why do i spend valuable time?

Oh man, life as a motherfucking bureaucrat can really shove a nice girl over the edge. Most of the time, I am like the world's most malleable employee. I just walk around being all nicey nicey zoo zoo and pretending that this horrendous system of sign-offs and linguistic shit sculptures and civil motherfucking service is not a complete whore's breakfast; most of the time I simply close my eyes to the smudged moral certainties, the loveless cocksucking, the flaccid
weet-a-bix that lately make up the majority of my waking life. And most of the time, I get by ok - I mean, sure, I have hives, nightmares, and male-pattern-baldness, but like a lonesome Gloria Gaynor in the washed up wreck of a once thrilling relationship: I will survive.

But there are some days when the daily slime of self-disgust associated with this post-industrial waste of time called EMPLOYMENT really soups itself up into a fucking feast of clay-flavoured self-loathing. Last Friday was one of those days.

Last Friday, I had to go to TRAINING DAY. For those who have never been TRAINED in the public service, TRAINING DAY basically means OVERPAID CONSULTANTS in URINE-HUED TIES trap you in WINDOWLESS ROOMS and teach you HOW TO WASTE A DAY OF YOUR PRECIOUS DWINDLING UNRECOVERABLE YOUTH. If they had been training themselves in HOW TO
INDUCE EXPLOSIVE HOMICIDAL RAGE IN MISTER NORA I would have given them full points, but sadly, it was ME who was supposed to be learning, and LEARNING I WAS MOTHERFUCKING NOT.

Thing is, even though I've been to a billion of these horrific exercises in futility, for some reason last week my filter was completely busted. Instead of wearily resigning myself to the usual performance of docile mooing, glassy-eyed grass munching, and general obsequious participation in bullshit hypothetical group activity role plays, I spent approx. 96% of the day with my head on the desk, mixing up long periods of wrathful silence with the occasional noisy declaration that I couldn't be fucked with this motherfucking bullshit. This went down real well with my piss-tie facilitators, let me tell you.

I also found that I could not stop myself from riling up the other participants in my group. There was one girl in particular who really gnawing away at my psychological equilibrium by wearing HIGH-WAISTED BROWN CORDS with a MINT GREEN TURTLENECK and having the GALL to try to tell me what to do. Girl just could not understand that I DO NOT TAKE INSTRUCTIONS FROM STYLE-RAPISTS IN TURTLENECKS. Anyway, result of this was that every time she said anything at all, I would sigh heavily and say "oh, honey, I don't think so," and then fail to budge in the face of her many sensible arguments. It was like face-to-face trolling, and it drove her fucking mental. There's some lingering guilt associated, but overall I would HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT.

Anyway. Have since recovered from this miserable day, but even after my unprecedented display of rampant unprofessionalism, this week I find myself STILL TRAGICALLY EMPLOYED. So, motherfuckers, answer me this: WHO AND/OR WHAT DOES A GIRL HAVE TO FUCK TO GET THE SACK AROUND HERE?

xoxonora