Velouria (velouria) wrote,

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Babies and Binoculars

Girl at work decided to go off and have a baby and leave me with all her shit supply orders. I normally do construction (drywall, circular saws, and most recently - tampon dispensers) but now I'm tasked with ordering office supplies for every state worker that wants a staple-removing wand. Unlike the guys in the field at the prisons, bureaucrats that order Post-Its feel the need to ask me where they are every five minutes. You know what, twat? I buy my own damn pink office supplies at Office Max. If I feel the need to demand Post-Its from the government, I don't constantly bitch about their whereabouts. I'M MOVING AS FAST AS I CAN. You will get your Goddamn document holder. I'm sorry you may have to hold a piece of paper up with your hands in the meantime.

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.
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