A stick of dynamite everytime I blow up.
A fucking unconscienable comment, you bastard, that’s what it was: and you deserved every fucking word I dished out your way you bloody pint-sized goatfuck.
Right. If I had a therapist, she’d say “think happy thoughts, darling”, then flirt with me. My luck’s not going to change anytime soon, so I’d say counting to ten should’ve been a better option. I should’ve just reached out and showed him some love, fist-first. I mouthed off and walked away, instead. How much of a pussy am I now?
Alright, so enough of the obvious self-pity already. Yah, pressure blah, blah but see, he won. Fuckin’ arsehole won, today, because I reacted instead of responding. I should’ve just said “8 years and you can’t handle one small job?” or maybe press where it hurts most: “I’m too important for that job”. Or maybe try abit of verbosity, eh: “my imminent failure to acquiesce to your truly fucked up request will be my version of telling you sit on this and spin, asswipe, so, ‘NO’”.
My partner in crime these days had the good sense to tell my boss about the incident of course; god save us from angels and samaritans, ya? So he saunters over, arranges a meeting in the gents and asks, “What happened?”
“Nothing, lah,” I said, ready to leave.
“Don’t let him bother you lah,” he said.
“Maybe you should give him abit more work,” I said, dismissive: fuck, I didn’t want to talk about it lah.
I walked out feeling like a sack of potatoes, but I salved my conscience for my reaction in best of ways: I wallowed in seething anger for the rest of the day. My reports were short and sharp, my phonecalls were snappy and my mood was as cheery as this afternoon’s thunderstorm. I can’t wait till Morgan comes back, because I need allies, dammit.
