I ran out of surplus fucks Monday morning. Typically I like to keep one or two for personal use, but after I got the letter they went all out the window. Today is my last day and all I need to do is hang on for another 8 hours.
But The D*ck makes it hard.
Per the usual, he strolls in, -late-, with a smug look on his face and his briefcase in hand. Also per the usual, he is wearing an ill-fitting suit with too many buttons, and the square toed Stacey Adams shoes he thinks make him look professional. I type an imaginary email and try to look busy when he walks by.
“Where is my coffee?” he asks
Usually I serenade him with Cee-Lo’s “Fuck You” in my mind, but a sense of calm has overtaken me in the last week. Like I said, I ran out. Anyway, he takes out his big set of jangling keys, as if to remind everyone else on the cube plantation that his office is the big house, while the rest of us slave nakedly in the open air. He makes himself comfortable by putting his feet up on the oak desk and reads his paper, and the staff member he’s screwing walks in with his coffee. I hope she did something wrong to it, perhaps a little extra seasoning, but I know the she thinks he’s going to give her a promotion. Smh. Continue reading






