all I've got is brass knuckles and a bolo knife

There is some dopey girl in this office who needs to learn to not throw fucking attitude at me like she's some goddess who's shit don't stink.

Everytime I come into contact with her, she absolutely exudes an air of dislike. And I've never said two words to her. She's not in my department, so I've barely even made any kind of contact with her. But, yet...every single time I have to walk past her desk, she stares. And if we pass each other in the hall and I smile, she does nothing and gives no acknowledgement.

Just now, I went to get something that I was printing up. The printer was out of paper, so I walked ten steps away to get a package of letter size. Came back, filled the printer. During my filling of the printer, she walked up with another package of paper in her hands. Apparently, she'd walked all the way across the office to get it. Not realising that there was a box of the damn stuff not ten feet from her desk. She didn't say anything to me whatsoever, not even an indication that she was standing behind me with a package of paper. Nothing. Zip. Nada.

She just waited until I was finished and got what I needed from the printer, then huffily put her package under the printer where the extra stuff goes.

Then, as I went back to my desk, I get hard looks from her.

Bitch doesn't know who she's messing with.

If someone has a legitimate problem with me, that's fine. If you've got a REASON to throw attitude in my direction, have a ball. But, if you just have a problem because you don't like how I look (which is a HELL OF A LOT better than your lame shit), or think I'm "weird"...well. You can pack that straight up your fucking ass with a ten pound bag of sand.

Fucking retards.
She wears one of those Gap scarves around her neck all the fucking time, too.

:/

Today is just not a very good day. I've been sitting here, on needles and pins, knowing that my mother is in great deal of pain at home. Sunday all day and then today, she has been feeling more poorly then she has in a long, long time. Vast amounts of pain in her back and her belly, as well as uncontrolled nausea.

I don't know what to do. And I feel completely helpless stuck here, in my office. What can I do? A whole bunch of fucking nothing.

But when she calls me up, in tears because she's hurting so bad, I want to start punching things. Because of all this fucking helplessness.

...HAR HAR HAR...I am so bored....

"Cackle, caw, and flap", a study in fronting-like-you-got-a-soul.
By Miss Emmabeth Idelweiss, age 48.

Stupid simpering whores, with your big, limpid eyes and pallid false faces.
You're just the same as the rest of the world.

Mundanes swathed in black velvet, annointed in kohl.
You have no heart.
The only wishes borne on your lips are a big traditional wedding,
the ceremonial pumping out of numerous mewling sproggen,
and the hope that your new husband doesn't cheat on you
with the D cup blonde in his office.

An ersatz front, nothing lies behind your eyes.
Oh, you swoon to Peter Murphy just like the best of them.
You drift through the endless night, intoxicated on weak
girly drinks and over priced amphetamines.
But in the end, you'll drive a SUV with a soccer
ball sticker plastered to the back.

Diamond digging slut, your back's grown flat and smooth
from all the time you've spent prone. And your knees
have developed such callouses!

Don't worry. They're warrior scars, a tribal coming of age.
You'll get your gold silver (because you DON'T LIKE
GOLD, you repeatedly tell everyone) ring.
And your McMansion in the suburbs.
Summers spent poolside.
Winters in Bermuda.

All the while, withering away to nothing.
This pomp and pretense has been for nothing.
You have the soul of a diet Coke addled housewife,
concerned with absolutely nothing but the furthering
of your ovaries and the trophies which you can
shove in the faces of smarmy rivals.