I Like My "Fuck You" Neat

So, until today, I'd felt we'd turned a real corner at Corporate Happy Fun Job. I had come to accept that I was, and was likely to remain, a corporate whore. I had made an uneasy peace with doing shit work for shit money, while using my considerable talents to try to provide camouflage for the uncovered asses all around me.

Like any golden age, it had to end. While knowing more than my boss has proven rewarding in its own way, it's not really my goal. Speaking slowly and using small words has its own charm, but really, it gets old. Except for the necessity of a constant exercise of self-control not to throttle the dimmest of my co-workers, my job had lost its zest.

And yeah. I am seriously under-fucking-paid. File monkeys who can barely alphabetize make as much as I do, and they let me make decisions regarding hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yeah. The thought kind makes me tinkle my panties a little, too.

So, as part of my ongoing plan to better position myself on the fluffy corporate tuffet, I applied for a promotion. Since I'm bottle a bottle of wine into an evening spent at home in my underwear with a fiance who is petrified of my ever-accelerating mood swings, I think you by now have safely guessed that I did not get the job.

Considering who actually got the position, I can now see that my mistake has been my failure to veil my contempt behind a thick haze of pot smoke. Apparently, corporate enthusiasm is aided by weed. Who knew?

So, tonight? Drinking of wine and sour grapes. After I work through my considerable snit, I will decide if this is the path for me. I would have, and could have ROCKED this job. However, it might have required slightly more of a personality lobotomy than I am willing to obtain. So, really? Fuck it. Drink up, buttercup.

And, as a note, to my dumb CHFJ boss. Lady? We need to clear up some shit. One, I don't know what I did to give you the impression that I'm the least bit stupid, but that half eyelid look I give you is the result of indifference and a hangover, not low IQ. Two, although I am sick of being smarter than you are, I'm kind of used to it by now and it doesn't bother me. I'm pissed about the money. I don't work because I can't find better shit to do with my days, you dig? So don't expect me to thank you for the chance to continue underpaid. Three, don't blow sunshine up my ass. I'm pretty much a Kinsey 1 and I don't let The Boy blow sparklies up my ass; you sure as shit are not going to get an invite. Don't try to make me feel better about this shit--I know the score and I'm not buying it.