This office is a fucking joke. Nothing here works right, including the employees. I just spent the last half-hour in the back because Miranda ousted me from my desk so she could do her business. Why would she do that when she has her own damn desk? I'm glad you asked.
See, Miranda dropped her fucking phone, and now it's all broken. That means that no one can hear her voice when they call. I don't know the machinations of telephonery, but she really did a number on that thing. Like, when you call her extension, you can hear all the Phone Movement Noises, but not her voice. At all. So when her client called up, she booted me out so she could usurp my rolly chair for thirty minutes, which was earth-shakingly inconvenient for me, because I had just started a journal entry, and because every time the switchboard rang, I had to answer it in the back where I had no writing utensils, message pads, inquiry forms, brochures, fact sheets, or access to any of the above. This was less than fun.
And maybe I wouldn't be so pissed off about it if this was the first phone incident, but IT'S TOTALLY NOT! Kent, The Director of Sales, hasn't had a working extension in two months, and I'm repeatedly getting called back by cranky clients who got deflected to the general info line every time I try to send them through to anyone's voice mail!
On top of that, the fucking copier breaks every two days, the fax machine breaks every three days, the printer is always low on toner, and the office is prone to power-outs. Oh yeah, and Dolly still doesn't know how to work any of the equipment. I swear the woman asks me to staple shit for her! And granted I am an expert stapler, but how fucking dependent can a person possibly get? Seriously! Pretty soon I'm going to give her chest compressions or she won't be able to make her damn heart beat on her own!
And this public bathroom shit is really starting to get to me. I mean, c'mon! Public bathrooms are so unsanitary! I'm not some Howard Hughes-ian germophobe (a la Crazy Michael Jackson), but I also don't like marinating in someone else's filth unless I absolutely have to. I mean, what the FUCK is with wet toilet seats?!?!?! When I'm in power, that will be a hanging offense. There is just no excuse for that shit! Well, I mean, unless you have no arms and legs and you have to pee from a forklift, but that scenario seems a lot less common than the ubiquitous occurence of the wet toilet seat. I mean, seriously. If you guys are out there doing this, don't even tell me about it, because I'll have you burned at the stake. Lift that lid up with your foot or a wad of TP if you don't want to touch it (and heaven knows I don't), but for the love of Claude, don't just piss all over it!
Oh, and by the way? Date #2 is tonight! Eeeee! I'm going to need it after this shit day, too. We're going out to dinner, and I'm all freaked out about it, of course. I mean, it's the second date...so what does that mean? Is it too early to kiss? I mean, I know Good Boys don't kiss on the first date, but do they kiss on the second?
And what if the moment comes up, but I back off because I'm scared and I blow it forever? What if I misread the signs and go for the kiss only to make everything all awkward forever? And what if he kisses weird? What if I kiss weird? Oh gosh, what if I kiss weird!!! I don't how I kiss! I've never had to kiss me! I think I kiss okay, but what if I don't? What if I'm laboring under a serious delusion about my osculating capabilities? And what if he doesn't even want to kiss me?
And, heaven forbid, but what if my brain finally does go on furlough in the middle of our dinner and I can't come up with anything to say? Except, of course, to start blabbing about me me me! And then he's like, "Well, thanks for playing. G'night." And of course I'm breaking out today, you know? Fucking Mt. Kilimanjaro erupted on my chin this morning. So now I've got this great big zit hovering just outside of the Kiss Field, which may render all my earlier arguments completely moot when he takes one look at it and gets grossed out.
Dude, I am so stressed out right now. I wonder if my doctor would consider 'Dating' a condition serious enough to warrant sedatives?