I hate Dolly. I think she's out to destroy me. I know I'm an Evil Genius and whatever (after all, it says so right up there on the header bar), but this chick blows me right out of the water. She's so sinister and underhanded she makes Lex Luthor look like Saint Anthony.
Case in point: She's crazy. At this juncture, I'm not even going to bother linking to all the numerous entries I've posted about how her myriad overweening neurosies have manifested themselves to my ultimate annoyance and detriment. If you really need examples, just browse through a few of my 52 journal entries; I guarantee you that I mention her freaktastic ways in at least one out of every three on the books. The saddest thing of all is how I could probably maintain an entire weblog just about how irritating she is on a daily basis. Hell, I kind of do that now, anyway.
I mean, you've heard of Drama Queens, right? Dolly is their leader. She's, like, the Grand Supreme Drama Empress, or something. I swear, she puts every Drama Queen I've ever met to serious shame, and I've known quite a few. I've been known to be a bit dramatic myself from time to time (or hadn't you noticed?), but this chick makes me look like a fucking amateur. Hell, she makes Madame Bovary look like a fucking amateur.
Everything with this woman is at the top of the scale. She's constantly operating at full throttle -- and speaking of full throttle, how much would I love to choke the living daylights out of her? But I digress -- and damn, does it get completely out of hand.
Remember the time she gave me that completely preposterous assignment? It's still ruining my life! After she realized that it was simply out of the realm of possibility for one man to accomplish all of this (particularly a man of my dubious position and abilities in this matter), she decided that we (read: I) should "just use what we've got" and "put together a mass mailing!"
So now I'm sitting here, buried by leaflets and fliers and envelopes and stationery and business cards and paper clips, staring at the computer screen because the cover letter she wrote won't open, as there is something gravely wrong with the file, and not sure quite how to break it to her. She's going to go completely batshit when I tell her that the cover letter she foisted off onto me won't print.
Not that I give two shits in a cabbage patch about that. Frankly, I'd just as soon this whole office was swallowed by a lake of fire at the moment. The only reason I'm dealing with this cover letter at all is because Dolly decided that it was beneath her. Like I don't have enough to contend with up here with the phone ringing every two and a half seconds that I need to print out 60 cover letters -- individually, of course, because I have to alter the heading for each and every one before sending it to this piece of shit, low-rent, budget-ass printer -- and then clip the flier and the mailer and the business card to the cover letter, and then slip them in an envelope and slap on the label that I spent all morning putting together, so I can go in the back and get them stamped so I can take them to the mailbox all by my damn self.
And I'm a little dizzy right now. I'm not sure what that's about, but it's not doing me any favors.
Also, I had to turn down an immediate job offer this morning to do something I really, desperately wanted to do, because...well, as I said, the offer was immediate (as in, "Okay, it starts in an hour,") and I just didn't see any way I could just waltz out of the office without so much as a by your leave and take this chance. Since then, however, every single person I've talked to has told me I made the wrong decision, and now I'm really beginning to agree. It's not like the job was a particularly fascinating one, but I could be there now, and not here. Sitting. Seething. Hating Dolly's guts.
Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration. I'd be hating Dolly's guts anyway.
Oh, wait -- two more things:
Our accountant, Zelda, is a lovely girl, but her family needs to learn that if I put them through to her extension and they get her voice mail, it means she's not in the office. It does not mean that they should hang up, call back, and ask for her extension FIVE MORE TIMES. She's not in the office!
Also? An old lady just walked in on me in the john because she evidently couldn't see the fucking gigantic sign out front that said "GENTLEMEN".
Fuck, I hate this place.