I am so fucking deliriously happy!

December 16, 2011 at 9:10 pm (anxiety, corporate America, depression, health benefits, health insurance)
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Actually I am not fucking happy at all. I am, at best, in my usual state of apathy, mild depression, and crippling anxiety. But this new title is a desperate attempt to deflect all the “suicide traffic” my blog has been getting ever since I misguidedly wrote this post just over a year ago.

As you can see from the screenshot below, my blog is the fucking ninth entry on the first page of Google when you search for “How to Kill Yourself Painlessly”:

“How to Kill Yourself Painlessly” is unsurprisingly also the number one search term which brings people to this blog – well, it’s that and “chipmunk”. Yes, fucking “chipmunk!” and multiple variations thereof (“sex with chipmunk” etc?!?!). All of this makes me very uncomfortable. From time to time, people will leave a comment on that post, telling me that they’re going to kill themselves. This confuses me quite a bit. On the one hand, I want to write back to tell them (of course!) “don’t do it!”,  but there is another part of me that wants to ignore these comments altogether or delete them. I am not a therapist. There is nothing I can do for these people. A glib reply to their comments is not going to help.

Also, I don’t really want to belong to the “suicide club”. No matter how “progressive” or “enlightened” the times we’re living in are, there’s still a stigma to mental illness, and I want to be fucking normal. I don’t want to hang out in the comments box of my blog, talking about suicide methods. I know that must make me sound cruel, but, well, it’s true.

Recently, one of my commenters, with the cheerful name “lifeismisery”,  wrote that he liked my writing but that he found my  writing “often kind of depressing”. This got me a-thinkin’. When somebody called “lifeismisery” finds you depressing then, well….bloody hell!

Oh, God, I know that I’m depressing and stuck in a rut. I leave little comments on the blog “The Cat Girl Speaks” all the time, but she never leaves a comment over here. Waah! Waah! Why would she? I’m such a big stick in the mud. It must really fucking depress people to read this blog. I take myself far too seriously. Worse still – I write blog posts about taking myself too seriously. Jesus fucking Christ.

For 2012, I am going to fucking try to stop being such a misery guts. Surely there must be some good things in my life, after all?! Last week I got offered full-time employment with the major international company I’d been working for as a slave contractor for the past 10 months. The health benefits are fucking out of this world – not just for me, but for MM as well. I know that this won’t mean much to European readers but it’s a huge relief to know that I can now go to the doctor to get asthma medication or to the dentist to get a check-up without going bankrupt. Hell, I might even go and get allergy shots since it’s all covered! Maybe I could even get some anti-anxiety medication.

Also, this company does treat its employees well, and it’ll even pay up to around $5000 for me to take job-related classes. Since I write for my job, my manager said she could probably arrange for me to take some kind of writing classes. This job is certainly far from being a dream, but it could help me progress.

On the other hand, MM and I are not getting on well at all. Some of that is my fault, because I have taken, taken and taken from this relationship and lent on him so heavily – and, yet, I have given nothing back. I don’t know why. Is it because I don’t know how? Or don’t want to? He is right to feel angry and cheated,  yet instead of leaving he just rants and yells at me no matter how tired and depressed I’m feeling. He demands an apology for this; an apology for that. I just don’t have  the fucking energy to deal with him and his needs. I feel that we are both mired in a big morass of co-dependency.

But, hey, let’s not dwell on the negative, right? Things can get better, can’t they? It’s that time of year when people make resolutions and feel hopeful that they can change. I just feel so scared that I’ll be living this narrow, dull, little life forever. Rationally, I know that I have control over how my life goes so why does it feel that life is just something that happens to me?

20 Comments

Two steps forward…one step back

November 25, 2011 at 3:28 pm (cats, debt, pets)
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If there’s a God, I think that I must have done something to really piss him off. Every time it seems like my life is getting back on track, something happens to derail all my plans, and put me in a worse situation than before.

That’s what happened with teaching. I moved out of the house I’d lived in for five years, and went to live in a shitty, red-neck town in the middle of nowhere because it was the only place I could find a job. I knew it would suck, but I thought it was worth spending a year there  to get a career started. Things didn’t work out at all so I moved back to the town I’d been in before, only to find myself living in a shit hole with landlords who never fix anything. Worse still, I came back more in debt than ever before, and with more relationship troubles (my husband couldn’t find a job in the town we lived in, and he resented moving there).

If anything good came out of my aborted teaching career, it was the knowledge that I do not ever want to fucking try to teach again. It’s just not for me. If I hadn’t had that awful experience, I would probably have moved to a different state and tried teaching there, which would have been a huge waste of time, money and energy.

In some ways, I landed on my feet when I arrived back in town. I found a job in a large company which is, as far as these things go, a good, fairly relaxed place to work. I’m currently a contractor, but I will be interviewing soon for a full-time position there and, if I get hired, it will mean, of course, more job stability and a few hundreds more a month. It’s not much but it’s something.

Things were finally starting to look up!

Until last Saturday that is. That was when one of my cats decided it would be a really good idea to jump into my neighbour’s yard where, unbeknownst to her, there were two very large dogs waiting for her on the other side. What were you doing letting your cat out unsupervised, I hear you ask?! Well, ironically, my husband and I were fixing our fence that day to make it harder for the cats to get out. Since we were busy working on the fence, we just didn’t notice the cat leaving our yard. Ha! Also, our cats hardly ever are allowed outside.

Do I really need to tell you what happened to my cat? She’s nine pounds and the two dogs must have been around fifty to sixty pounds each. MM scaled the fence as soon as we heard all the commotion and pitiful screeching sounds coming from my cat while I – to my eternal shame – stood in my yard for a few seconds, not wanting to follow him because I was too scared to imagine what I might see. I eventually went over the fence, and helped my husband get the two dogs off my cat.

Miraculously, she survived but she was pretty fucked up – three broken ribs; punctures wounds to the fat pad on her stomach; internal bruising (although thankfully nothing was punctured) and an open wound on one of her legs. I am now $5000 poorer. Yes, you heard that right – $5000. She was in the cat version of intensive care at an emergency vet for two days, and then she was transferred to a specialty hospital where a vet operated on her stomach to remove flesh that was rapidly becoming necrotic.

I made the mistake of telling my colleagues about my $5000 vet bill, and  I could practically smell the judgement pouring off of them, not to mention the ridicule. It’s safe to say that most people wouldn’t spend $5000 on a pet, especially $5000 they don’t have. They think I’m absolutely fucking bat shit crazy. I don’t regret my decision, though. This cat is a member of my family, and what was I going to do? Let her die? I don’t think so. I would never spend lots of money on an animal if all I was doing was prolonging an already miserable, painful life to make myself feel better, but the cat had a good chance of survival, and I just could not put her down.

I’m delighted she’s still alive (way to go, cat! All nine pounds of you took on one hundred pounds of dog!), but I have no idea how I”m going to pay this bill. I’ll be using CareCredit to pay for it initially but this company is such a rip off. I have twelve months of interest free credit for the emergency vet bill of $2000 (so, about $170 per month) and then I have only six months of interest free credit for the specialty clinic bill  of $3000 (so, $500 per month). Somehow I have to come up with $670 extra per month. If I don’t, the APR is something ridiculous after the promotional period ends.

Someone recently commented on my furry family (I have eight cats and two dogs) and said that it’s never good to be too extreme in life – whether with religion, politics, drugs/alcohol or animals. He said that if my animals stop me from doing what I want to do in life it’s no good. I guess I agree, on some level, but my animals are my family, and I care for them deeply.

On the other hand, I am now going to have to spend so much time working (whether overtime at my regular job, or escorting) that there’s not going to be any time left over to work on the things I want to to improve my life.

10 Comments

The Corporate Ladder

November 18, 2011 at 1:31 am (corporate America, cubicle work, Occupy Movement, sex work)
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Next week I’ll be getting interviewed for the customer service position I’ve been doing since February as a contractor who gets no benefits and only six days unpaid days of holiday a year. It’s a stupid, low-paid job, but my contract is up in February and if I don’t get hired on as a regular employee at this company, God know what else I will find in this economy.

Also, I have to admit that I do, oddly enough, actually like this job. If you have to work in corporate America then this is really the only place that would be bearable. For the most part, my colleagues are nice, and very few people are total corporate whores. In fact, most people just do this job to pay the bills while they work on creative stuff on the side.

I am so tired struggling to make ends meet, so I will delighted to get health benefits, more pay and job security if I get hired. At the same time, I know deep-down that this could be a slippery slope. So many Americans get sucked into staying in a less than ideal job situation because they don’t want to lose their health benefits. I don’t want to be one of them.

I’m ashamed to say it but the whole “Occupy” movement has somehow passed me by. I am very much a part of the 99% but these protests just failed to move me, and I didn’t go to any although there was an “Occupy” movement in my own city. A part of me is happy that other people are, like me, now over-educated and horribly, horribly under-employed. I know it’s bad to want others to suffer just because you’re suffering, but now I don’t have to feel so embarrassed to have such a terrible job at the age of 34 because I’m just one of many.

Despite not having written in here for nearly two months now, there is not much to report. I go to work, come home, eat, watch an episode of “Mad Men” and then go to bed to do the same thing all over again. Métro, boulot, dodo indeed. I had imagined that changing my schedule to four ten-hour days (instead of the regular Mon-Fri, eight-hour day) would be the answer to all my creative prayers, but sadly this was not the case. Despite having a three-day weekend every weekend, I am usually so exhausted by the time Friday comes along that I don’t want to do much. The same goes for the work week; with a ten hour work day (and that doesn’t include the one hour for lunch, and the forty minutes I spend sitting in a car) there’s no time to do anything. I feel myself becoming stupider and less informed by the second.

Relationship-wise, MM and I are getting on “okay”. Just okay. I can’t remember the last time we had sex. Probably a rushed affair about a month ago. I’m so tired of always being constantly broke, and I feel that he is trapped in a poverty mindset. It’s the same old story – he wants to be an artist, or have some kind of visual arts job, but he doesn’t make much progress towards that, and he constantly changes his focus. I can’t imagine myself ever having a comfortable, normal life if I stay with this man. And, yet, of course, it’s the same for me – I don’t work on my creative ambitions at all.

One of the reasons – the main reason really – I haven’t written in here was because I didn’t really feel like sharing, or being judged for, what I’m going to write next. But I don’t think it’s healthy to keep it all to myself. A few months ago, I got tired of never having enough money, so I started to work as an escort again – behind MM‘s back. Yes, I know that I’m married, and that I’ve broken my marriage vows in what many would consider the worst way possible. Of course, I feel some guilt about it, but nowhere as much as you’d expect. I just feel that I’m doing what I need to survive. I don’t think about what I’m doing all that much but when I do I’m surprised at how normal it seems to me to be doing this. I don’t think of myself as a bad person, but of course I wonder if this means that I am.

17 Comments

Breaking Promises

September 20, 2011 at 10:23 pm (creativity, music, perfectionism, singing, writing)
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Hello, little blog. It’s been a while – a month to be exact. I got a little tired of walking to the lake at lunchtime to blog frantically for the last fifteen minutes of my lunch break. It wasn’t terribly relaxing.

Not much to report as usual. Same old dead-end job; broke; tired, depressed; self-hating and self-defeating. The cherry on the top of my shit cake is that our landlords, and their evil property management company, are absolute cunts (I mean, seriously, that word was invented for them), and they’re trying to get rid of us…for what? For standing up for our rights really. It’s all a bit stressful. Of course,  I suppose I could just roll over and let them shaft me up the arse, but, nah, I don’t think so. I’ll be seeing them down the JP Court, thank you very much.

The one bright light in my tunnel of doom is that I am in a new musical project. I met a musician on Craigslist (is there anything you can’t find on that website?!) and we’re getting along very well, both musically and personally. Well, he could be a bit more emotive, and say what he means more often, but, well, you can’t have everything.

My only concern about this project is that I have neglected my “own music”. I was supposed to be coming home at night and practising piano, and making my music. To be honest, though, I prefer working with somebody who challenges me and tells me what to do. It’s not that I don’t have ideas; oh, I have plenty of ideas, and that’s the problem. I have a hard time focusing on just one idea, and I get terrified and overwhelmed by them all, and then I don’t do anything. It’s a relief to let somebody else steer me a little.

I feel guilty that I don’t have enough gumption or “get up and go” to make music on my own, but maybe that’s just the kind of person I am, creatively. Maybe I just need structure. My life kind of fell to pieces after university because I wasn’t used to not having a place to be, an essay to write, a book to read etc. In my last year, when everybody was freaking out about our final exams, I was a little oasis of calm. I must be the only person who actually enjoyed finals. And I’ll tell you why – it was the fucking papers we had to write throughout the year that terrified me because, technically speaking, there was no fucking end to the amount of research I could do. And that’s what happened. I would research a paper for weeks, and weeks, and weeks until I had so much fucking information I didn’t know what to do with it. In comparison, two weeks of finals, which had so much ridiculous significance for my overall grade, were nothing. A three hour exam in which I have to write something about Goethe? Pfft. Bring it on. I loved the fucking time limit. I loved being limited.

It’s the same thing when it comes to writing. I have so many ideas, but I just don’t know where to get started. I just wish somebody would fucking hire me, and tell me what subject to write about. Sigh.

 

 

1 Comment

Think Small

August 20, 2011 at 11:53 pm (Uncategorized)

I have this friend – well, ex-friend really – from the “motherland” who recently went to LA to do Bikram yoga teacher training. Even before she got there, I knew how it would all turn out, and I wasn’t wrong. I knew that she would end up meeting some rich guy whom she’d end up moving in with, and who’d support her financially. This has always been her shtik.

This in itself is only vaguely nauseating, but I decided to end our friendship when I looked at her new guy’s profile on Facebook, and saw that he considered himself Republican. My friend’s choice of sexual partners, and their dubious political affiliations are really no business of mine, but it *is* my business when said friend declares herself a Marxist, goes on Socialist marches, and professes deep concern for others. For a long time, it has been clear to me that her only concern is for herself. I think she is a raging hypocrite, and a totally superficial fake. She makes me want to puke.

Nonetheless, there is part of me that is very jealous of her. In fact, I was quite green with envy when I saw the pictures she posted on her Facebook profile, swanning all over LA, and then Mexico, looking fabulous in great clothes.

The contrast between her life and mine is just too great, and it’s painful for me to see that. Although it’s disgusting and pathetic for me to have this thought, I also envy her ability to latch herself on to a rich man as a means to achieving her goals. I have never done that – could never have stomached it – but what makes me any better than her just because I haven’t?

There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t feel some kind of resentment towards my husband for us being so poor. I don’t want to be a kept woman but, in some primeval way, it disgusts me that he would never be able to support a family if I got pregnant. I am thirty-three fucking years old, for Christ’s sake!

I wouldn’t mind if there was an end in sight to this poverty, but there’s not. Our lives are boring and joyless because there is never enough money, and there’s certainly not enough money for going out. Oh, we do still go out because we get so frustrated being stuck at home, and my husband will usually pay. But I then have to hear a rant about how I take advantage of him, and expect him to be pay for all our nights-out. There is a lot of truth to that, and I know I don’t put my hand in my pocket as much as I should. But it would be nice to be married to somebody who could treat me every once in a while without guilt-tripping me afterwards.

Midwestern Man accuses me of not living within my means, and, again, he is probably right. However, what he fails to see is that there are no fucking means, so I have no choice but to live outside them. I suppose I should be glad of his frugal nature, but it seems more like a burden than anything. I feel that he devotes an inordinate amount of time on saving money and living within our “means” when it would behove him to think more about getting ourselves out of this financial mess we’re in.

He works 25-30 hours a week in a café so that he has more time to work on his art. His mother just gave him $1000 for an online art class. Huh! I’m sick of hearing him bitch how the number of pets I have are the reason for our poverty. Try working more than 25 hours a week, and then we’d maybe be less poor!

And, oh yeah, despite the fact that he finishes work by 1:30 p.m. and I don’t get home until 8:30 p.m. (after being gone since 8:30 a.m!), it was such a struggle to get him to cook dinner for me at night. It is a huge “inconvenience” for him to have to make dinner because he wants to work on his art.

What Midwestern Man really needs is a partner in her mid-twenties, somebody who lives like a pauper herself because she’s still a student; somebody whose ovaries have the time to wait for him to grow the fuck up.

What the fuck am I doing in this relationship? We don’t make each other happy. I want out.

4 Comments

Motorcycle Emptiness

August 18, 2011 at 11:35 pm (attractive co-worker, depression, Manic Street Preachers, Richey Edwards)
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Those of you around in the early to mid-nineties will know that the title of today’s post is actually a song by the Manic Street Preachers, the group I was utterly obsessed with from around the ages of fourteen to seventeen. I was particularly obsessed by Richey Edwards, the guitarist and main lyricist, who disappeared in 1995, and is now presumed dead. Everything about the Manics framed my adolescence and early adulthood – Richey was the first man I really longed for romantically, so liking him and the band was kind of a sexual awakening in a way; I discovered more and more alternative or indie music after getting into them, and started going out to clubs to see gigs; Richey talked about interesting books and so this exposed me to many different kinds of ideas. This band, and Richey especially, consumed my teenage years. I probably wouldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t been into that band – or, perhaps, I would have been but it would have taken a helluva lot longer to get there. Let’s face it  - I grew up on a dairy farm as an only child with old-fashioned, weird parents. Who the fuck would have exposed me to ideas and culture otherwise if not the Manic Street Preachers!?

When Richey disappeared, I was just about to finish my final year of school and move to the big city to start university. Life was so exciting, and so filled with promise! I can’t say that Richey’s disappearance (and possibly suicide) ruined that experience for me but it – and Kurt Cobain’s suicide – did definitely cast a shadow over that time. I had a sense that something dark and too adult was unfolding in front of me, and that this brave new adult world might not be quite as good as I hoped it would be.

In the last sixteen years, I have completely lost interest in the band, as my musical tastes have matured. To be quite frank, I think they’re crap. But I’ve always had a soft spot for them. Midwestern Man recently bought me a book about the Manics (The Story of the Manic Street Preachers – Nailed to History by Martin Power), so I’ve been ploughing my way through it. I say “ploughing” because it’s not really fun to revisit the past, and the book just ain’t that good. At the end of the day, my fucking teenage idol probably did away with himself, and who wants to read about that? I also don’t want to be reminded about that time in my life when everything seemed so new, so exciting, so heady….when now…everything just isn’t.

I am disappointed by life and by myself. I know that part of the problem is that I always expected too much – from myself, from other people, from life itself, but knowing that doesn’t make the crap feeling go away.

I need something to jolt me out of my lethargy, or maybe I need to learn how to create excitement and novelty in the every day. I feel like being bad. Yesterday I looked at Breakroom Boy’s Twitter feed (I’ve already admitted I’m a weirdo stalker so don’t say a thing!) and read a post about how traffic was bad on the way home from work, so he’d decided to stop off at a certain bar to wait until it got better. It doesn’t take a genius to know what I did next, does it?  I would like to add that I get off work two hours later than he does, so I knew he probably wouldn’t be there by the time I arrived hours later…but, still, I thought it would be interesting just to go. He wasn’t there, but I enjoyed the thrill of thinking that he might be.

I’m half tempted to go and see a band I know he’s going to see next week (again, Twitter-feed stalking).

This is not really about Breakroom Boy, to be honest. It’s about adding some excitement back into my life, and having something to look forward to. I don’t know why that has to come from a man, but it always has for me, even since I was very young. If I didn’t have a huge crush on some boy at school, I found life insufferably boring. I can remember feeling that way at the age of seven!

5 Comments

Needlework

August 16, 2011 at 2:55 pm (Björk, blogging, perfectionism)
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I’m back at my cliff, still throwing things off. No wait – that’s Björk. My reality is far less romantic. I’m back at my altar, munching on a tuna sandwich and trying desperately to squeeze in some writing before I have to head back to the office.

It’s at times like these that I am filled with admiration for all those long-dead female writers who had to snatch whatever precious moments they could to fit in some writing. Five minutes here, before putting the kids to bed; ten minutes there before getting the dinner on the table; twenty minutes before the men of the household interrupt your embroidery session, and you have to stash your beautiful words underneath your needlework.

Snatching time here and there to write – create – has long been the preserve of women. Virginia Woolf wanted a room of her own, but I find, perversely enough, that it’s easier to create when I’m limited. My room scares me because there are too many possibilities so I get anxious and end up doing nothing.

I don’t kid myself that these 10-minute blogging sessions are great literature. But I’ve surprised myself by just how meaningful they are – at least to me. First of all, I’m not as dull as I thought it would be and, secondly, they keep me connected to writing and, through my readers, to the wider world beyond.

It’s fucking priceless, that’s what it is. It’s helping me become less of a perfectionist.

4 Comments

Does this make me a stalker?!

August 12, 2011 at 12:46 pm (Breakroom Boy, marriage, relationships, sex, stalking)
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Oh, how I long for the good old days! Before the advent of the internet and social media, I would see a good-looking guy at a party, or wherever, and there would follow weeks, perhaps even months, of longing and wondering. Who was he? Where could I see him again? Most of the time I never found out unless he happened to be a friend of a friend.

Even though Breakroom Boy works in my office, he’s not in the same department, so I didn’t think it would be all that easy to find out who he was. True, we all have to wear a name badge but what was I going to do? Linger about the break room all day in the hope of seeing him, sidle up to him, stand uncomfortably close  and then peer intently at the badge dangling from his waist? Well….I did consider it, but I ruled  out that investigative technique.

No, this is not Breakroom Boy.
But he does look a wee bit like this.

Instead, I briefed some co-workers to keep their ears to the ground and….success! One of them heard somebody use his name when they were speaking to him. Thanks to the employee directory, and my deductive powers, I was able to work out his last name as well. I know more about Breakroom Boy than is healthy. Let’s see what I know:

(1) His first and last name (and, oh, his father’s and grandfather’s too – although he is Breakroom Boy III, so it’s obvious what their names are)

(2) His age (32)

(3) Where he’s from

(4) What he studied at university (business – boring!) and his career since then

(5) His email address, home address and phone number (um, yeah)

(6) What kind of music he likes to listen to

(7) Where he likes to hang out

(8) His relationship status

(9) What his girlfriend looks like – I found a couple of pictures of him online with the same girl. She’s pretty, but she ain’t got nothing on me.

It was kinda thrilling to find out so much about him but I am ashamed to admit that I actually stayed up until 4:00 a.m. just trying to find out more stuff about him. How fucking out-of-control is that?! It’s creepy, and I would be creeped out if I knew anybody had spent that amount of time looking up stuff about me. I almost didn’t admit this on here, but I feel it’s important to address the fact that I am GODDAMN CREEPY! Oh my God!

Worse still, I created  a brand new AIM account just so I could anonymously say hi to him via chat. He didn’t respond! But, thankfully, all I said was “Hello”, and he has no idea who the chat is from. I’m thinking this is the universe’s way of telling me to leave this alone.

I must also admit that all my social media shenanigans have ruined the mystery a little, too, which makes me less eager to get to know him. I’m disappointed, and surprised, that he’s American even if Mexican-American is better than some vanilla white guy. I knew he was Latin, for sure, but he doesn’t carry himself like an American at all. I had imagined that he was Brazilian for some reason. He also grew up only 200 miles away and moved here apparently to go to college. I find this very boring. Why on earth didn’t he want to leave? Widen his horizons a little? Finally, I found a picture of him and (probably) his girlfriend dressed up in some lame-ass Hallowe’en costumers. Let’s just say that my brooding man of mystery did not look quite so intriguing dressed up as a mobile phone!

I think I’m over my obsession. Breakroom Boy is probably nothing like what I imagined, needed, wanted him to be. How could he be? Nobody could ever be that good.

I need to focus my attention on more healthy things but, still, I find myself drawn to adventure. At this point in my life, I can honestly say that I am only faithful to Midwestern Man because an opportunity not to be hasn’t presented itself. I crave excitement and passion.

I guess this makes me, at best, a weak person; at worst – a bad person.

14 Comments

The Return of Breakroom Boy!

August 10, 2011 at 2:44 pm (attractive co-worker, Breakroom Boy)
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When you spend forty hours a week doing a boring job, it’s the little things you end up relying on to get you through the day. Things that you would barely have given much thought before suddenly become all-important.

It is for this reason that my attention has been drawn – a little more than is healthy – to a particularly fine-looking specimen of the male sex whom I happened to encounter in the break room.

Breakroom Boy is quite simply delicious. Tall, dark and handsome with brooding brown eyes and ponderous eyebrows. It’s not just his looks. Ashton Kushner is a good-looking man, by all accounts, but his vapid personality make him totally unattractive. But there is just something about Breakroom Boy…a quiet sense of mystery that leaves me wanting to know more.

We’ve never addressed a word to each other, but there was an interesting physical encounter two weeks ago. I was walking at top speed into the women’s bathroom when Breakroom Boy turned round the corner and walked straight into me. He actually had to grab my left to stop me stumbling, and, with a little cheeky grin on his face, he apologised and said something about the corner being “deadly”.

There are many things about that encounter which were “deadly” but I can assure you that the corner was not one of them!

Since them I find any excuse I can to go to the breakroom but, alas, there was no Breakroom Boy! I was bereft!
Had he left for good?! Shudder! Moved department?! Gasp! Gone on vacation?!

This morning I saw him walk into the building just before me, so he is still there!

Who are you, Breakroom Boy?! What is your name?! And will you rip my clothes off and ravish me on my altar?!

8 Comments

Good riddance, Miss Proper Pants!

August 9, 2011 at 11:01 pm (bitches, dead-end job)
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Sitting on a new bench today. “Variety” as they say is the spice of life. And in a life as dull as mine even a new lunchtime seat makes all the difference.

Tuesday is team-meeting day, and in it I learned that “Miss Proper Pants” and “Obnoxious Fucktard” will soon be leaving us (tomorrow!) to be real full-time employees in “Customer Relations” (compared to us enslaved contractors, that is, with no health insurance and no paid holidays).

I could have applied for that job myself, but dealing with entitled angry customers on the phone all day?! No thanks! I’ll take contractor slavery over that any time.

Also, I’m glad to be getting rid of “Miss Proper Pants” and “Obnoxious Fucktard”, and I had no desire to be around them in a different department. “Obnoxious Fucktard” has issues with women, and he especially had issues with me because my customer satisfaction surveys were better than his. He just could not understand why. He seems to be completely unaware of his obnoxiousness fucktardedness which clearly spills through into the emails to customers.

And “Miss Proper Pants”, ooh, where to get started with her? She is the worst kind of woman. The kind who espouses feminist principles but who is anything but a feminist in her actions. A supposedly tolerant and liberal petson who is a stranger to the meaning of either of these adjectives.

She owes her monicker to the fact that she plays by the rules to an ingratiating and nauseating extent. I am not against playing “the game” per se, but I won’t do it if I think it’s a stupid or unfair game, or if I don’t like the rules. Good riddance to the self-righteous bitch I say.

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