I don't officially believe in Hell.

Last time I checked, it wasn't a Jewish thing. We do our suffering here and now, believe me. (Note to Self: Maintain intellectual cred and do research, starting with all Judaica bookmarks on delicious page. Note from Self: Yeah, right. Did you see that pig fly by? Or did you get distracted by the bunny rabbit?)

I do know what Hell is like.

 Sartre was right. Hell is other people. Especially in long meetings. Meetings in which group decisions must be made by consensus. In a conference room with no windows (not the OS, the kind in the wall).

In Hell, you are stuck wearing uncomfortable shoes. If this is Serious Hell, the shoes aren't even pretty.  And of course you have to walk to some form of public transportation, which you miss because your feet hurt too much to run.

 In Hell, you have to move. Every other week. As soon as you unpack and set things up, oop! Gotta pack again. You will never see your cell phone charger again. Or the box of Things To Be Dry Cleaned. And you won't remember the fruit that fell into a box of books until it's Much Too Late.

In Hell, your best friends are singing at your ex's wedding.  Which is on one of your milestone birthdays. And they're singing a four-part piece that YOU taught them.

In Hell, you have to take calculus. Over and over and over. It never makes sense.

In Hell, all the software is written by Microsoft. 

In Hell, you step on slugs. Barefoot. Way worse than cat puke. Cat puke doesn't wiggle.

In Hell, it's always hot and humid. With no air-conditioning. Not even a fan. Did I mention the mosquitos? And that buzzing noise?

In Hell, you run out of things to read.

In Hell,  you run out of ideas to write about --  even when you give in and end a sentence with a preposition.

Actually, in Hell, you keep editing the same post over and over -- because each time you read it, you find a typo, a grammatical mistake, or a speling [sic] mistake.