Insomnia. What a golden gift of goob. Like a world without Stellan Skarsgård, it may seem a candy concept of poetic pathos and manumit minutes. In truth, it’s a little more like this.
With only two hours sleep, I now resemble the Swedish Chef (replete with muppet mullet).
Hurdy gurdy, flip the birdy.
In other news, I think I just crapped my career shorts (and not in a good way, people). My boss just dropped the bomb: in addition to working for him, I must now report to THE BEAST. This devil of diarrhea is news to you because, my work being a veritable vineyard of villains stretching beyond the pen’s decree, I distilled my disillusionment for thee. In chivalry.
But this crop o’crap just grew ripe enough to harvest.
Word on the street: Le Bête has slept with many a management man, the last of which befell blackmail by booby trap. (Ipso presto. Promotion!) What I know for sure: lying in her wake are my corporate counterparts who resigned rather than remain in her employ. That, and whenever we’ve crossed path or proverbial, she’s left me with wind-tunnel whiplash.
Yah! She could use a little passive in her aggressive (to be said like Miss Piggy).
On the manic-depressive upside, my boss is a pretty nice guy! I’ve grown relatively fond of the fucker. Even though, like a pound puppy grown wary of new owners, he makes me nervous. And whenever I speak, he eyes me like I’m Baxter about to poop in the refrigerator.
“Heck, I’m not even mad. That’s amazing!”
The rest of the time he’s Reese to my Ricky Bobby: an absentee father who only shows up for birthdays (performance reviews), bat mitzvahs (Beast behest) or Christmas (Christmas).
So there’s that.