Of course it is that bad.

As usual.

You’re a dreg… the ghost of Melinda. You floated through the valleys of Ennui and died again to see the mountains of boredom rise before your horrified gaze.

There shall be no soul in Hell, from the guy condemned to enjoy Vivaldi despite the permanent din of the other inmates, to the poor sap tasked with cleaning the dust of ages and soot of eternal fire, more tortured than you.

As numbers and sentences pile up higher than Mount Olympus, your own desolate Martian landscape of red binders and yellowed out desk cannot lose. Your soul itself begins to meld within the spreadsheets, printed or displayed on the screens.