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.

  1. ….and YOU did not tell US the whole story, your cryptic superiority with words drew a large curtain over the encounter, or should that be a dustsheet while the others painted conference ipads or pads. I think you are the funniest on ‘ere, but look at all these disciples now my de-elasticated blogretta! Is there room for lurkers with carpet fetishes? Fame is racing toward thee, and if the unbelievably soppy poetesses on here can get a book published? Action plan 1. Write the book ! 2. Use the crossword clue language of abstraction and metaphor and this environment to serve you. 3. Don’t catch cold from the surge sea of complimentary surf, ebbing at this seawall of sanity. (I can tell you are more sane than most on here, you keep giving it away) 4. Spend a Christmas with me…… but that’s about my desperation………..
    make a good year – x

    1. Aah, lurker of carpets. You whittle wood with yo’words. What a way to woe … catching cold from a cacophony of complimentary combers, with a chaser of crossword clues and Christmas!

  2. Hi,

    Office work as you mentioned sucks balls. I had to leave, only I left in a recession and now am busting my ass to get back in because I’m fucked; double fucked I believe.

  3. You’re very right about bonding at a conference – it’s a survival tool. From extremely similar personal experience, however, keep that original bonding experience with the Screamer in mind. One day she’ll fuck up and need someone’s help, and primal instincts will lead her back to her first work acquaintance, since she probably sees you as non-threatening and perhaps even a push-over. Holding on to that one moment of pleasantness you shared will help you seem sincere enough to provide some assistance, and then you’ll have dirt on her FOREVER. It’s a nice place to be (insert evil laughter here).

wot say you?

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