You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better. ~ Anne Lamott
Am back. On Facebook. Ugh. I feel like I just handed over every shred of decency I have to Mark Zuckerberg and he is doing unspeakable things to it. This better work better than it did last time girls!
Yes, I remember what I said about Facebook and all its co-conspirators last year. I still stand by that. I have even more arguments against it (planking, homicide due to wall posts and Farmville) now and, quite frankly speaking, cannot wait until the next thing comes along. Oh sit down Justin "I just bought MySpace" Timberlake. Best you will do is piss YouTube off. This business of you trying to be an actor and trying to relive your Social Network days makes you look silly, cheesy, and deficient. I digress...
Are we fighting yet, Amy?
As a precaution, I have created an account that is part my name, part not. So if you want to add me as a friend, and if I think you will not stalk my life and irritate the fuck out of me with your narcissistic wannabe bullshit are worthy, I will add you. You can email me privately for further information.
If I do not respond to your email or add request, I want you to give some really deep thought as to why I have not before you blast me about it and start calling me all the bitches under the sun in your news feed, status box, etc. I mean really really deep thought. And then choose my answer(s) from the following list that best apply to you (and they do):
a] I am not interested in your drama.
b] I am not interested in you stalking my life.
c] I really just tolerate you because I find myself in socialized situations where I am required to or I may loose my job.
d] You are a friendwhore, we are not now nor will we ever be friends, and I would not be caught dead on your friends list.
e] Your "join this club" invitations and all the other spam you posted on my wall last time I was on Facebook created so much spam I had to abandon a much loved email address. Fuck off with the invites, I can join myself.
f] We may be related but that does not mean I like you or would consider you a "friend".
g] You bore me with your feeble and pathetic attempts to look cool. If you really were as cool as you want me to think you are, if your life was as cool as you attempt to project onto me, you would understand that cool never ever tries. Cool just is.
Dear Partylite:
We are over. It is official. I am ending this relationship today. This is where we get divorced.
For twenty years I have loved you, I have defended you, I have stated that while your prices were high, your quality was beyond reproach. I proclaimed from mountain tops that your scented wax and candle holders were the best there is. And that you smelled like yummy goodness. And I do not just go around calling things yummy or good.
For the last 18 months I have pondered my affinity for you. It has not been easy. You have become even more expensive and increasingly styleless...
There was a time when your scents were amazing and a small votive could fill a room with the smell of yummy goodness. Now you smell like wax. Wax flavoured wax. Which is neither yummy or good.
Your wicks are off centred and you burn badly because of it. There is sooting on my roof because of it. Who are you to make me get on a ladder to wash my roof?
And this consultant that sells you to me, even though I have always known she is a crazy bitch, she has crossed the line. She demands that I start to sell you. I do not want to sell you, I want to own you. I do not want to hear about her super crazy dramatic divorce or have her taking even crazier and more dramatic calls from her kids at my house when she is supposed to be there selling you to me. That is supposed to be our time. Not her time for divorce drama and pyramid schemes.
Partylite, I cannot make excuses for you any more.
We are done.
Over.
Through.
It happened innocently enough. I was going to the showroom with some paper work for the order desk. El Presidente held the door open for me. Then summoned me to have a private word.
In my head, I was jumping off the building thinking, "Fuck my life this better not be about the office romance rumors because I do not want to know who is fucking who and where in the building they are doing it and I do not want to know because he is disgusting and she is the type who gives men a reason to call women bitches and ho's. I just do not want to be a part of drama. And I do not want to have to lick a dog's ass to get the image of them humping out of my head."
I started praying to baby Jesus. Who I do not believe in. Well maybe the part about the hippie running around the countryside rapping about cool ways to get along in the world but not the virgin birth messiah guy. It is too far for even my imagination to stretch.
*Inhaling my last breath, bracing myself*
You know, I'm upset with you. You better come to the Christmas party.
I'm not.
Come and get drunk with me.
I don't drink. (For really.)
Then come and smile.
Fuck my life.
No I did not say that. And I am not going dress shopping to go to some melodrama at a country club in another town. Yes, another town.
Here's why I really do not want to go to this annual gong show.
On a daily basis, there is too much drama in where I work. Add alcohol, alleged ingestion of any number of contrabands, and we leave the realm of soap opera and head straight for shitty late night drama. Think Jersey Shore but with mostly over thirty and snow banks instead of beaches.
Where I work is full of cliques. And they get tighter when spouses and glitter are involved. It is not fun for me to go sit in a room full that and be given the cold shoulder for most of the night. Last year, my table was great and the random crazy punk rock girl in the bathroom that helped me pour myself back into my sausage casing with my Spanx was awesome, but most of them were, for the most part, indifferent and uncouth lushes on a binge paid for by The Company. I did not exist on their planet. Until I was leaving. Then the drunken, "Haaaayyyy wur you going huh? Ya can't leave yet." crap started.
Can somebody tell me what happened to the two drink maximum at the office party rule?
It is like having four hours of your life stolen from you.
Having said that, this year would be the year to go to the office Christmas party. There is a secret office romance that is about to become very public. Same guy as before, different idiot girl. She was warned and he is just a drunk prick with a hard on for anything with long legs. I do not feel sorry for either of them. The shit is totally going to hit the fan when upstairs finds out. And I would not be surprised if it happened over dinner.
Maybe I need to rethink this dress thing.
