Sometimes, when you have a really bad job, where pretty much everything sucks, and you're chronically sleep deprived, you start wondering about things. Philosophical, profound thoughts, such as:
"Is my body mass enough that flinging myself from the seventh floor would be of sufficient height to result in enough velocity and traumatic impact to thus precipitate permanent and instantaneous death, or should I just take the extra thirty second elevator ride in order to fling myself off the eleventh floor?"
And then you start working on the physics equation to determine exactly which floor to fling yourself from, because anything is better than pretending you are part of a morally sound profession, where people care about quality outcomes, and not just the amount of their salary, or ability to defraud Medicare for one's own income benefit.
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