This is my second New Year's Eve without you in my life you fucking cunt.

And for the second year in a row I don't have to worry about you cussing at the wrong time in front of the wrong people or laughing the loudest or using was instead of were or telling your embarrassing ghetto stories to anyone who will listen while I stand next to you. You make me cringe. Did I ever tell you that? I mean, did you ever stop to think that the holidays are NOT the time to tell everyone about your health problems and how rough you had it growing up?

Lots of good things going on over here in Benedictland. For example, this year I don't have to worry about getting totally obliterated at the New Year's Eve party just so I can fuck you later. And I don't have to worry about running around to find enough drugs to get me high enough to put aside the revulsion I feel every time I look at you. Every time I smell your breath that you won't go to a dentist and get taken care of.

My family told me not to get with you when we first met. My friend Jason made a face I will never forget when I first told him about you and me. I should've known. Your stupid trade school degree and sleeping in your car. What the fuck was I thinking?

You're going nowhere. The thing is you're too Jerry Springer to even know it. I thought, I don't know what I thought. Now we have all this debt together. I'll never be rid of you and it sucks. I never have to fuck you again, though. Or act like you're cool around way cooler girls.

I guess that makes me feel somewhat better.

So, my dear. Keep smoking your cigarettes in your redneck rental house. Wreck your shitty car over and over like you always do. Cry. Get people to feel sorry for you. And stick your twat around your sycophant, unemployed (like you), boyfriend's cock. I hope it's big and meaty and smells like lack of showers.

I hope you choke on it and die at midnight with a bunch of people watching.

I hope I hope I hope.

2.0

Want to talk Office Space?

My cunt of a manager, Mandy, just faxed me back a form I had to sign and fax to her before it could be forwarded along the line. Mandy could have just as easily faxed it to her boss, which is where it's going, after she saw I'd signed the thing. Think she did that? Fuck no. This is Corporate America. Now I get to fax the same document for the second time.

Mandy's office is maybe twenty feet from where I'm sitting right now. On my last day here I am going to show her my cock.

1.3

Me interviewing man for the position of Sector Coordinator.

Me: So what can you tell me about yourself?
Man: I'm a dirty scumbag. I'm on my third marriage. I have a coke problem about twice a decade. My credit is hit but you probably already know that from my background check. I barely made it through college. I fucked my brother's gf when we were in high school. I'm a sycophant. I kick dogs when no one is looking. Sometimes I think about maiming strangers when I masturbate.

Me: Ah. Wonderful. That must be interesting. Let me ask you. Do you think you can mesh with our corporate culture based on what I've told you already?
Man: If you're looking for a privileged, bougie, spoiled little baby who doesn't know how to do shit in the workplace beside point fingers and get admin assistants to jack his pud once every five years, look no farther. I am your man.

Me: Excellent. Excellent. The conversation feels right. You know what I mean? Tell you what. I'm gonna put you through to the next stage. I'm going to forward the (I make quotation marks with my fingers) results of this interview to Elaine Roberts and Tanisha Hightower and you'll be hearing from one or both of them.

That, in a nutshell, is my day.

1.2

I want you to know that you can get as mad as you like but I'm going to say whatever I feel like saying on this blog. I have to be fake nice every minute of my life and it is killing me. Actually, I am not saying that I'm unhappy all the time and I have to pretend otherwise, please don't think it. Sometimes I am happy. But never at work. I can force myself into a good mood, or perhaps I'm even in a good mood sometimes when I get there, but by the end of the day I hate my life and everyone around me.

Rubber bands only stretch so far. One can only endure so many toneless, "Hi, how are you's?" per day.

"I'm fine. You?"

"Great. Greg and I took the kids to the (wherever the fuck) this weekend." Usually followed by something about, "Our church."

Oh, that's nice. How about this, Sharon. How about you're a fucking low down dirty lying cunt who would throw her own grandmother under the bus on the daily if she worked here. Your church. Fuck you. Hypocrite. You're the reason our minority and woman numbers are so low. You're the only one who never gets anyone but white men through. My bonus is based on that shit you whore of a cunt.

I can never say that, though. I have to sit there and go, "Great," and smell your Avon perfume and wait for you to leave. I have three interviews today. I'm busy. Go away. You should see these people's resumes. Fag Organization this, Black something or other that, Buttfuckers Award from the Excluded Person's Rights Brigade. I have to dodge some serious shit and raise the percentage of freaks and oddballs we have working here.

1.1

This blog focuses on my unhappiness with my job and my ex-gf, who now fucks a guy in my dept. and calls me when she's drunk on the weekends. My ex has a really stinky pussy. And horrible breath. Fucking her was never any fun and I could only do it when I was loaded on Macallan.

Several things about her bother the fuck out of me. First, she says, "Was," when the sentence clearly calls for, "Were." Second, gross toes. Third, she always has to be the loudest laugher in the room. Fourth, she's a broke bitch. Fifth, she lies about everything. For example, she claims to have been born and raised in a major city but is actually from a little redneck welfare town out in the middle of nowhere. She is their queen. The queen of the white trash.

I guess I should've broken-up with her sooner. Life with that ignorant bitch was miserable. I fucked every friend she brought around in the three years we were together. I also had numerous affairs at work and with students in the business class I sometimes teach at a local community college. Old friends. New friends. Drunk bitches. I was never picky.

1.0

"Just between us, what do you think about my chances of getting hired?"

I think: Oh, I don't know. Somewhat good. I mean, you're not black or a woman, but you got that cripple thing working for you quite nicely. It's gonna be tricky to sell some of your background, though. One, nobody wants a white man any more. Two, you didn't start college until you were 31. I've also never heard of your school. Or the place you got your MBA. But, all in all, that little baby arm of yours is most likely going to work wonders for you here. Our cripple employment rate is below 1% and that's a big no-no. They might even fire a non-gimp in HR for running those kind of numbers. Specially with the constant audits going on around this place.

I say: I think you're doing all right thus far.

I think: Just be sure to flop that little teeny arm around as much as possible when the manager for your dept. does your final interview. You'll be gimping around the floors and elevators of this firm in no time.