Office Space.

I feel like a monkey trying to fuck a coconut. We have this new fucking copy machine here in the office and it makes me want to turn into the incredible hulk, pick up the machine and throw it off a 30 story building and have it crush some innocent bystanders. I mean, this thing is ridiculous. It probably weighs a ton and it's bigger than a standard size sedan. The funny thing about it's size is that it literally has no room for paper. I think it only takes two rheems at a time... Which doesn't make sense. I work in a law firm of paper pushers. WE NEED MORE ROOM FOR PAPER. Okay that's not the point. The point is that this thing makes you feel stupid. You touch the wrong button and the alarm goes off that the ENTIRE OFFICE can hear. Then it starts spitting out paper in little shreds that are supposed to get clipped together and the fucking thing starts SCREAMING AT YOU LIKE IT'S YOUR FUCKING FAULT. God, I hope it dies. I literally was dreaming recently about the demise of this machine. I was hoping and praying that in the middle of a major copy job it would catch fire and blow up, killing the office clerk that sits in the copy room because she's really like an over grown rat suffering fetal alcohol syndrome. She also squeeks when she talks and she really loves cheddar cheese. She also wears the same ballerina flats every day like Amy Winehouse pre-sobriety, so I wonder if she's got her own toe jam & cheese going on.

I guess the only thing that gets me through the day is the fact that I am surrounded by dramatic people. First and foremost, I work for my mother. I am her assistant. She's a paralegal that spends all day on the internet reading legal codes about oak trees and how we can cut them down, or how the coocoocachuwokasplat frog is not really endagered and how we can kill it because it has no purpose in society. It's pretty standard, really. Then we have this new associate... I will call him Potty. Potty is a fucking trainwreck but he's hilarious and he's my bestfriend here in the office and he's working on being my bestfriend in the world if he keeps up being a total tragedy. He categorizes things into "good," "bad," and "terrible." He'll say something - it could be about ANYTHING - and he'll follow the end of his sentence with his one-word category. His entire life is a fucking wreck - or he'll give the sex to someone even more tragic than he, who will start to stalk him, so then he and I will try to talk it out and straighten his life again, or at least until it's back to it's normal 75% dramatic fucking mess.

Then we have this sleazy dirtball who's a FABULOUS attorney but his personal life is a fucking wreck, the closet-faggot who would be much happier if he came out already, the hot educated one that came from the hood but made his way out. He's beautiful to look at - but then he opens his mouth and out comes verbal vomit. SOMEONE calls it "gigabyting." Pretty awesome. I do enjoy talking to him though... Or maybe I enjoy tuning him out and just looking at him. I think over all I would just like to rip out his vocal chords and stare at him until I get sleepy. But I think I think that of most men. Then there are some other people... I sometimes forget who they are. Then there is the PERFECT ONE. He is the one that even my own very straight boyfriend would sleep with because he is simply that delicious. Wait, let me get all Ingrid Hoffman and say "SIMPLY DELICIOSO." Fuck, I hate that bitch. Anyway, what makes him hot is that he drives a chopped up fucking 1940-50 something Ford something or other with flame throwers, on airbags and who knows what else. Probably speed. Then he has his SS Chevy truck. Then you walk into his office and it's covered with PUNK RAWK POSTERS and all his furniture is black - but when he presents himself he's as cleaned up as can be and you cannot see his full sleeve for the life of you but YOU KNOW IT'S THERE. Plus he's also really hot and really smart. It makes you want to pee on yourself a little bit. My boyfriend thinks it's okay that I drool over him because secretly he does, too.

Anyway, this is where I surround myself on the daily. I will get out of here eventually, once all you assholes start purchasing my items for pleasure. I mean. sale. yes. That's exactly what I meant. Launch time is in March. I expect to be rich by April Fool's Day. But the million dollars in my bank account better not be a fucking joke.