Please don't give me a trainee...please don't...

Cackling hens all around me. Breeders, too. Al Qaiiyeeda should fly a jet into us. I'd be the only one to escape and write a memoir, Escape from the Zone of the Cackling Hens.

I can smell their awful lunches, too.

Just tried firing up AIM and it's been blocked. When the hell did this happen? Grrrr...I haven't used AIM from here @ R.E. since, oh, Thanksgivin' or so. A friend just told me he was AIM. Now I can't even AIM. What the fuck, duck? Another reason why this office SUX NASTY DIRTY SHITTY ASS!

Grrrr...here I am in my cube. I am cubed. To be cubed. I am thinking of writing a short play about office dregs who live in cubes, forever trapped in small spaces. They don't know they are in hell. They don't know they are really working for Lucifer and processing the work of the underworld. The backdrop set would be, indeed, Picasso-esque ( Read more... )

I hate this place. I hate my job. I put a smile on my face. File that? Sure, sure, thank you, BITCH.