I woke up this morning with a rash on my face. Again. I wish I had some sort of kinky love jelly product story to tell – but I don’t. I have never had acne so I can safely say that is not the explanation for these fucking bumps of itch that are on my face and made it impossible to apply Miss. America makeup this morning. So suck it anyone that sees me- all you get is moisturizer, eyeliner and mascara today. And it burns so be grateful. Haters. I woke up late, only got one cup of coffee, bumped my thigh into the mother fucking pointy framed bed and will now have a giant mess of a bruise to match the other leg that I hit on the bed yesterday before playing real life Grand Theft Auto on the freeway and my hair didn’t hold a curl this morning. I was fairly well behaved this weekend so I have no idea what I did to piss off Karma.
Oh- it’s Monday you say. Fuck off. I eventually get into the office and slap on my happy- but -don’t- cross -me or I will shank you- face when the phone rings. I will be happy, I will be nice, I will fart sunshine…so this person is looking for a package- one I don’t have. They say it was delivered last week so I ask reasonable questions like their name and who delivered it.
I then hear this, “Can’t you see it on caller id?” .
Uh oh. No , no I can not. I can’t see it in my Magic 8 Ball either, that’s why I asked and if you don’t answer me I will from this day forward refer to you as Dumbass Fucktard Who I Like To Pimp Check. So I get their name and then ask AGAIN how it was delivered.
“Last week, overnight”.
Inside my head I say how the fuck did it get here moron, Fed Ex, UPS, the stork maybe a cupcake shitting unicorn…out loud I say, “Which carrier?”.
“Fed Ex. Last week. Do you have it or not!? “
No- no I do not. And odds are spectacularly high that if I did I would tape it to your head and light it on fire but instead I say, “Sorry I couldn’t help and have a fabulous Monday!”. Holy shitsnacks- why am I always surprised when someone calls to prove they are the asshat everyone thinks they are.
I better get some coffee because it is going to be one epic fail of a Monday and the forecast is shitstorms all day with a chance of homicide. So off to the kitchen I go to get my fill of happy and sunshine liquid caffeine. As I am pumping my great personality and go getter attitude into my mug, some dude says to me, “Did you make the coffee because it tastes skanky”. Skanky…I wonder if he meant skunky? I wouldn’t know because I don’t make it a habit to go around licking skanks and, ” No, I didn’t make the coffee”. He looks at me confused because surely I am mistaken because only women make coffee and he says, “Well, can you make some more for me”. Oh shit- you know how this is going to end , right? RIGHT? “Nope, this isn’t Starbucks and all you have to do is pick the flavor and hit the big button that says brew and if you can’t do that then maybe you shouldn’t risk more complicated tasks like driving a car or using a microwave”. Silence then, “You always make me laugh, Cat!”. Yeah- today Cat would like to kick you but ok you have a great Monday then. Because I am trying really fucking hard to be nice in hopes that Karma will give me back my smooth skin and unbruise my thigh and kicking you will probably make a horn grow out of my head!
Coffee in hand and feeling proud because there is not a bloody dead man in the kitchen- I skip ( ok nearly crawl) back to my desk and start getting work done and finish my manual of how to’s for the new me who has yet to be named. I reach for my stapler. It is gone. Gone! I absolutely hate it when people take crap off of my desk. Behind my chair are 15 doors of office supplies. Fifteen. There is a shit ton of supplies- including 6 staplers. Lazy people always take my stuff. Last week , some retard took my pen. Now I don’t use the office bought pens- I buy my own special guaranteed to write pretty pens and some assmunch took it. I walked around the office until I found the clepto that jacked it and I took it back after dressing him down and letting him know that the next time he steals my crap I will chain him to my desk and make him hand cut three little circles into every page of the ten reams of copy paper that need holes punched in them and give me a pedicure. Anyway- if you see my stapler- it has a label on it like my tape (above). Bring it back before I kill a chicken and start poking pins in a doll with your name on it.
Monday- if you will stop punching me in the head- I won’t call you a mother fucker all day long!