My teen-angst bullshit has a body count.

I’ve reached new levels of suckage, this I know. The elastic gave out in my blogging undies and they’ve been languishing around my ankles for some time now.

There’s a toasty visual for you.

In my defence: work sucks dog’s balls.

Big. Hairy. Dead dog’s balls. And has sucked so since Fey Prince did his magic act, disappearing with my watch and notional next life.

Strictly from a binary point of view, I miss the flirting. That furling, fleeting, flirting … where a laugh, look or lark could last me the long day through (like an everlasting Gobstopper).

He was but a mutable mirage sent to tweak my thirst and leave sand in my proverbial; yet in (not so) kindsight, when separating the many colours he weaved, I’ve discovered I don’t miss him so much as the shield he once did wield. Against boredom. My inner cynic. And the prolific politics which stick in my craw daily.

But when one bitch-slap closes, somewhere a wedgie opens a window.
(All the better to drop you from, my dear.)

Yep. There’s a new villain in town. The mongrel offspring of Nurse Diesel and John Wayne (ergo Jugs Wayne), this fucker surpasses the gunslingers in one coup de swoop. With many a moniker made for such a mongrel, it’s difficult to aptly describe her brand of evil.

At best, she’s the sincerest of butt-holes. At worst, she’s a screamer.

And by screamer, I mean an automated set of rotating blades which lock onto your heat signature and attack from beneath (as depicted in the ’95 film starring Peter Weller) (to be sci-fi specific). The first model (the gunslinger) were rudimentary tools of torture. Detectable and easy to evade. But deep underground Sirius 6B, the screamer evolved and learned to look human. Indiscernible from a benevolent, bleeding biped – the Sidewinder was born.

We bonded my first week in the new gig. She was canny, captivating and outwardly human. Of course, it wasn’t long before flags of red spoke of dread. Brunch with the gunslingers. Golf with the miscreants of marketing (the likes of which even Gal Gun fears).

Oh yeah, and she’s one angry motherfucker (to be said Chris Rock).

Michael Richards, angry.
Angry Birds, angry.
Falling Down, angry.

Turns out, bonding at a conference is like forming friends in a hostage situation. Mostly you have desperation and proximity in common.

Published by 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.

59 thoughts on “My teen-angst bullshit has a body count.

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