Velouria (velouria) wrote,

Trapped in the Closet Chapters 1-12.

They "temporarily" moved me into a closet at work. This closet contains 8 or so other women, one of whom blares the Rhianna channel on her Pandora all day long. This has re-familiarized me Beyonce's B-Day album. (Watch it while he check up on it. Move it, pop it, something something.)

The major topic of discourse this week was the party that I'm not invited to that's going on tonight. $100 dollars was needed for the acquisition of alcohol so that they can "get fucked" playing "margarita pong." I do admit pangs of jealousy struck me. I do so enjoy getting fucked on margaritas. Not with Rhianna girl, however. I want to grab her by her blonde ponytail and slam her head into her crappy computer speakers repeatedly, day in and day out. She apparently lacks respect for all the other women in the closet. I am now intimately familiar with her tanning schedule she explains in detail to her boyfriend, Jonathan. This is necessary so that she does not become "so burned!" while in Cancun in March.

Speaking of boyfriends, I moved in with mine much to the chagrin of my Lady Psychiatrist. Me-time is precious, she explained. I replied that my entire life up to this point could be considered "me-time" and that it really isn't necessary at this point. Nor is cohabiting with Ophelia or the train thundering by every 5 minutes. Yes, I think it was a wise decision.
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