Saturday, August 22, 2009
How I Really Feel
You know how when you write out a rant and someone comes along and says, “Hyuck! Why don’t you tell us how you really feel! chortle, chortle, chortle.”
Fine, bitches. Here’s something I wrote in my private journal that has never been seen by eyes other than mine, before today. It’s about a job I had two years ago, at a cruise line. I worked in Dispute Resolution. What that means is that people write in and piss, bitch and moan that their lives have been blessed that they can even take a cruise when there are kids in this world who don’t even have beds. See, if you dare run out of raspberries, well! You are going to hear about that! And it will be talked about non stop for the next several months because that is just uncalled for and what the hell kind of business are you running anyway? And God forbid the picture in the brochure shows different colors of the stateroom than the actual stateroom. (To which you get to enjoy explaining the fucking intricacies of photography and lightning and why certain colors look different in photographs...oh God, nevermind. It was bad enough the first time around.)
Anyhoo, as I stated, here is an entry from February 18, 2007 from my private journal, about this job and my nosy assed boss. You asked me to tell you how I really feel...be careful what you ask for.
Enjoy:
1:33 pm -
My boss is a lying sack of shit. I lost respect for her when I found out she lied to me and others when we all applied for an open position there. She had the fucking nerve to say that the reason we didn’t get the job was because in the letters we wrote, “We” as in “we” the company. So she hired from outside. She simply did not have the time to teach us how to write.
Except ALL THEIR FUCKING LETTERS include “we” as in “we” the company. Bullshit bitch! THEN, because I’m not “allowed” to write letters because I’m far, FAR too stupid to write a fucking letter, I can only do piddly ass shit. Well, some of the work I do requires some type of letter. So, I copied and pasted from the archive of letters that I was told to use, (the same fucking letters that everyone ELSE copies and pastes from so why it takes these assholes so fucking long to do anything is beyond me...except I know why...they fuck around and do not put in an honest day’s work...seriously, they chit chat all fucking day and hmmm and haww and sigh and re-write...give me a fucking break...just about every fucking topic has been covered by one bitchy, whiny guest or another...cut and fucking paste, douchebags!) and just changed a few words; description of the item...the original letter said “bottle of wine” I changed it to “assortment of flowers” as that was the gift. Now, I did NOT write these letters. I merely cut and pasted and changed the names. Again, as I was instructed to do.
And the fucking bitch boss tore it apart, correcting this and that and the other thing and said, “I know you are trying but...” blah blah blah. Problem? SHE IS THE FUCKING BITCH WHO WROTE THE ORIGINAL LETTER! She just sat there and corrected her own damn letter saying this was wrong and that was wrong and this needs to go like this and all kinds of shit and did this because she thought I had written it. SHE FUCKING WROTE IT but forgot! Stupid fucking bitch!!!!!! LIAR BITCH! But I said nothing. I love it when people think I’m stupid. The information and evidence I gather when people think I’m stupid. They are such idiots. Fucking bitch tore apart her own fucking letter.
And while I’m at it, if that fucking bitch who stole our job does not stop fucking touching my desk, my chair, ME, my food, and doesn’t stop fucking nagging me every damn time I get something to eat, I’m going to fucking lose it.
I hate this fucking place. Bunch of phony assed mother fuckers. I’m keener and smarter than that...oh, get this:
The other day bitch lying boss sat me down and wanted to ask me a “very personal” question: “Why do you dress the way you do? If you want to be successful, you have to dress the part.”
Ok, number one, I dress the way I do because I HATE the fucking attention I get from people I could not give a SHIT about telling me, “Like, Oh my GOD! You look so good!” Yes, bitch, I fucking know I look good. But that requires me to fucking have to THANK them for being shallow pieces of shit! I’m not here as your fucking eye candy and if you can’t see me for my skills, you want to JUDGE A BOOK by its cover, then you do not DESERVE to have me work for you.
Number two, lying BITCH BOSS, if you WANT me to dress up, THEN FUCKING PAY ME MORE! I’m not going out to buy fucking bullshit uncomfortable clothes so that you can all gawk and feel good about yousrelves, “Look how we’ve changed her and opened her up!!!!!!! We are such great people!!!!”, and offer me some fucking sort of advancement SIMPLY because I changed my outfit, IF YOU PAY ME THE SHIT FUCKING WAGES THAT YOU PAY ME NOW! I have BARELY any fucking money left and you want me to spend it on fucking expensive ass outfits so YOU are happy? I don’t fucking dress for you! BITCH! LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!!!!! I look perfectly fine. MAYBE if they turned the mother fucking A/C down I could take off my jacket that I “wear every day” and you could see that I wear nice shirts. And I NEVER wear jeans. I hardly EVER wear tennis shoes. I wear slacks, nice tops and black shoes. But these assholes want me to wear business suits, skirts and that kind of shit, blouses and frills...FUCK YOU. JUST FUCK YOU! You think I can afford that fucking shit off of the shit wages you pay me a fucking hour?
You start paying me three times that much a fucking hour and I will fucking dress nicer. You get what you pay for. You don’t want to pay me, I will continue to dress comfortably and you can suck a fucking rotten one you skank ass lying bitch!
I say, “I HATE the attention” and she jumps right on that, like she’s fucking Sherlock Douchebag Holmes, “A-HA!” she gloats. “I KNEW there was some deeper thing going on...”
Bitch, it ain’t “deeper” shit. It’s called I DON’T HAVE THE FUCKING MONEY AND I SURE AS HELL AM NOT GOING TO SPEND WHAT MONEY I HAVE TO PLEASE YOUR BITCH ASS EYEBALLS!
I will dress up for people I really like. I do not CARE to receive attention from a bunch of mouth breathers who work in a call center. And she is one to talk. Bitch wears jeans and turtle neck sweaters every fucking day. You want to talk about what? Right. Piss the fuck off.
“You’re such a pretty girl...”
Oh for GOD’S SAKE! You just want a doll you can dress. Go fucking buy one then. LEAVE ME ALONE! BITCH ASS LIAR!
Sigh. Why don’t people just mind their own fucking business? I do not go to work to make friends. This fucking job is NOT my career. Guess what bitch liar, when I DO land the job that IS my career, I will THEN give a flying fuck how I dress. Until then? I’m just passing time. So fuck you. SHUT. THE FUCK. UP! Mind your own!
And there you have it, kids. What you’ve been asking for...me to tell you how I really feel. Who knows, I may include some more of these in the future.
