It’s a shame that women just don’t walk around like this anymore. I’d start a revolution, but all my white curtains are mildewy. Perhaps I’ll procure a new one in time for Kara’s wedding and then I’ll debut some old school breast-baring.
In work news, Tina has got to go. She is constantly running over to talk in her high-pitched whiny voice to Eleanore, and I guess it wouldn’t be so much of a problem if Eleanore didn’t sit right behind me. Even with my headphones on, I can sense Tina’s mullet clogging up my breathing space, and if I toss a glance over my shoulder, sure enough, there she is with her high-waisted jeans and protruding pelvis.
I really want to find a way to sabotage her, to make working there so painful for her that she has no choice but to quit or move back to dayshift. Short of cutting off the penises of homeless men and draping them over her work area, I’m at a loss. But can you imagine? "I haven’t seen a penis since I used to ride horses!"
My boss asked me last night how Eleanore has been with the coupon-cutting. "Not too bad," I answered. But after thinking about it for a few seconds, I added, "But it’s not like Tina gives her any time for that." Tina follows Eleanore into the bathroom, Tina goes into the kitchen while Eleanore refills her coffee, Tina trails behind Eleanore every time she goes outside for a cigarette. It’s disgusting. It’s like Tina is Eleanore’s dingleberry.
And then, because she’s Tina and special, she plugs her mp3 player into what I can only assume are portable speakers and listens to her classic rock freely and loudly at her desk. Monday night, she sauntered over to my area, headphones slung around her neck, ZZTop blaring from the tiny buds, like she wanted to impress me. I emailed fellow Tina-hater Bob about it yesterday, and he replied with "She’s got legs."
"Legs of a leper," was my reply.
Now for whatever fucked up reason I’m picturing Tina in the above picture and I pretty much want an acid eye wash right now.