When I get frustrated at work, one of two imaginary scenarios pop into my head.  In the first scenario, I punch a hole straight through my computer monitor.  In the second, I lay my head on a window sill and then close the window with emphasis.  Today is a slam my head in a window kind of day. 

I’ve been working on an environmental report for the past three days, and when I came into work today, I thought I was almost done.  Finishing up a few things here and there, I notice that the person who wrote the vegetation section of the report forgot to include the scientific name of a particular grass species (don’t kid me, this happens to you all the time at work).  So naturally, I type the plant name into the Google search bar.  And low and behold, I select the first search result, and its the vegetation section of my report word for word.  Two hours later, I realize the wildlife section was also plagiarized. 

HOW OLD ARE WE?  This person makes more money than me!  

I don’t know about you, but I knew that plagiarism was against the rules by second grade at the latest.  In fifth grade, I moved to the head of the pack for a writing competition (with cash prize) held by the Daughters of the American Revolution because some imbecile plagarized portions of his story.  The format for the competition was a fictional story based of historical facts set during the pioneer days.  Shortly thereafter, I moved out of first place when the Daughters asked me if my character Rachel would actually be allowed (based on history) to leave the farm and attend school.  Through tears, I felt the cash slip through my fingers as I blubbered, “No. Girls at that time weren’t allowed to attend school.  At the age of 16, Rachel would have been married to her third cousin and knocked up by now.”  Or something like that.   

Jared went home with the prize that year and probably spent it on something babyish like a Space Jam t-shirt or pogs.