I'm going to take the rest of the afternoon off, all the racket's given me a headache.