Then I have to do the "this person has worked for the Department for 100 years" orders. They always want to mark this occasion with a 500-dollar pair of binoculars for some reason. What do you fucking need binoculars for? Because you're 175 years old now and you can't see anymore? Why are you still working? Why have you not died or at least retired? I'd prefer that you die, because I won't be stuck with your retirement placard and wristwatch order. No one needs a motherfucking watch either. Least of all the dead. Plus it's a win/win situation according to all the Near Death Experience books I've read. The other side is a preferable place to Earth. Go. Go toward the light.
Oh that reminds me, I have to bring dragonfruit juice Monday for the new woman replacing the old woman who had a ditherspaz on me in her cubicle and left. Then I will train her on how to order tampons all over again. I'm not dreading that as much as simply having to be introduced to her over donuts in a conference room at the asscrack of dawn. I have also been avoiding my new neighbor by running from my car to my door faster than I order highlighters and fumbling with the key in the lock while hissing, "Shit! Shit!" until I can get in the house and slam the door. I simply do not feel like exchanging phoney blather about myself or anyone else with anyone else. I've been courteous and have turned the Living Room Gothclub playlist down to a reasonable volume on Friday nights. I even have an alternative, far more soothing Chillwave playlist she can overhear instead.
I will probably have been forced to speak with both of these woman by the time I write next, so look forward to that.