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Cold Rock a Party

It's Sunday afternoon and I should be digging through the mountain of crap and laundry beside my pink bed in my pink room, but I am sitting on the couch in a pink wig listening to RICHIIIEEE (Valens) and touching up my pink makeup every so often when I've disturbed it via shoving Ritz crackers in my face.

I hate starting the week off with mountains of crap beside my bed. I mean I hate starting off the week anyway. So maybe it doesn't even matter if I wake up and slide on my lazy pants and faceplant into my vanity before I head to the office. I still have to go to the office in the dark and procure for 10 hours until it's dark again. Plus it's the building Christmas party which goes nothing like say, the Mad Men Christmas party with sexy ladies and men doing the conga w/ martinis in hand in their sexy profesh mid-century clothes.


No it's not like that here. Tomato Bully threatens your life into bringing vegetables and then makes passive aggressive comments about chopping the vegetables on state time mere moments before the event, which she has prepared for by stuffing fake flowers from the unisex bathroom into a used gift bag as her white elephant gift. "I hope you will chose to have fun at this year's party" was the mafia Santa Clause-esque email that went around last week. And if we don't? Last year I stuffed some tritip and bread rolls into my white puffer jacket and dashed to the parking lot to get to my Toyota to eat them in solitude. Years of bringing glittery Bath and Body Works lotions and chocolate-stuffed dollar Starbucks mugs to the party only to receive the bathroom flowers or alternatively a framed photo of Tomato Bully has left me bitter and unwilling to attend. If I end up swimming with the fishies, well, I've lived a long life. It feels like.