Thanks a lot for that whole interest rate thing. Boss says our building will probably collapse under the weight of our incoming mortgage files. I suggest we ship all our paperwork to Baghdad. Take a look at my damncube. It's a fucking impenetrable bunker of stacked paper-you couldn't get a car bomb anywhere near it .
And can someone please fire Ms. Holmes-Bouy? Get this:
I'm faxing some crap to another office and Miss Bitch runs over," what are you doing?" , she shrills.
"Why are you asking me this?"
"I thought you were ordering documents- I do that- if you order docs without going through me, I have no choice but to report you." (ms. bitch is a temp)
Gosh. I respond so well to threats from idiots.
" Yeah. That's what I'm doin'. Ordering docs. Docs, docs, docs. I do that. Report me , whatever"...
Ms. Bitch-Person reports me.
I hope she doesn't piss off the people at her new job.
After 11 hours I escape.
I rush to the station to interview a new volunteer.
She's very smart, over 21, and prettier than a greenhouse of orchids.
I'm smitten, but I manage to muddle through the tour and interview.
She invites me to a fund-raiser party for a FP clinic. Promises of anarchy and games.
Yeah.
I go.
Turns out it's a duplex party. Downstairs is an 'alcohol' zone , complete w/ keg and bartender who mixes a strong drink. Kudos!
Upstairs is a Vegan, no booze, and the crock-pot " open-minded" scene. The food was pretty good , but the providers were morons.
I really wasn't allowed to eat food- because I was drinking. Drinks and food are non- compatible
according to the new pair o' dime.
Bummer.
I snuck up on the 'sober' floor and ate as much as I could.
Both floors reek of Weed, Armpit & Crotch.
New Girl never showed up, but I had an Old Friend with me.
We laughed.
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