02.08.02 :: 10:08 am
But it's too much work to move everything over. So I stay. And stay.
Lunch with the V.P. today, and it's nerve-wracking as all hell, and I know, I know questions will be asked about Miss Pissypants and her tattling false tales on me.
And the only thing I can do to save my ass and my job is be gracious and use words like "misunderstanding," and the like.
I hate submitting. I hate kow-towing to the higher-ups. Fuck it. It's my paycheck on the line.
And motherfucking thankgodfully it's fucking Friday. Which means drinks in my palace with My Boy and video games.
And, if last night's pre-bedtime antics were any indications, I'll need stitches from busting my gut laughing.
I leave you with an excerpt:
"You...smell like...two-week old baloney sandwiches in a dirty tupper left under the sink in the dark."
"You smell like...wet bathing suit in a plastic bag left in a locker. In the dark."
And so on and so forth.