They won't leave me alone. They can't let bygones be bygones. They must torment me. Xanax. I need Xanax. Where's my bottle? Oh, there it is. Can I have a Stoli's on the rocks with that, please?
After the Snitty Slacker hung up on me as I was demanding respect, he actually did the work I had wanted him to do, then proceeded to email telling me that I was a client he was happy to let go as I was disrespectful to his admin and to him. Of course I was, they are twenty-something arrogant, terse twits who need a spanking. Mama never whipped them. Mamma didn't give them enough time-outs. Mama is a bad Mama and should have never been allowed to breed.
Then, I realized I had a deadline due with Big Bones Bore so I emailed her and asked her when it is due. She wrote back, "Today."
What? Today? I never got any notice that the deadline was even approaching. I emailed her and told her this. I then called her to see if we could work it out. I pitched an idea to her, but tell her I need more time.
"Not gonna happen," she said. She really isn't attractive enough to say "Not gonna happen." I've given it some thought. Super skinny tall models with tiny noses and Liv Tyler lips can pull off "Not gonna happen." Fat, ancient hags with haircuts they gave themselves by putting a bowl over their heads cannot. I am proud to say that I am not a fat, ancient hag and I have a darn good haircut, just ask my stylist, but I cannot pull off "Not gonna happen." You have to be screeching beautiful, okay?
I asked for an editorial schedule. She acted like I was a moron, and should know that there wasn't one -- after all, what decent magazine would have one of those pesky things? I tried to explain that her deadlines always caught me off guard and I was then forced to turn in dull, uninteresting articles.
She then lectured me on plagiarism. Long story on how we got there, but it involved some in-house copy that was given to another magazine for an article. She is an expert on plagiarism laws. I know, she told me in detail. I filed my nails while she droned on and on. I tried to picture her eyes, which are too close together, and how they would look if she would only get a new haircut. Maybe she could wear a head band and push those bangs back. Maybe my gay stylist could layer her head so the ends weren't as blunt as her demeanor.
She finally paused and I jumped in, saying, "look, all I'm saying is that I don't want to dial in the stories. It's like I'm just lying there in the mission position." I laughed. I got nothing from her. "That's a joke," I said. She doesn't speak. I don't speak. I'm offended yet at the same time curious. How long before one of us would speak? I couldn't stand the silence so I continued on, pleading that I was just concerned about the quality of the content I submit and needed more time.
"I sent you and email two weeks ago reminding you," she said.
"I didn't get it. Or maybe I did. I'll confess to senility."
"I would agree with that," she said.
Oh Big Bones. You are an awful person. You've made me believe in Heaven and Hell, just because I want you, after you die, to wake up in the middle of a bunch of terrorists and toxic bosses, all of you roasting in a large fiery pit. I hope the first thing you think about it is all the co-workers you offended, Big Bones, all the friends you could have made. The people who could have loved you if only you were a person worthy of love. But you weren't and you aren't. And at your age, you never will be.
