robert smith is my homeboy
I had a crappy morning. My subway ride was completely jacked making me late for a meeting, which is never a good thing but it's particularly horrifying when you're the new girl. Aaaawkward.
In my frenzy to get into the office, I had to blow off my usual coffee pitstop. So not only was I tardy and stressed, I was not sufficiently caffeinated.
Curly - caffeine = Major cranky pants3.
After I returned from the meeting, the loud chick with the upspeak problem who sits next to me announced that she was tuning her radio station from Top 40 to an "oldies" channel. Because she's the self-appointed office DJ, apparently.
When I heard her announce the switch, I was a bit relieved because I thought those of us in earshot were going to be treated to The Beatles and that ilk.
Silly me.
Apparently her idea of oldies is music from the 90s. Bitch subjected me to Hootie and the Blowfish and that song that keeps repeating the line "Please Don't Go" and, ew, Mariah Carey.
You know, that's enough to send me into a rage on a good day but when my baseline is already bitchy, I'm ready to go all Dr. David Banner on people's asses. I'd tell her that but she'd probably go, "Wait, who?"
You know, because she's 12.
So, since I can't afford to bust through any more of my clothing and it's impolite to run around the office destroying things, I opted instead to insert my headphones and soothe my sullen, scowling self with selections from The Cure's discography. Ah, much better.
Speaking of the macabre, The Lovely Jess has once again cracked open her notebook of angsty adolescent poems. You do NOT want to miss this one. I had to cup my hand over my mouth to conceal both gasps and giggles. Check it out.
In my frenzy to get into the office, I had to blow off my usual coffee pitstop. So not only was I tardy and stressed, I was not sufficiently caffeinated.
Curly - caffeine = Major cranky pants3.
After I returned from the meeting, the loud chick with the upspeak problem who sits next to me announced that she was tuning her radio station from Top 40 to an "oldies" channel. Because she's the self-appointed office DJ, apparently.
When I heard her announce the switch, I was a bit relieved because I thought those of us in earshot were going to be treated to The Beatles and that ilk.
Silly me.
Apparently her idea of oldies is music from the 90s. Bitch subjected me to Hootie and the Blowfish and that song that keeps repeating the line "Please Don't Go" and, ew, Mariah Carey.
You know, that's enough to send me into a rage on a good day but when my baseline is already bitchy, I'm ready to go all Dr. David Banner on people's asses. I'd tell her that but she'd probably go, "Wait, who?"
You know, because she's 12.
So, since I can't afford to bust through any more of my clothing and it's impolite to run around the office destroying things, I opted instead to insert my headphones and soothe my sullen, scowling self with selections from The Cure's discography. Ah, much better.
Speaking of the macabre, The Lovely Jess has once again cracked open her notebook of angsty adolescent poems. You do NOT want to miss this one. I had to cup my hand over my mouth to conceal both gasps and giggles. Check it out.
Labels: personal affronts, work
posted by curly mcdimple @ 1:06 PM :: permalink :: ::
