Who eats pickled beets? I swear, this guy probably Dutch ovens his office when no one is around with all the gut rotting horrible foods he eats.
I think Philippe has a secret obsession with plants. Who else installs a jungle on the side of the office building just so he can have a leisurely stroll every single afternoon? #Mybosshumpsplants
Philippe’s mom calls and leaves really weird messages. Often with me. Doesn’t she know I don’t know how her son’s love life is going, and I’d never want to? Gag me. If he was the last man on earth…okay, I don’t know where I’m going with that. Just yeah. I’d rather let the species go extinct than reproduce firebreathing dragon evil grumpy boss babies with him. So no, I don’t actually know or care, who his girlfriend is. Side note—thank goodness he doesn’t make me order flowers or like panties or something for her. If she even exists. I highly doubt it, though. Who could put up with him if they had a choice? Even the hardiest gold digger wouldn’t go for that.
Why is Philippe’s name Philippe? Like, he’s seriously not French. Neither is his mom. I’ve heard her on the phone. I know his dad wasn’t either. So what the heck? Why not just plain old Phillip like every other normal person in the world??????
My boss thinks he’s so perfect that he can defy the laws of physics. If he shoved the ingredients for a cake up his ass, an entire, perfect, flawlessly-iced cake would come out of his mouth like a legitimate eighth wonder of the world. #Cakemiracles.
Today, Philippe made me order him new boxers. Christ. Have. Mercy. It’s a record new low. I’m tempted to get wool. Scratchy. Horrible. Wool. How would the old balls like that? Also a new low. Having to think about my boss’ junk. #SoFuckingGross.
Doesn’t Philippe know that by driving a vehicle which costs more than most people’s houses, he’s seriously rubbing our noses in it and everyone likes him even less than they already do? By the way, I think neon green is a gross color. How can he even drive that? Oh right, because he wants everyone to look at him and notice that he’s hot shit.
I’m pretty sure Philippe doesn’t have pets. He couldn’t manage to keep a cactus alive, and cactuses don’t die.
If my boss gives me another report on a Friday afternoon to have to him on Monday morning, I’m going to lose my shit.
Shit lost. Report demands just came in.
Got asked to book a trip to Hawaii for said evil boss. For a week. I know for a fact that the conference for work is only two days. Must be nice to be super freaking rich. Silver spoon much?
I’m pretty sure if Philippe breathed on me, his breath would smell like weird decaf skinny latte and poop. Just a thought.
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.
