I’m gonna punch you in the ovary.

My god-awful job continues, where I sit in a catatonic state and occasionally mix it up with drool marching down my chin. I never quite manage to tune out cult boy (who drives me Kurt Cobain with his fucking Flanders grin) and the gunslingers continue to fixate on me as if I’m in a teen movie (about to get a totally awesome makeover).

And now … the addition of a new character to my sad little show – a cute, single and yes! Hetero retero man. Like spotting Elvis or Ally Sheedy, ’tis indeed a coup.

The first time I met him, I thought he was gay; mainly due to his randy handsomeness and the fact he calls everyone darling. So I gave him few further thought, except to notice whenever he set up camp (pardon the pun) nearby. ‘Twas indeed a faulty gaydar reading but it’s my theory that a man calls a woman darling when he’s booby bound in the singular (single woman, not boob), not in the plural. Call me crazy.

Then, one day, he flashed his pearly whites in a drive-by flirting. They dazzled like the teeth of Disney’s Prince Charming (bing!) and my metaphoric head whipped back so quick, I was wearing a metaphoric neck brace for a metafucken week. A crush was born.

Well. As much as a crush can be born to a cynical and wily old coot like me. After all, these days a prince translates to a tiny diva in a high quaff, heels and ruffled shirt (Formerly Known As). Then there’s the Non-Committal Prince, For-One-Night-Only Prince (aka Vegas Prince) and the I-make-you-swoon-with-my-eyelashes-but-it-turns-out-I’m-happily-married Prince.

In any case, my Gay Prince had arrived and was willing to overlook the boobies. Result.

But. Being wily, this created immediate suspicion. Why was he smiling at me when we hadn’t officially met? And, once met, why was he laughing heartily at a joke weaker than Lindsay Lohan at a Shakespeare audition? (Doesn’t happen often, but that’s a good example). I love audience recognition as much as the next office comedo, but my joke was lame (to be said like Ron Burgundy) and he was doubled over with a rabid case of IBS.

And here is where I leave you hangin’, dear Wuccan. Just as Gay Prince has left me hanging, in the sporadic and flaky flirting he has become known for. Ah yes! Like a dodgy radio signal, he comes in and out with the promise of guest spots and prize giveaways.

But alas, (so far) I got nuthin. Nada. Zippo the Hippo.

Dare I ask you to. watch. this. space?

About the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

145 Responses to “I’m gonna punch you in the ovary.”

  1. You can definitely see your enthusiasm in the wolrk you write.
    The world hopes for more passionate writers like you who aren’t afraid to say how they believe.
    Always go after your heart.

  2. As soon as I read the title to this post, I knew we were kindred spirits! And “doubled over with IBS”… priceless.

    Thanks for the “like” on my PMS in the modern office post, although admittedly, it took me some time to notice. (Trying to keep track of all these little gizmos on our blogs isn’t my forte.)

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. Who I’m Following – Bloggers in UK and AU Start My Day « OnLit - January 20, 2012

    [...] good. Usually hilarious (unless I can’t understand her Aussie slang). Sample posts include I’m gonna punch you in the ovary and Are you trying to Garfunkel me? Just go there. See for yourself. Advertisement [...]

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