Hardcore Mick

I knew I was Irish but today I confirmed just how Irish I am.

You guys know how much I hate my office, yes? You know how much anger, frustration, depression and outright poopiness they have caused me, right? Today (after hand-addressing each envelope...by hand. With my hands. BY. HAND.) I sent out the holiday party invites. As one of the nicer people in the office came to compliment me on my penmanship (and crippled little limbs) she asked if I was going to the party. I laughed involuntarily right in her face. It was like a sneeze. The thought of me attending a party with a bunch of people I hate for a company I could care less about really just got my goat!

And then she said three little words that could possibly change my life forever.

MASHED POTATO BAR

Um...

Maybe you didn't hear me. I SAID MASHED POTATO BAR. MOTHER. FUCKERS. CAN YA DIG!?

That coupled with Free Booze are the only two things that will get me to that party. Bona Fide Irish.

I mean... I know. It's a terrible idea. I will get drunk and I will be friendly with people. And they will talk to me... and look me in the eyes. And I will get my hopes up that these are decent, kind people and it's not just the alcohol talking, and then I will go to work the next day and it will all be the same. Condescending little cunts.

So in summation I'd like to say: Remember when the company didn't have enough money to give me more than a 3% raise? Remember when that happened the last oh.. what was it... 5 years? Well, consider my raise mashed, y'all.

Oh man I love stupid companies with lots of money.

Bling bling!

I need to stop typing. I have made my point.

Have a good night.

Love,

Glennis