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“Why I Hate Answering the Phone”: A Story About Work

Dear erratic possibly-possessed, asshole who called me today at work just to scream at me for 20 minutes (also known as Tom Johnston),

Thank you. I have been waiting for a reason to cry at work for months now, but I could never find one. I don’t know what I would have had to do if you hadn’t been transferred to my desk to interrupt my pleasant mood with your ill-conceived attempt at being a human being.  Thrown myself down a flight of stairs? Stapled my face? Nope. Didn’t have to. Your phone call made tears possible without self-mutilation, and I thank you for that.

I want you to know, that I appreciate all that you bring to the world. Your problems are my fault, really. I’m sorry I ever doubted the role I played in your 46 years of misery on this planet. Clearly if I could sacrifice my entire existence for one moment of your happiness, I would, but I am certain it would never be enough. So I’d like to apologize to you for your life.

I’m sorry. Truly I am. I am sorry that a GED has only earned you $150,000 working on Wall Street, (although a terrible fate for a high school drop-out, this could explain a lot about the downfall of the American economy). I am sorry that your son, the consumer of my company’s product, could not talk to you openly about his decision to purchase it. You are after all, such a warm and sensitive man. Any child would be poorly lacking without you in their life.36jq6y

But mostly, sir, I feel sorry for you. There, I said it. Because after I stopped crying and your intrusive phone call stopped replaying in my head, I went back to being me, and you are stuck being you, an overpaid, nasty, rapid baboon of a person, whose personal life is so out of reach your only solace is to interject 20 minutes of unprecedented rudeness into another person’s life, via telephone calls. I may make a quarter of what you make, with double the education, but I’m far better off than you’ll ever be.

Plus you’re a raging c***.


The girl too stubborn to hang up, too sensitive to brush it off


Ted Bundy, Fetal Pigs, and a Long Work Day

“Then I remove all of the organs from the neck to the anus in one fell swoop so I can hold all of the guts in one hand.”

Something my mother just said.

It’s not as Ted Bundy as it sounds since she is a high school biology teacher. But the fact that this is the type of conversation she chooses to have with me after I return from a 15 hour work day tells me she spends too much time with teenagers. And dead fetal pigs.

Today I accompanied a few people from my place of employment to and from Washington D.C. for a work-related conference of sorts. How and why I end up in situations that require me to wear blazers and corporate nametags is beyond my comprehension since I can barely remember which hand I write with most of the time. Nevertheless, at 4:30am I reluctantly awoke to the sound of my alarm calling me its bitch.

“Molly has the tiniest, hardest pieces of rabbit poop.”

Something else my mother just said.


“Screw this shit, I have to update my blog!”

I proceeded to spend 10 hours in the car, where I accomplished little to nothing outside of managing not to drool on the car seat when my head involuntarily dropped forward every 42 seconds over the course of the first 3 hours, followed by determined reading of “Little Children” and conversations with my travel companions about the deficit of water in third world countries. Had we some down pillows and blackhead nose strips it would have been much a kin to the slumber parties of yesteryear.

I won’t tell you what I actually did today or the main purpose of my travels. Mostly because I am only half conscious and have only 6 minutes to publish this before destroying my “Once a Day for the Month of May” goal, which incidentally, is not as dirty as it sounds.

So Ima wrap this motha’ up. I hope to eventually regale you with more interesting (?) experiences I had today as well as the reason why I think of tailgating while driving as my answer to the patriarchal American society we live in. But for now my mind is occupied with pig innards and the texture of Molly’s shit.

Good night, ya’ll


The girl who “is NOT the father.”


Three Self Realizations of My 30 Minute Lunch Break

After  four weeks of eating a diet of freezer pops and Panera Bread smoothies, sleeping  until noon, and watching marathons of “Ice Loves Coco” I have finally found employment. Don’t ask me how or why any intelligent businessman would think it a wise decision to hire my miscreant self, but in the same respect of Seal scoring Heidi Klum

for a wife, I’d rather not question the seemingly impossible. Now, a week and a half into my employment as an Admissions Rep (or “coach” as my bizie-nass card reads) at a local school I am finding time to reflect on my self as a person. So today on my 30 minute lunch break, I give you the three self realizations of the day:
1. When I eat an apple, peach, or any other fruit requiring I bite into it with great force, I get a little red mark under my bottom lip. It’s like a mini hickey from sucking too much fruit face. Now I am forced to apply cover up and walk around all day trying to avoid looking like the victim of a recent herpes contraction.

2. I have an addictive personality, best depicted by my over consumption of Emerald brand almonds and Ice Breakers sugar free mints. Such weakness proved evident in a morning meeting. I was sitting down with a new student and her mother, filling out enrollment forms. Not underway even five minutes and my lips began to curl, salivating, pleading with me to part them with the cool, minty freshness of a winter green tablet so powerful in its momentary glory yet so regrettable with permanent longing, it ought be contained in a syringe instead of a ½ inch green cylinder.

Answering questions, nodding politely, I tried to remain cool. Confident. Cannot let my true colors show until financial aid is dispersed. I smiled kindly at the mother/daughter duo, and reached slyly across the desk, grasping the container with my grubby fingers. Sliding it closer to me, a feeling of panic began to rise in my chest. Why is it so light? I pulled the container onto my lap, beaming a reassuring smile to my ignorant audience, and shook it. Nothing. No clinking of candies, no clattering of minty crystals.

The Sound of Silence.

Holding my morning breath I clicked the case open, revealing to my eyes what my heart already knew. Empty. Desperate for someone, anyone, to understand what I was going through, I began to tell the mother my story. Bought the container of 51 mints last Thursday, now on Tuesday am all out. Canyou believe it?! My eyes and hands scanned my desk in search of any latchkey mints as the mother giggled, unsure of whether to laugh or cry.

“I just love them. I ate them all this week,” I laughed, suffocating an oncoming sob. She looked at the container, then looked at me, and said profoundly,

“That’s a lot of mints.”
3. I rarely urinate. At my old job I used to use the restroom, on average, 11 times a day. I’d wash my hands, pick at my eyelashes, adjust my boobs – anything  to fill the allotted time people expect you to take when going to the bathroom. It didn’t matter how much work I had to do (nThe greeting I face each day upon arriving to work one) or how often I actually had to use the facilities (maybe twice a day) I was there as often as possible to avoid the cubicle. Now, in my new position, with my own office and higher salary, I find that my lack of daily urination has allowed me to not only sit for longer periods of time without moving, but also to actually get work done! Which is perfect, because as much as  I hate the corporate America brainwash I underwent the moment I learned my new salary, I actually like this job. I know. I need to spray paint the bathroom or steal my own wallet or something. Kill me.

Perhaps more self realizations will come. Perhaps they will not. Perhaps I will give up writing forever in pursuit of a career in higher education. Perhaps I will model for Hustler. Which is more likely? You tell me.

Happy Tuesday, everyone.


The girl with unavoidable eye contact and a twitching right lid