If this is our final day or existence, which would be more than we as a species deserve but rather less than all those lovely creatures on all those David Attenborough documentaries deserve, I've at least found a track to make us shake our fucking booties on our way out:
I don't know if I've ever heard a better song than that. But wait! A song for dressing to slaughter! A song for all us women without the social skills to pretend to be admiring acquiescent retards, whose main baiting assets are our vertiginous curves and voracious sexual appetites, a song about a dress so awesome, so horny, so transcendent, that it's - why, it's a fucking soulful dress . . .
We've all had soulful dresses - I used to have one that I had to actually throw out after wearing three or four times; it was just too powerful for me to handle, and I got tired of picking of all the jizz crusts at the end of the evening.
Ahhh. How utterly tasteless. I needed to press the taste barrier a bit this morning - cheer myself up - I'm in a foul mood. Problems at work. Stupid problems. Other people's problems they're trying to make my problem. Not enough to stress me out - if work chooses to stress me I'll choose not to work - my escape route is so clear in my head that stress is not really an option. But enough to put me into a bit of a foul mood, a defensive mood, a 'fucking try me' mood that is not appropriate in terms of dealing with the people who give me money, the sort of mood which makes me think I need to establish my own business so the only incompetence I have to deal with is my own, and my suppliers, and my own employees, who I'll be able to sack.
Like Chris Rock said once upon a time, we all have a bitch at work who we like to complain about - I'm no different. Remember the office poolitics? I'm pretty sure I know who was doing that, and yeah, I like complaining about her, though not about the way she poos, because it's a fucking indelicate conversation. More about the way she's not nice to people. But she's small fry - all the bitches at work are small fry - compared to a much crappier class of people - the aging exec whose glory years were during the boom times when the company could afford to give him an assistant to keep his shit in order, and who obviously doesn't have one now, and is incapable of remembering or unwilling to remember what he approved and didn't approve, and will attempt to hang other people out to dry when he's caught tweaking his own numbers to give himself a better result, despite having left a paper trail a mile fucking wide. What a waste of the world's time.
Oh well. At least I have my escape strategy, and at least the F-word has downloaded the Chess Story, a wonderful compilation full of fucking bitching tunes like the two above.