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.

Now is probably a good time to mention that while I may be a (relatively) young woman, at heart, I’m a curmudgeonly old coot whose bones ache. He barks at idiots that step on his toes, doesn’t like reaching first base with strangers on the bus, and hates chit-chat. He says things like, “you people make my ass twitch” and “that makes my ovaries want to commit suicide” because yes, he’s somewhat gender-rebellious.

There’s no arguing with him because he’s old and set in his ways. He’s paid his dues and if he wants to wear underwear up to his teeth, he bloody-well will.

Ultimately, there are things you can change about yourself and others you just have to wear, like an atomic wedgie only a Death Star can produce. The coot and his incarnations come under the skid mark that no bleach can effect. Nothing for it but to ride the geriatric wave.

For an explanation on the wuc, get yo’ass to the wuc way.

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