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.