I’ll Put Strychnine in the Guacamole. Or just Shank a Bitch. Or both. Good Idea. (AKA I’m gonna rant my ass off.)

You know what I hate?

I hate bitches who don’t know their place. Bitch gon’ try to throw me under the bus. What she has yet to figure out is I’m now driving that fucking bus. And she’s Target Numero Only. I was asked to advise my supervisor on a situation that has arisen. You see, apparently the company is hemorrhaging money (which is nothing new – but the source is new). And Queen Bitch is the primary suspect, only she’s doing what she always does: pointing fingers. She pointed fingers in both my direction and that of my former department. I was called into the meeting, and I stated clearly that this is the first I’ve heard of any issue (dudes, this issue is massive and jeopardizes our largest account…which would shut this subsidiary down, period). I explained exactly what the problem is and what needs to happen to fix it. Queen Bitched huffed and puffed, and guess what. Nobody’s fucking house blew down. But the air around us got suspiciously smelly. Next I’m called into my supervisor’s office privately, where he asks for my full analysis of the situation and what we should do to move forward. I didn’t even have time to be flattered, because I launched right into it. I don’t care anymore. I’m not here to placate Queen Bitch, and I’m certainly not interested in scratching anyone’s back or licking anyone’s ass. I carefully explained exactly why it is not in fact my former department’s fault, as it is QB’s responsibility to provide them with the information they need for the projects in question. When it looked like I was losing it, I brought out my secret weapon: an overstuffed folder full of the exact information QB used to provide to my former department. I had that shit because those jobs used to be my responsibility in that department. And because I strongly believe in good ole CYA (Cover Your Ass) in Corporate America, I still had all of it. So he’s shocked. “Queen….Queen Bitch did this? When you were in x department?” Yup. How else was I to know what the project consisted of? “B-b-b-but she says she’s never done anything of the sort.” *points to QB’s initials* She shoots. She scores.

Cunt.

Tomorrow should be entertaining. I really fucking hope that bitch steps up on me. I’m burning that bitch down.

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You know what else I hate?

FedEx
I’ll tell you why not. Because they’re ass sucking penis wrinkles. That’s why.

Motherfucking FedEx. Motherfucking FedEx put a heavyass box down against the porch today. Against it. Not on it. No no. It wasn’t on the porch. You know what it was on? My motherfucking twenty dollar azalea bush. You know, one of the ones I just fucking planted. Speaking of bitches that need burning down. Those motherfuckers are about to feel my wrath. Not that they’ll give a fuck. Still. I’m done being a doormat. I’m gonna practice telling motherfuckers off when they act like motherfuckers. Well guess what, I bet my mother has the herp. How do ya like me now, MOTHERfuckers?

You know what else I hate?

Motherfucking Comcast. I ditched AT&T for the same fucking reason I’m about to ditch your useless, lying ass. When your twatnose rep promises me something and you do the exact fucking opposite? Don’t act shocked when I ask for the number to your Retention Department. Heh. Didn’t think I knew about Retention Departments, did you? Think again, shit snorter. Where’s Ted Kaczynski when you need him? (Too soon for that kinda joke? Fuck you, I’m American. Apparently all I’m good for is getting thrown under buses and shooting people or blowing them up. Speaking of things I hate. Fucking douchecanoes.)

You know what else I hate?

That I forgot the rest of my list. There’s a lot to be said about making handwritten notes. Ahem, Ezekiel. Make fun of my handwritten lists. You little shit. So now I have something else to hate: my lack of post notes. Fucksticks.

Anyway. Yeah. Believe it or not, I’m in a pretty damn good mood. Now.

However. I Really Fucking Hope that rotted cuntwhore has the audacity to get in my face tomorrow. She will regret forgetting the last time we spoke, when I said, and I quote, “If you ever speak to me again, it should only be to apologize for what you’ve done. Otherwise, you keep my name out of your filthy mouth.” Oh yeah. That was a huge feat for Ms. Pushover. I finally allowed myself to stand up for myself, and that’s what came out.

Fuckyeah.

Bonus thing I don’t give a fuck about: editing. Fuck editing. I’m letting this bitch fly. I’m all hardcore and shit.

beaker

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An Alice in Chains Kind of Day

Do you ever feel alone?

So. Fucking. Alone.
So. Fucking. Hopeless.

I shouldn’t be listening to Alice in Chains. I shouldn’t have Layne Staley’s beautifully haunting voice in my head this morning, mirroring my mood. Feeding it. Fueling it. Strengthening it. But it’s an Alice in Chains kind of morning.

I was up too late last night. I took my meds too late. So, though I was quite exhausted, I had a hell of a time getting to sleep. Then one of my cats, the Orange One, decided to go dumpster diving at various times throughout the night. You see, I thoughtlessly left the giant sack of cat food accessible to the cats. I had no idea that the Orange One would bypass his food bowl in favor of climbing up onto the bag and eating out of it instead. That loud crackling, crinkling racket coupled with his munching woke me up no fewer than three times in the night. (Yes, I moved that bag first thing this morning.)

All of this led me to oversleep this morning. Of course. Which fucking sucked, because I had to skip my shower. I like to take one every morning. Helps me feel clean (First World water consumer right here) and is equally important to help me feel awake.

So. I’m “hoping” that those factors combined are why I feel so…subdued…today.

The alternative is far more upsetting.

The alternative is that in spite of the meds and positive changes in my life.
I’m beginning the downward spiral back into a depressive state.

It’s been a while since the slow creeping venomous vine of depression bound me in its grip. Where it cuts and burns and squeezes and binds. Until it enters every orifice and spreads within you like a slow, painful death.

It has hold of you now. You hack and hack and hack away at the vines, but they’re stronger than you are right now. Because the venom of the vine seeps into your body, into your bloodstream, into your very consciousness, into your soul. And the venom?

Lies. Cruelty. Darkness. Hopelessness. Suicide. Worthlessness. Fatigue. Loss. Pain. Malaise. Apathy. Despair. Anger. Hatred. Loathing.

The venom is insidious. But you’re in no state to fight it.

Depression is what we call it.

We want to fight it. We want to break through. We want to break free. But it’s not always so simple, is it? Sometimes it’s simply time. To be depressed.

I hate being a Depressive Person.
I hate having Major Depressive Disorder, Clinical Depression, Bipolar II, PTSD, GAD.
What. The. Fuck. Ever.
Whatever it is. Whatever the labels.
I hate it. I don’t wish to feel this way. I do not choose to feel this way. I do not enjoy it.

But in a strange way, I can at least be thankful.

Thankful?
Thankful.

Because it’s only for the darkness that I’m able to see the light.
If all of my life is spent in sunshine,
Do I recognize it as sunshine?
Can I appreciate it if I don’t know that darkness exists? What it looks like? What it feels like?

If all of my life is spent in darkness,
Can I appreciate the sunshine?
If I don’t know that the sunshine exists,
What gives me hope? What reason have I to persevere? To keep hacking away at those vines?

Perhaps I need the depression.
Perhaps it tempers me.
Perhaps it reminds me what is real.
Even as it tells me lies about myself.

~

Sometimes it’s the very things I hope for. The very things I cling to. That shift my sunshine into the darkest of nights. Perhaps I want too much. Need to much. Ask too much. Expect too much. Perhaps I am my own undoing.

~

I want to live a life apart.
I want to escape civilization.
I want to damn expectations.

I don’t give a fuck about elections.
I don’t give a fuck about money.
I don’t give a fuck about fearmongering.

I have zero fucks for celebrity.
I have no interest in things.
I am sick to death of working for the man.

I don’t wish to spend my life rotting in front of television.
I have no desire to tour the den of lies that is Washington, D.C.
I have a big, fat fuck you to societal rules and norms.

Fuck your McMansions.
Fuck your things.
Fuck your self-righteousness.

Fuck your racism.
Fuck your xenophobia.
Fuck your nationalism.

Fuck your ownership.
Fuck your entitlement.
Fuck your judgment.

~

John Muir is My Hero

I want a companion.
I want to explore the wild.
I want to take the road less traveled by.

I want to learn.
I want to question.
I want to observe and absorb.

I want to immerse myself in different cultures.
I want to meet and embrace the other.
I want to see life through your eyes.

I want to hear your perspective.
I want to feel your soul.
I want to reach into you and bathe in your essence.

I want to get lost on purpose.
I want to relish the adventure of finding my way again.
I want to discover the untamed beauties off the beaten path.

I want to make love on a blanket of grass under a sea of stars.
I want to run naked through a meadow of wildflowers.
I want to cleanse myself in unpolluted waters.

I want to giggle for no reason.
I want to belly laugh until it hurts to breathe.
I want to spend hours simply making faces at each other.

I want to have deep, tangential conversations until three A.M.
I want to make a pillow fort and sit in our underwear and tell ghost stories.
I want you to see me and let me see you.

I want to smoke a joint and tell stories in the middle of a rainforest.
I want to wash my face in snow melt and move on.
I want to walk the cobblestones of an ancient city, then get fucked in a dirty old stairwell.

I want to be loved unconditionally.
I want to be allowed to love unconditionally.
I want my quirks to be appreciated.

I want you to see my tears as beautiful.
I want you to let me kiss yours.
I want to live inside your soul.

I want to live.
I want to love.
I want to be free.

~

The problem is: I don’t think this is too much to ask.
I think: This is the reality that people have been brainwashed to not see.
I want: That which is truly real and meaningful.

And when I don’t have it.
When I can’t have it.
When I am denied it.

I sink.
Down.
Down.
Down.

Into the depths…
Of my mind.
Of my desires.
Of my aching lack.

Want me.
Need me.
Love me.

Adventure with me.
Learn with me.
Challenge me.

Show me something I’ve never seen before.
Let me show you things you’ve never seen.
Let us carve our own reality.

I’m waiting.
I’m wanting.
I’m ready.

~

Is this too much to ask?
I think not.

And you know something?
I feel better already.

Buncha Bullshit: The One Where Stephanie Rants About The Logistics of Making a Major Life Change (AKA:Whiny Girl Rants about First World Problems)

Moving across the country on a low budget is a royal pain in the ass. And the logistics of such are putting a mild damper on my excitement. It’s more epic frustration than woe is me bullshit.

I’m about as frustrated as a crackwhore without any crack or whorish shenanigans.
I’m about as frustrated as a woman in the throes of heightened sexual tension without a partner to take it out on.
I’m about as frustrated as a politician without a Lewinsky.
I’m about as frustrated as the CIA without a brothel.
I’m about as frustrated as. As. Uhm. As someone who is frustrated.

(I just reread this and realized most of the the frustration examples are sexual in nature. Don’t read into that, please. Or do. Either way, I’m gonna stop talking now. (Except I’m not. But it won’t be about sex anymore. Why would I talk about sex? This is a motherfucking clean blog, damnit. (Fuckin’ hell, I have sex on the brain. I’m human after all. Sexbrain is NOT HELPING, SO MOTHERFUCKING STOP IT, BRAIN. (I really should delete this ridiculous parenthetical that’s only making things worse. But I’m not going to. Because this is me. Hi. My name is Stephanie, and I have sexbrain. Hi Stephanie. Welcome, Stephanie. Keep coming back – it works if you work it!))))

Frustration-Eats-Pencil2
This Poor Little Fucker. That’s me. Seriously, that’s exactly what I look like. I had my portrait done. For seriouses.

It’s all a buncha bullshit. And there’s a whole lotta bullshit that has to be figured out and sorted.

Buncha Bullshit that has to be Figured Out and Sorted

Emotional Bullshit – Let’s get this bullshit outta the way first. My family sucks. Seriously, they can all go eat a giant bag of dicks. I don’t know where my mother is. She may or may not be in town. I’ve seen both her and my sort of grandfather at local grocery stores before. They both ignored me. Pretended I wasn’t even there. It’s no wonder grocery stores are currently my strongest triggers for acute anxiety. But the mother…is unreliable and an untreated bipolar. And she’s probably not even in the state anymore. Who knows. My siblings and my aunt (who was always my second-favorite family member – at least on that side of the family) won’t speak to me anymore, because I won’t “get over” the physical, emotional, psychological, sexual abuse and go to my so-called father’s side now as he lays dying.

some_deep_emotional-89202

So yeah. Fuck them. I’m not even gonna tell them I’m leaving. For all they know, I’ve been dead for years. Fuck. Them. Fuck. Them. Fuck. Them. And for all the Fuck Thems I type, there are a hundred more tears. Motherfuckers. Fuck Them for making me feel this way. Fuck them for throwing me out with yesterday’s garbage. Fuck Them. I don’t even love them anymore. Do I? Fuckin’ hell, I’ve gotten scary good at compartmentalization. Don’t get me wrong. I know I can’t run away from the damage they’ve done to me over the course of my life. (This is not about running away. This is about moving on to a place I’ve always wanted to be but allowed people to tell me no.) And though I can’t get them outta my head, I can get outta this town of pain and tangible memories.

Whew. There. That’s dealt with. Let’s move on to financial bullshit.

Financial Bullshit – I know I haven’t spoken about my (failed) marriage, and I don’t intend to go into details now. At this point, it’s not something I wish to speak of here. I bring it up now just to make a single point: I was unemployed when we separated. But I was the one left saddled with the entire mortgage and anything else that goes into the typical running of a household. Since he took half of the savings account, it didn’t take long for me to go through every cent as I looked for a job in a shitty economy and shitty area for good employment opportunities. By the time I landed something decent, aside from little temp jobs, I had about 200 bucks to my name. And I seriously thought I was going to go default on the mortgage. I didn’t. In fact, I’ve never missed a single payment. But what that means for me now? I don’t have savings. I have some cash stashed in a box where all of my tutoring cash goes. But it’s “nothing to write home about,” as the saying goes. I’m fine. I pay all of my bills (except the student loan one which I simply can’t pay at this point). And they’re paid on time. I don’t do without food, water, shelter, books, etc. So I work full-time for an enormous corporation, and I’m broke. But only when it comes to anything outside of the basics.

57608060
Let’s see what the news is today. Oh yes, still broke as fuck. Off to work I go, like a good little mindless citizen!

However, this does throw a big wrench into the logistics of moving across country. Do y’all know how much it would cost to hire a moving company to move one set of bedroom furniture, about twenty boxes of books, some dishes and a couple of chests? The lowest quote I’ve gotten thus far was about $3,500. Their competitors said $4,500. U-Haul would be about $1,700, but then there is mileage and fuel costs to consider on top of that. So. What it looks like I’ll have to do is drive myself up there with my cats and whatever I can fit in the car. Leave the rest in storage. And sleep on an air mattress in the tiniest, cheapest apartment I can find to start out in.

This also means that I can’t afford to let people at work know about this until the very last minute. Because I can’t afford to quit my job while I tidy up the house for the market and dig in deep on a job search in Seattle. It also means I can’t just move up there and find a job that way, because I’d have greater odds of landing something good if I were actually there. But I can’t do that.

Then there’s the question of where I’ll live in the interim.

Housing Bullshit – As the regular Peopleaneous know, I’m in the (lengthy) process of preparing my house to put on the market. This involves the ex, as his name is still on the deed. And the house is filled with a lot of his stuff. (Including the guns that I couldn’t get rid of, because they weren’t mine…and I did not want to deal with the explosion that would ensue if I’d gotten rid of them.) So. He’s been over a lot on weekends and evenings. Going through his stuff. Culling stuff. Fixing stuff (very very slowly) and occasionally sabotaging my efforts by doing shit like parking in the middle of the yard after days of heavy rain and rutting the fucker up. That will do wonders for the curb appeal. Fucking wonderful. Anyway. ANYFUCKINGWAY. This isn’t about him. And I said I didn’t wanna talk about him. And I don’t. So. The point is, this is lengthy.

And I have an issue that I don’t know how to resolve.

Issue the First: Selling the house is going to be difficult. First, the market it is in has done nothing but go down down down since I/we bought the place. Second, he never maintained things. And I wasn’t allowed to, in the sense that… No. No. I’m just gonna leave that there. I’m not going to make this about him. He used to be great, and then he lost his way. And then we both changed. I’m gonna leave it at that. Point is, the house wasn’t kept up. Things are broken. Things are damaged. Things have been neglected. Then the other day, the fucking city tore down a tree. Fucking ass sucking dickwhistles. And in the few years I’ve been there by myself, I was mostly so mired down in a bottomless pit of the darkest depression I’ve known. Too far down to even think it was worth getting out of bed to take care of the house. I was in total fuck you, fuck me, fuck the world, fuck the universe, fuck the house, fuck the job, fuck it all mode.

Issue the Second: What if the house sells before I land a job in Seattle? Does that mean I have to sign a 6-month contract on some apartment in town? That would make me lose a lot of money if I found a job just after moving. Plus, who the fuck wants to move twice?

Issue the Third: What if I land a job before the house sells? How do I finagle that? I can’t afford to rent property in Seattle while simultaneously paying a mortgage. Seriously, it’s not like I’m CEO material. I won’t be making that kinda money. So how does that work?

Which leads me to jobby bullshit.

Jobby Bullshit – Should I even be looking for jobs at this point? Is it premature? It’s premature, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be foolish not to? Maybe someone out there thinks I’m worth waiting for. It’s possible, right? Or maybe I could land a job and let them know that when the house sells, I’ll need to fly back down for paperwork and shit. But that brings me back to the issue of rent plus mortgage. No can do, buckaroo. The good news is that I’ve secured three solid references. Two of you read this blog on occasion. Be good to me, fellas! Pretty please.

Oh, yes. More Jobby Bullshit. Another issue I’m having is that I’d like to pursue something that I may actually enjoy. Something with writing or editing would be fucking epic. I can even write without using “fuck” all the time. Promise. The problem is, my deagent-orange-wasting-time-250x127grees are not in English or Journalism or any of those other “required” degrees for writing jobs. The problem is none of my work experience is writing related, aside from some freelance gigs on the side. The problem is, I don’t have writing samples to submit. And I sure as fuck don’t want any potential employers finding this spot: a. because of all the fucking that goes on around here and 2. because then I’d never be able to rant or vent about work!

But I don’t want to do the kind of thing I’m doing right now. And I also don’t want to do the whole Executive Assistant/Administrative thing. I’ve done it. I’m damn fucking good at it. But it’s no fun. It’s draining. It’s meaningless to me. And it makes me feel the time, my life, tick tick ticking away.

 ~

So I don’t know what to do. More specifically, I don’t know how to approach all of this. I’m sure there are other issues that I had in mind before I began this post. But I’ve been interrupted countless times because work. And also because my mind is in a dirty, dirty place right now. So it’s hard to focus. Anyway, this fucker is nearly 2,000 words already. Probably about 1,900 more than it really needs to be! But my name is not Concisephanie for a reason!

I would like to ask something of my dear Peopleaneous.

If there are any of you out there who have done this before and have a clearer vision on the logistics of something like this, please hit me up. I’d love some advice.

If there are any of you out there who have made major career switches without the official qualifications to do so, I’d love some tips there as well.

And if any of you are in Seattle and hiring, pick me! MEMEMEMEMEME!

In the meantime, I’m going to keep trudging forward. This is my year. I’m taking charge of my life. And I’m still holding on to Rollins’ words.

Rollins

 GO!

(Please forgive any egregious errors. I don’t feel like re-reading this right now. Ha! Some copy-editor!)

The One Where Stephanie Finally Does A Top Ten Post (AKA Stephanie Posts Again in the Same Week. It’s a Christmas Miracle!)

I’m not big on “Top Ten” or “Top Anything” posts (unless they’re snarky and funny), but there are some things I need to get off my chest. (And I don’t mean the spaghetti noodle that I dropped down into my decolletage a couple weeks ago, that had to be peeled from my boob. We need adult bibs, people.) So let me get right to it.

Top Ten Things My Coworkers Need to Cease. Immediately. Or I’ll Put Strychnine in the Guacamole.

Numero One-o: Ladies, I know you like to hover over the toilet. It’s probably the only time you ever hover over anything. Maybe you get off on it. Maybe it’s a workout for your quads. Maybe you’re doing some weird, fucked up kegel exercise that can only be done while hovering over the toilet. Look, you do you. And I’ll do me. (Or wait. Yeah, okay, I will. But hopefully not only me. Wow, can I digress.) But please, for the love of all that is good and dry, please wipe up your little piss puddles that you dribble all over the motherfucking seats. And while you’re at it – you know that can of Lysol on the back of every tank? CLEAN YO SHIT UP. Nasty twaffles. (That’s twat + waffle for those not in the know.) (Now you’re in the know.) (It’s better than being in the no.) (You’re welcome.) Oh. And one more thing, you nasty hagwipes.

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Numero Two-o: I know you’re on your little New Years’ Resolution health kick that you’ll scrap in a few more weeks. Some of you have already scrapped them. (You’re my favorites.) I get it. Okay? I could stand to lost a donkey’s worth of pounds. And I know I should get on that, but fuckin’ hell I find it hard to self-motivate. (AND she’s off! Digressing again!) But you and those fucking green drinks. I have a bullet (I’m talking about the juicing bullet, not the one in my nightstand. Perverts.), and I used it for a while. Perhaps I’ll use it again when I’m feeling brave. They taste great if you do them right. But please, please, on behalf of everyone in this godforsaken room, please do not drink a thirty-two ouncer and then happily go about your day while you choke us all with the noxious fumes coming out of your exhaust pipe. I’m seriously choking on your colon clouds, and I can’t fucking take it. It brings tears to my eyes, and my clothes smell like your asshole. And I hate you for it. I fucking hate you for it. Cut that shit to a small drink every other day. Or I’ll kill you. Slowly. With a spork. Stinkhole.

Numero Three-o: Not exactly a cease immediately, but more like a WHAT THE FUCK. Ladies, again, I’m talking to you. Why the fuck are there footprints on the back of the stall doors in the bathroom? Are you propping your feet up  and using that for leverage while you push out the mess you’re about to leave on the toilet? Are you so backed up that you have to damage the lock on the door with your pushing? Are you propping your feet up to hide so that no one can see your feet and know it’s you making us plug in a candle warmer by the sink? (We totally still know it’s you, because we can recognize the ringtone on your phone. You do realize you’re getting the assgerms of everyone who’s ever used that stall today ON YOUR PHONE, right?) Are you in there getting fucked, propping your feet up? If so, I hope it’s not by Panel Van Paco. Because I’m pretty sure he prefers little boys. (Yes, I work with some fucked up people. And yes, I’m being mean and leaping to wild assumptions.) I don’t get it. But those footprints are about a size ten. So I’m pretty sure I know who’s doing it. Ahem. Queen Bitch.

Numero Four-oStop with the ginormous attention-seeking huffs you make at every little thing you’re working on. Every five fucking seconds. I don’t give a rat’s ass, and I’m not going to ask you. Every five fucking seconds. What the fuck is wrong with you. I’m not doing it. It’s bad enough I have to listen to your ragehuffs, I sure as hell am not going to willfully subject myself to your asinine rants that you only brought upon yourself by being such a fucking bitchwhore.

Numero Five-oCould you please stop asking me every single time I cook soup, why it makes exploding sounds in the microwave? For the Last. Fucking. Time. It’s the carrots, people! Carrots go boom in the microwave. Next time you ask, I’m gonna tell you that you have 10 seconds to reach Minimum Safe Distance. And then Kablooey. Because I say we nuke the entire thing from orbit. It’s the only way to be sure.

Numero Six-o: Stop showing me pictures of your baby. It’s ugly. And I don’t give a fuck. It’s all wrinkled, and I know it came out of your or your wife’s vagina, and that squicks me out. Stop making me think of your vagina. Stop making me picture your vagina. Stop telling me how many stitches it took to make your wife’s vagina fuckable again. Stop telling me about your precious babe’s head that was misshapen by your wife’s vagina. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT ANYONE’S VAGINA. And I don’t want to look at eighteen thousand pictures of your baby Every. Single. Day. You’ve done what almost every human in the history of ever has done. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Popopopopopopopopopopop. Like gremlins. And gremlins were mean, and mischievous and stole all my candy. And had to be exploded because of their vaginas. Stop. It.

Numero Seven-o: Stop spoiling shows and movies that you know I have every intention of seeing but haven’t gotten around to it yet. You know who I’m talking about, geek boy. I know you’re doing it on purpose. You even admitted it. Stop it before I stab you in the nuts. And I know all about the pain you suffered for your vasectomy to keep from reproducing again with your cheating-ass wife. You’re a good dude. You’re fun. You make me laugh, uproariously. But if you don’t stop willfully spoiling shit for me, I will stab you in the nuts with those scissors you keep in a little leather case on your waist. What the fuck is that about, anyway? FOR NUT STABBING, SPOILERHEAD!

Numero Eight-o: For the umpteen-zillionth time, I don’t drink coffee. I’m not gonna suddenly sprout the coffee drinking gene today. Yes, I’m human. Yes, I’m an adult (mostly). Yes, I’m American. Yes, I’m tired. I don’t like coffee. I love the aroma, but I hate the bitter flavor. Yes, I’ve tried it with milk. Yes, I’ve tried it with sugar. Yes, I’ve tried it with honey straight from a bee’s asshole. (Yes, I know that’s not how bees make honey. Shut up.) No, I’m not gonna change my mind when you wave a mug of coffee fresh from the shit piles of Guatemalan bats that’s been further flavored with hazelnut or vanilla or your grandmother’s earwax. I. Don’t. Drink. Coffee. You’ve quizzed me about this every fucking day for three and a half fucking years. Leave me alone! Or I’ll steal your cane and beat you with it!

Numero Nein! Nein! Nein!-o: I know it’s January. I know it’s cold. I know you can’t wait for summer. I know you’ll say you can’t wait for cooler weather when summer does hit. I know it’s Wednesday, and we’re “halfway through the week, yay!” I know you can’t wait for Friday. I know you can’t wait for the weekend. I know the supervisor is a lily-livered dickwhistle. I know you can’t wait for lunch. I know the time is dragging. I know it’s 3:00, which means fresh coffee time. I know you’re pissed because he got “your” parking space again. I know you hate me and the world and life, because you say so every fucking day. I know the networks are running slow. You say these things. Every. Single. Day. Almost all of you. And I’m sick to death of it! I hate the office humdrum. I loathe the monotony. I hate Corporate America with my whole being. And I know I’ve been guilty of the same. And I know it’s not all your fault. And I know you’re just trying to find ways to make it through the hell of working for the man. But I’m fucking sick of it. And you’re not helping.

John Muir is My Hero

Numero Last-o: Please stop looking at the clock and reminding me of the time every quarter hour. You are not helping the day pass any faster or easier. You are, in fact, making it drag on indefinitely. You are reminding me that my life is slipping away second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month…and I resent you for it. I know you’re a sweet lady. Aside from your raging racism. (Thankfully, you actually let me gently point out when you say racist things.) But please. You’re lengthening my work days, and it pains me so.

Numero Bonus-o: You know how you always bitch and moan about people interrupting you when you’re so clearly mired knee-deep in a hodonkey of a project? You know how when you’re done and you see me so clearly mired knee-deep in my own hodonkey of a project? You know how you do that thing you hate other people for doing, by interrupting me for mindless chit-chat or to brag about your life, or to complain about your life and how you have it worse than anyone else on earth, or how if you were in charge you’d change everything because you’re so obviously doing all the work around here while you surf Facebook and Pinterest or take phone calls about your upcoming cruise, or by finding something you need to one-up someone about? You know? Ringing any bells? Stop. Fucking. Doing it. Queen Bitch, I’m looking at you again.

work etiquette

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I know I’ve missed a shitton. I’ll probably think of heaps more right after I hit publish. But these still stand. What are your biggest work-related pet peeves? Or hell, any! Oh Oh, I just thought of one! (See Numero Bonus-o.)

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This post brought to you by:

Assholes and butterbeans. Because butterbeans are assholes.

Queen Bitch for inspiring so much of this post.

Cold green tea with honey and ginseng. Because I’m trying not to drink soda, and I’m tired of water.

People that soothe my soul and make it all okay. You know who you are.

When Tragedy Strikes, I want the Fucking Hypocrites to Burn

Update at the end of the original post.

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A flood of people just moved past the open office door. One woman popped in and informed my coworker and I that everyone was invited into the conference room to pray. She scurried off, but we called her back to ask what was going on.

A Very Important Person’s semi-brand new baby is going into surgery for hemorrhaging. In his brain. He’s not expected to make it.

I don’t pray, and neither does the one coworker who’s with me today. Pretty much the entire rest of the building consists of dyed-in-the-wool Baptists with a rogue Catholic and Pentecostal here and there. He looked at me and says, “Well? Do we go pray? Or are we going to be THAT asshole?”

I wasn’t going to go, and I told him so. It’s not for lack of concern, but I don’t believe prayer is going to do a fucking thing to save that child. (Please. Spare me the religious lectures. Please. Even if you mean well, I’m not going there. Not today.) Anyway, once it became clear that Everybody was going, we went just to show support.

And I’m fucking pissed. Because the most hypocritical pieces of shit were the ones pounding the proverbial drums and praying the loudest.

When word originally came down that Very Important Person’s wife was expecting twins, here’s what the Hypocrisy Crones had to say about it:

I bet they paid for those twins.

Definitely in vitro. They should be ashamed of themselves.

They don’t deserve to have twins. Why couldn’t I have had twins?

Well, I heard he’s only even with that woman because of a rule for his inheritance.

Maybe she’ll miscarry, and we’ll all get raises instead of what they’ll spend on those babies.

Yeah. I wish I was making this shit up. These people are vile. Fucking vile. And I wanted to point at each and every one of the guilty motherfuckers and call them to the carpet.

You wished for this, you vile and vitriolic cunt. YOU WISHED FOR THIS. But you’ll be the first to tell Very Important Person how you led the Prayer Brigade, won’t you?

Very Important Person is an asshole. An egotistical, vain asshole with shitty ideals. BUT WHO IN THE FUCK TAKES THAT AND WISHES HIS BABIES WOULD DIE. What kind of fucked up world are we living in where people think this kind of behavior is acceptable?

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Anyway. If Very Important Family’s suffering doesn’t put some shit in perspective, then nothing will. And I do so hope that somehow his little one pulls through, and they all have happy holidays. I mean that with all of my heart.

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UPDATE: As of today, November 26, the little one made it through surgery. The bleeding has stopped and he is responding to stimuli. The surgeons and doctors have actually told the parents that they can begin feeling truly optimistic now. I thought I owed it to you all to provide an update on the little one’s well-being. (He’s six months old, by the way.)