I’m writing a book. But before anyone can assume that I’m trying to become the next Audrey Niffenegger, I really have to say that, sadly, it’s not like that.

I’m writing a book because that’s what my job is supposed to be. And though I wish I was getting paid to write something that people will actually read, I’m not. Instead, I’m writing a book so boring that even I am nodding off just writing it. Just imagine: a thousand-page tome on the merits of Blackberry plants will be a very good read compared to my book.

Seriously, I cannot, for the life of me, imagine why anyone would want to buy a book about begging the government for grant money. Until about a week ago, I didn’t even know that private individuals can actually do that, but apparently, if you have a really good excuse, you can.

I swear I feel like I’m losing my sense of humor (not to mention my sanity) by just writing about grant funding like it’s the best thing since sliced bread. The research is absolute torture because the material that I have to go through is about as dry as a 60-year-old woman spinster. To make matters worse, I have to write in an office full of people who are either screaming or singing when Lord knows I need my peace and quiet to get any actual work done.

Ladies and gentlemen, you might want to take this opportunity to say goodbye to the fun, quirky me before you’re left with Iris, dried-up prune and grant writer extraordinaire.