Hell, I was there, and I don't believe it my ownself. No, not the fact that, yet again, I find myself with enough time for a brief post whilst I listen to a Rion Williams podcast and prepare to leave for volleyball, either. Although I can totally see wherefore one might make that error. Happens to me all the time.
Firstly, the other day, whilst doing whatever it is that I do in the workplace, I was crouched down like Pudge Rodriguez (Go Tigers!), counting some items (math is hard) on a bottom shelf. Naturally, some fucking nitwit manages to come roaring around the corner and smoke me in the back with her shopping cart. And then just looks at me with that stupid grin on her stupid fucking face. Moron. The fuck? I'm fairly difficult to overlook at the best of times, being freakishly outsized and all. Let alone when I'm attired in a bright purple (think Barney) shirt and a Fred Flintstone tye, as I was on this occasion. And yes, I was totally rocking said outfit, thanks for asking.
Last week, I caught static for skipping volleyball in order to be in bed (alone!) early to be at work WAY too early. The implication seemed to be that I was instead choosing to spend my evening with my geophysicist. Uh, no, although I appreciate the thought. Hell, I didn't even stay awake long enough to watch Veronica Mars. That's how serious my need for extra sleep in fact was. I remember those not-so-long-ago days when I was wasting all that time pining away for The One, when noone would've ever suspected I had anything (or anyone) better to do with my time. Well, okay, mostly I'm just not really enjoying playing with this squad any longer. Fucking sue me.
I wear Axe deodorant. Voodoo flavor. Because it makes me smell pretty, like a flower. Not because I'm buying into the culture and/or hype or because I'm trying too hard or anything. Anyhoo, I was told recently that I don't need it. I'm kinda loving my newfound workplace reputation as a manwhore. Alls it needs is congruence. And a good tale about getting married at the end of a drunken ONS in Las Vegas (nope, still no word, divorce-wise), of course. Check and check. I'm totally projecting the air of personal authority now, apparently. Who knew?
Today I made the stuckup HB cry again.
We were just trading barbs, like we do, and before I knew it...all Hell had Broken loose. I mean, she even rolled with it when I told her how comfortable her shoes looked. Whoosh, right over her head. Did I mention that she's only 20? And kinda fucking nuts? Well, now I have.
I then asked whether or not the guy she'd just interviewed for a job had mentioned what a brat she, in fact, is. Then went on to say that he likely hadn't, as he wanted to be hired. Next thing I knew, fucking Niagara Falls. At first I thought she was just playing (she'd done so earlier, when my boy Clifton had mentioned her princess complex), making a pouty face and shit. Uh, no. Bawling like a little kid with a skinned knee. I'm just glad I had 2, count 'em, 2 witnesses that will attest to what I actually said. Or I'll have them fucking executed. So she leaves our office, crying. Then comes back in a few minutes later, making with ''what'd I ever do to you?'' I thought I was being Punk'd and shit. Ashton, come on down.
Sadly, this will only set me back in my project of banging her stuckup ass. And then her mouth. Sigh. Bad times. Oh well, roll with it, baby.