Saturday, July 30, 2011

Hello, vodka, my old friend.

I will say up front that I do not have a drinking problem - my mother's likely to see the title of this and start the pearl-clutching immediately. Calm down, Ma. 

However. Never have I wanted to have a drinking problem more than while working at this job. A haze of gin would make Roger's constant snorting easier to take. I would pretend I was working at a zoo next to the hippopotamus enclosure. "Ah," I'd say to myself, waving my glass, "They must have just thrown a pile of cabbages in. Enjoy your cruciferous snackage, hippo friends!" Tequila shooters would take the edge off Di's sneers. She's still narked because I've got the copier sussed now.  This would be pathetic if it wasn't so irritating. With a two-belter of whisky, I'd be able to not recoil at Baz's lethal coffee breath whenever he leeeeeeeeans over to point out something on my screen. (I've taken to wearing tops that go all the way up to my chin. I look like I'm auditioning for Mad Men, and not in a good way.)

There are three other people in the office but I can't remember their names because they never speak and they all dress in brown.  I told my dad this and he said something about Kraftwerk.  (Who?  Will Google later, after the cocktail hour.)

In addition, someone keeps tampering with my email settings. I come in, and they're all wonked about. Plus all the stuff in my drawers keeps being moved around.

A thought occurs: are they searching my stuff? ?    ??

Hell, no. Not again.

Will investigate and report back later. After I've had a drink, of course.

(Calm down, Ma.)

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