Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
I’m not a violent person, but sometimes, I’d like to run my boss over with his own car. Just kidding. Kind of.
Fuck my life. Seriously. I swear I’d rather clean a public toilet with my tongue than work for Philippe Wilson for another second.
Granny says the people who are hardest to love need it the most. Pretty sure this is unsolicited motivational poster-style advice and doesn’t apply to Philippe because he’s beyond redemption.
Okay, I know I’m hard on him, but—I saw something today that made me think that—uh—I’ve never talked about. I can’t even write it. I don’t know how I feel. Just…maybe I’ve been hard on my boss. I realize I’ve complained about him a lot. This diary thing is mostly just a venting place. But I don’t know. I feel kind of bad for him sometimes. He seems lonely. And sad. His mom called a few days ago and asked me to remind him to come and have supper with her. She said it was important. I know this is the day his dad died four years ago. I’ve never lost anyone close to me. But I imagine it sucks—a lot. I try to remember that and have mercy on him. No matter how bad he is. I’m normally a very nice, caring, sweet, and empathetic person. In fact, I’m too nice. Granny always says so. Uh, yeah. The natural empathy mixed with the fact that Philippe’s dad actually died is probably why I haven’t told him to suck it or jammed his hand into his paper shredder. Not that it would fit. But I’ve thought about it, in my worst moments. Don’t judge. We all have them.
The bridge of my nose is burning again. I’m done reading. Not that there isn’t more. There is, but the last paragraph slew me, and I feel like I’m on the verge of having a complete bawl fest here at my desk because I’m obviously extremely out of sorts and have been all day. I need to get this under control—all of it. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I know people say it all the time, but seriously.
Once upon a time, I wasn’t always such a ball bag.
True story.
I sit there at my desk, trying to get the scrambled bits of myself put back together. I feel very well like I’ve been shoved through a paper shredder. All of me. And that it actually worked. I guess maybe this is the bottom because suddenly, I have a burst of inspiration.
I reach for my office phone, switch it back on, and hit Sutton’s extension.
We clearly need to talk.
CHAPTER 3
Sutton
I know I’m done for.
Seriously. A person can’t send their boss a forty-page document that is basically just a really crazy long rant about them and then expect to keep their job.
Yeah. So not happening.
I’ve been sitting in my office since I realized I sent the wrong file, just waiting for the call to do the walk of shame. It finally came. The hour I had to wait for it felt like a true eternity. I should have used it to start packing up my desk, making sure Patti, my cactus, is safely secured and ready for transport. I should have wiped any other personal files off my computer and cleaned out the filing cabinet where I have a stash of candy hidden away. It’s my weakness, and at times, because of those candies, my office looks like it’s perpetually Halloween.
I slouched to Philippe’s office with my head hung low. This is the most humiliated I’ve ever been. Wait, correction. I’m pretty sure what I’m about to experience is going to be the most humiliating.
Right after I enter, I shut the door tightly behind me. No one needs to hear about this if they don’t already know about it. I wouldn’t put it past Philippe to get revenge by circulating my little bit of creative writing around the office. Defy me and die. It would be a good headline to his email. More like, write inappropriate things about me and get fired, but you know. The more drama, the better to make his point.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt without even looking up. I’ve developed a fixation with the industrial carpet at the moment. “Seriously. You have no idea. You were never supposed to read that. I only wrote it when I was extremely chezzed off. I really am a nice person. Truly. I’m ashamed of myself. I’ll resign. You don’t have to fire me. I’ve already brought my notice.” I hold up a hastily scribbled bit of paper I prepared right after Philippe called my office to demand my presence.
A slow clap is not what I expected. But it’s what I get. I snap my head up and find Philippe grinning at me. Holy poo pants. I’ve never seen him smile before that I can remember, especially not like this. This is a two-ton megawatt type of grin, and it feels kind of like a kick straight to my lady bits. In a good way. I think. I don’t know. Because I’m seriously confused at the moment.