Tuesday, August 03, 2004

I've let that stupid bitch get to me, and now I'm depressed. I don't want to go to work because she's there hacking up lungs and smelling up the place and talking shit about me to people who ARE going to tell me everything she says. I have a sorta victory, however. I was getting paid $8.50/hr. I was just put on the office insurance plan, and Bitchy O'Bitch was probably pretty happy that 87 bucks would be deducted from my check each week for that. I'm sure she was just drooling at the thought. She was probably cackling an evil cackle while writing out my check for this week. WELL, STOP CACKLING, BITCH, 'CAUSE I'M GETTIN' A RAISE! GO BACK AND WRITE ME A BIGGER CHECK YOU FAT, WRETCHED, HOG!

Even with that victory, though, I still feel depressed because I hate her so much that the thought of her makes me want to lock myself in somewhere where I will never have to see her or hear her hacking cough or her annoying voice or smell her unbathed, rotting self. I swear she's got gangrene somewhere. If I lock myself up, I will never have to hear her say, "God, I'm floodin' today!" I will never have to hear her complain about her lunch. I will never have to see...OH MY GOODNESS!!! I have never written this, and I need to.

Dianne (AKA Ursula; screw protecting the innocent because she is guilty on all counts!!!) is fat. That is not an exaggeration; that is not bias; it is pure, un-messed-around-with fact. But she apparently doesn't see herself as such. She sees herself as a Playboy centerfold. I mean, she thinks she is a sexy beast. Normally she wears shirts with sleeves on them, or she will wear a sleeveless top with a light, breezy jacket. But SOMETIMES when she wears the latter, she likes to go without the light, breezy jacket, and I don't want to hear that it's too hot because it's made of a very thin, meshy fabric. Her arms are FLABB. Y., and they swish around even when she's not moving. She discusses business with patients while her arms are carrying on their daily routine of sloshing around. It is repulsive.

So, if I lock myself up, I will never have to see that again. I will never have to see her lick the inside of the cap of her soda (I swear that if she had a knife at her desk, she'd cut the bottle open, too, and lick up every remnant of soda when finished.) I will never again see her clean the inside of her ear with a pen cap and then lick it clean. I will never hear her say that she can't eat chocolate because she's allergic to it, yet she has M&Ms in her drawer. I could go on and on with this. The bottom line is that I have no love for her whatsoever...no charity, no sympathy, no patience, and if she died on the way home in a car crash, I'd be happy. And if I go to hell for saying that, so be it. I can't wait to kick her ass when I get there.

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